I remember this week two years ago, and it has been weighing on me again. Her shallow breaths, her little hopeful moments and the long periods of pain in between for us both, the visits from harried Hospice workers, all of it.
I do not know why my mind and heart return to that place so strongly and vividly as they do now, but I certainly feel the sadness and sense of being forlorn, punctuated by the little happy seconds of victory.
They were such small ones. Making a little mush of her pills with honey to ward off the bitterness, getting a drop or two of water or soup down her parched throat and seeing her look at me with recognition and love, not fear and confusion.
I remember watching her as the pain would fade after waiting for the morphine to kick in, trying to stay ahead of the agony for her. I remember feeling my own pain subside as her breath evened out.
Every four hours, the alarm would go off and I would administer her medication. Looking wearily at 11pm, 3am, 7am, work time.
I remember Barbara would come in and me reluctantly leaving to try and keep my work in order and rushing back every break to help and check on her, change her linens and diaper, and get back to work. The heaviness of it all that ground me down and made me short with people, all very vivid.
Two years ago today, I wrote "The vigil begins." The gurgling in her chest would turn out to be pneumonia. But we fought on, and if she could not make chitchat, she would at least love me with her eyes.
I miss her eyes now most. Fiery and kind, strong and vulnerable, and in the end pained but hopeful, a study in contrasts. More than a window to her soul, they were a window to my heart for her.
Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Saturday, January 17, 2009
On time and being
Sometimes, we had no time for each other. Those empty reaches of our love still haunt me, too. There was so much we could have done with it.
We had opposing schedules often. Sometimes, I would be in school and working while she held down her 9-5 or 8-5, even 7 to 4 schedule. These times were made even rougher by her and my need to run everywhere to maintain our harried modern life.
They feel so vastly squandered now. I should have insisted on a midweek, standing date. I should have demanded more than a meal and silence as I worked online and she watched TV.
I should have. There was no guarantee it would have helped, though. Not with Marcie. Demands were the easiest path to refusals with her, especially if they raised her ire or she felt there was a point to be made.
We did have halcyon days when my work was light and she could call on me to run errands. I remember working for the learning annex and running a check on all of their distribution boxes in San Diego.
It might take two days per week, and only a few hours then, unless there were problems. I wrote for the paper on the side from home. She could call and I would be off to serve, with joy and pride in it.
These were the days of our greatest romantic resurgence. It only ended with her disease.
"I love you," she said. "Things are so good right now, and i was very worried about you. About us."
She was smiling and covered in the summer sheets as the light of an early summer evening flowed in indirectly from our apartment window. But she was biting her lip.
"I know," I said. "I feel like we're back in our 20s again, meeting during the day for dates and at night for... this."
I smiled and she stuck her tongue out with a little near-silent "ha-ha" that was more likely at the top of the range of her voice than actually quiescent. We slid together and cuddled.
I was thinking of the times we had missed and sighed, squeezing her a little as she rested her head on my chest.
"I feel like I missed out a lot when i was working two jobs," I said. "I know we both did..."
"Shhh..." she hushed me, pecking me on the cheek and holding my hand in both hers, squeezing.
She agreed, by her squeeze, fierce and strong, but she never believed in crying over spilled milk, especially in the wake of joy.
And so, taking that cue from her, I will feel her calm reassurance and simple agreement, remember the smell of her and the joy of her when we had nothing but time for each other, and smile.
And, for now, I will "shh..."
We had opposing schedules often. Sometimes, I would be in school and working while she held down her 9-5 or 8-5, even 7 to 4 schedule. These times were made even rougher by her and my need to run everywhere to maintain our harried modern life.
They feel so vastly squandered now. I should have insisted on a midweek, standing date. I should have demanded more than a meal and silence as I worked online and she watched TV.
I should have. There was no guarantee it would have helped, though. Not with Marcie. Demands were the easiest path to refusals with her, especially if they raised her ire or she felt there was a point to be made.
We did have halcyon days when my work was light and she could call on me to run errands. I remember working for the learning annex and running a check on all of their distribution boxes in San Diego.
It might take two days per week, and only a few hours then, unless there were problems. I wrote for the paper on the side from home. She could call and I would be off to serve, with joy and pride in it.
These were the days of our greatest romantic resurgence. It only ended with her disease.
"I love you," she said. "Things are so good right now, and i was very worried about you. About us."
She was smiling and covered in the summer sheets as the light of an early summer evening flowed in indirectly from our apartment window. But she was biting her lip.
"I know," I said. "I feel like we're back in our 20s again, meeting during the day for dates and at night for... this."
I smiled and she stuck her tongue out with a little near-silent "ha-ha" that was more likely at the top of the range of her voice than actually quiescent. We slid together and cuddled.
I was thinking of the times we had missed and sighed, squeezing her a little as she rested her head on my chest.
"I feel like I missed out a lot when i was working two jobs," I said. "I know we both did..."
"Shhh..." she hushed me, pecking me on the cheek and holding my hand in both hers, squeezing.
She agreed, by her squeeze, fierce and strong, but she never believed in crying over spilled milk, especially in the wake of joy.
And so, taking that cue from her, I will feel her calm reassurance and simple agreement, remember the smell of her and the joy of her when we had nothing but time for each other, and smile.
And, for now, I will "shh..."
Friday, January 2, 2009
So hard to let us go
Marcie was strong. She cried, and then she sometimes held it all in, too. But she always broke down when she talked about the people she would leave behind.
"Oh, my mom," she said. "My mom is going to be devastated. I don't know what she's going to do."
I held her hand and she squeezed it as the tears oozed from her eyes and she gulped. I ached to my core.
I hated to see her cry. In all my time with Marcie, I had never gotten used to the idea of seeing her unhappy or in pain, or sad in any way. I always thought that she should feel nothing but happiness, unrealistic as that was.
Of course, if she cried in any case because of me, and that was not unheard of, it usually ended in immediate efforts to reconcile and a sense of great guilt. It didn't matter if I was right.
It was never right for me to see her upset.
But when Marcie cried the most with me was when she reviewed her life, very discreetly, in the form of her friends and family, and her thoughts of how her departure would impact them.
When her thoughts turned to all of those lives her own was entangled with, she spoke clearly and thoughtfully, viewing each person through their own unique lens, colored and shaped by the moments they shared together.
She would call me and sit with me on the couch, or lay in the bed with me, and nearer the end, call me to her side.
I was left in these beautiful and heartrending moments in a state most who know me would say was unfathomable. Speechless and overwhelmed is not my native mien.
She feared for everyone she knew. She hoped for them, too. She lamented the loss of their future experiences together and her support of them. She smiled and then cried at the goals people had set, which she was sure she would not see achieved.
She would often think of people before they visited her, and talk to me about them. She practiced her strolls down memory lane to help her organize her thoughts before she met them.
"I want to make sure that she... I hope he doesn't midn if I bring up... I wonder if she would mind if..." she was always planning and listing and preparing.
I am always grateful that we were so enmeshed in each other that we could finish each others' thoughts and read each others' minds. Marcie was not as at ease with it, even if it was second nature.
Though I might annoy Marcie when I finished hers in better times, she let that go in her last few months and would smile and grip my hand. It was not me wearing her down, she just needed the help.
Her thoughts started out where she wanted to be, but the disease would take them afar or stall her. She would look at me and ask without words. It was relief when i got it right.
"Yes, exactly," she said. "ExACTly. Thank you, sweetie."
"No, thank you," I would say.
She usually smiled at that. I did not tell her that every thought I helped her finish was another precious thing to know her by and another taste of her to savor for me as she drifted away.
She did this for weeks at a time, and I was devastated. I did not know what to say to all of her touching memories and thoughts on our friends. I felt the loss all of her friends would experience as she relayed it in her wise and sweet way.
She was getting depressed one day when speaking of a friend who was distant, one we had not been able to contact. I was at a loss, feeling despair as she wondered what had happened in her life.
I looked down and she said, "I promised to get in touch, I should have a long time ago," she said.
I sighed and finally something worthwhile came out of me. But to say them to her, to give her an inkling that I knew the road was to end for her, after resisting the thought for so long, broke me completely.
"I think that she, like everyone else you are thinking about, will miss you very badly, baby," I said. "But I think that they are all going to be very grateful to have someone like you to make their lives as rich as you do, just like I do."
She started crying but my thought was not complete, and I was falling apart, too.
"I think," I said, squeezing my eyes shut against the flood, "That you have done more for all the people in your life in the time they have had with you than anyone else ever will, and with such joy and spirit and fire..."
She covered her mouth wand closed her eyes as I rubbed her other hand in mine. I kissed her on the cheek.
"I just think you don't have to worry about people, because even if you aren't here to do things for them, they will be here to do things for other people like you have," I said. "It's something you do by just being yourself, you inspire people."
I gulped and smiled at her and I said, "I am sure you'll find a way to keep doing what you do best."
I hugged her and she wept with me. There were more conversations like this. Her loved ones came and went. Her memories and worries of them were and are are theirs to share, not mine and not here.
But for me, I am hoping that one little legacy, Marcie's inspiring ways, her cheerleading and wisdom-sharing and life well-lived, will remain as strong their lives as it is in mine, and in these pages.
"Oh, my mom," she said. "My mom is going to be devastated. I don't know what she's going to do."
I held her hand and she squeezed it as the tears oozed from her eyes and she gulped. I ached to my core.
I hated to see her cry. In all my time with Marcie, I had never gotten used to the idea of seeing her unhappy or in pain, or sad in any way. I always thought that she should feel nothing but happiness, unrealistic as that was.
Of course, if she cried in any case because of me, and that was not unheard of, it usually ended in immediate efforts to reconcile and a sense of great guilt. It didn't matter if I was right.
It was never right for me to see her upset.
But when Marcie cried the most with me was when she reviewed her life, very discreetly, in the form of her friends and family, and her thoughts of how her departure would impact them.
When her thoughts turned to all of those lives her own was entangled with, she spoke clearly and thoughtfully, viewing each person through their own unique lens, colored and shaped by the moments they shared together.
She would call me and sit with me on the couch, or lay in the bed with me, and nearer the end, call me to her side.
I was left in these beautiful and heartrending moments in a state most who know me would say was unfathomable. Speechless and overwhelmed is not my native mien.
She feared for everyone she knew. She hoped for them, too. She lamented the loss of their future experiences together and her support of them. She smiled and then cried at the goals people had set, which she was sure she would not see achieved.
She would often think of people before they visited her, and talk to me about them. She practiced her strolls down memory lane to help her organize her thoughts before she met them.
"I want to make sure that she... I hope he doesn't midn if I bring up... I wonder if she would mind if..." she was always planning and listing and preparing.
I am always grateful that we were so enmeshed in each other that we could finish each others' thoughts and read each others' minds. Marcie was not as at ease with it, even if it was second nature.
Though I might annoy Marcie when I finished hers in better times, she let that go in her last few months and would smile and grip my hand. It was not me wearing her down, she just needed the help.
Her thoughts started out where she wanted to be, but the disease would take them afar or stall her. She would look at me and ask without words. It was relief when i got it right.
"Yes, exactly," she said. "ExACTly. Thank you, sweetie."
"No, thank you," I would say.
She usually smiled at that. I did not tell her that every thought I helped her finish was another precious thing to know her by and another taste of her to savor for me as she drifted away.
She did this for weeks at a time, and I was devastated. I did not know what to say to all of her touching memories and thoughts on our friends. I felt the loss all of her friends would experience as she relayed it in her wise and sweet way.
She was getting depressed one day when speaking of a friend who was distant, one we had not been able to contact. I was at a loss, feeling despair as she wondered what had happened in her life.
I looked down and she said, "I promised to get in touch, I should have a long time ago," she said.
I sighed and finally something worthwhile came out of me. But to say them to her, to give her an inkling that I knew the road was to end for her, after resisting the thought for so long, broke me completely.
"I think that she, like everyone else you are thinking about, will miss you very badly, baby," I said. "But I think that they are all going to be very grateful to have someone like you to make their lives as rich as you do, just like I do."
She started crying but my thought was not complete, and I was falling apart, too.
"I think," I said, squeezing my eyes shut against the flood, "That you have done more for all the people in your life in the time they have had with you than anyone else ever will, and with such joy and spirit and fire..."
She covered her mouth wand closed her eyes as I rubbed her other hand in mine. I kissed her on the cheek.
"I just think you don't have to worry about people, because even if you aren't here to do things for them, they will be here to do things for other people like you have," I said. "It's something you do by just being yourself, you inspire people."
I gulped and smiled at her and I said, "I am sure you'll find a way to keep doing what you do best."
I hugged her and she wept with me. There were more conversations like this. Her loved ones came and went. Her memories and worries of them were and are are theirs to share, not mine and not here.
But for me, I am hoping that one little legacy, Marcie's inspiring ways, her cheerleading and wisdom-sharing and life well-lived, will remain as strong their lives as it is in mine, and in these pages.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Marcie's Mourning
I have tried stepping away for a while, but my need to post and reflect and speak of and to and about Marcie has not faded. Some of the things I have not spoken of before include our conversations as the last few months slowly crawled by.
They were painful at times, but I can now recall them and understand how they made her so beautiful.
Marcie mourned her own life very briefly. But what she mourned the longest was her impact in her leaving us behind. That conversation came into play during her more somber times, when life was not much to be celebrated and all my efforts could not cheer her up.
But they always seemed to take great weight from her.
They were painful at times, but I can now recall them and understand how they made her so beautiful.
Marcie mourned her own life very briefly. But what she mourned the longest was her impact in her leaving us behind. That conversation came into play during her more somber times, when life was not much to be celebrated and all my efforts could not cheer her up.
But they always seemed to take great weight from her.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
A day in the sun...
I was recently returned a flash memory card with some precious memories on it. I decided that I would share Marcie's joy at a trip kindly provided by our friends Walt and Lisa Soto... out along the California Coast, sailing.
It was a beautiful and enjoyable day, and a perfect one for Marcie, whose taste buds were finally ready for regular food again.
We were definitely in a recovery mode, and she was so tired but strong and pleased with the end of chemo and the beginning of what she thought would be a simple recovery.
For now, though... her joy, as I captured it in pictures, and our friends. Also, a picture of a marine mammal and his harem, as she demanded I get a shot or two...
It was a beautiful and enjoyable day, and a perfect one for Marcie, whose taste buds were finally ready for regular food again.
We were definitely in a recovery mode, and she was so tired but strong and pleased with the end of chemo and the beginning of what she thought would be a simple recovery.
For now, though... her joy, as I captured it in pictures, and our friends. Also, a picture of a marine mammal and his harem, as she demanded I get a shot or two...
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Letter to Marcie - Wisdom in Forgiveness
Dear Beloved,
I have been rummaging through gifts, reflecting on all of those you gave me. Some of them are more abstract, and this one no less so, perhaps moreso, than any other. You taught me to forgive again.
I do not know where I had learned to never trust anyone, or to take every offense as some permanent black stain that could never be removed, but when we met, it was how I was. With your example, and your encouragement, I can honestly say this is no more
Perhaps it was the vast echo chamber of my sprawling family, where first mention of a given offense by someone may not be heard in all corners for years. Even then, notoriety was easily created as exaggeration replaced information. But some in my family were more forgiving than begrudging.
Perhaps it was in my upbringing at Catholic school, where a permanent record meant yearly carryover of every demerit. Or perhaps in foster care, where every element of behavior, once written down, became a guide for every person who touched your life, or passed you along to the next.
Perhaps it was in receiving too many wounds too quickly to heal them all. A backlog of bitterness, a pattern of pain conditioning me beyond my ability to analyze it and release it all.
But all the Christian upbringing in the world did not help me forgive, but in fact taught me more to note offense.
I don't know why it was how I was. I do know you could not understand it, but the first thing you chose to do was forgive me for it.
"You are being so ridiculous," you said. "You know, you really need to let things go. People make mistakes."
I know I did, and you pointed that out rather directly. Of course, I was pondering the loss of $500 at a friends' hand over a computer that did not work. I had known him for a year or so, and had decided he was no friend. Worse, his private disclosures were now reason to hold in that anger.
"I know he had meth problems," I said. "A few years ago. Maybe he ripped me off for that. At least he could pretend to want to help me out and cover his tracks."
You looked at me and sat down, you kissed my cheek. "He'll come help," you said. "But you can't be upset all weekend. You're ruining my time with you."
So I learned to let go in the form of moving on, neither forgetting nor forgiving. But you soon picked that out when I next saw him, nearly two years on.
He was working at an airport bookstore and smiled when he saw me. He smiled and waved us over. You tugged me to the counter and greeted him.
He told us he had moved and gotten a new job, and he apologized for the computer after we had some small talk. "I needed the money to move, I am sorry, dude," he said.
I started in on him. "That was weak and it was wrong," I said. "You could have asked to borrow or maybe for some side work, right? What, were you on drugs again?"
You squeezed my arm and he looked down. He told us about losing his wife in divorce, finding her cheating and having found his own account empty and hers closed with their shared on the next day. "I was ashamed, man, I was."
I shrugged and bought you Entertainment Weekly before you boarded your plane. I was ashamed, too. You, however, showed me something important.
"That's all very sad," you said. "But he ripped you off and I am sorry he did that to you. You deserve to be treated better, sweety, and I don't think you should talk to him again."
"I thought you said I had to learn to let things go?" I said.
"Well, you should, but I also think you have a big heart and people like him take advantage of everyone they can," you said. "I never liked him or his wife, but I know I did not want you to brood and you were."
I took out his business card and tossed it into the trash. You hugged me and a few minutes later we let go so you could fly north for a visit with your friend.
I smiled and I said, "You think I have a big heart?" I asked.
You smiled and tsk'd at my attention-seeking, "Yes, I do. It's something I love about you. I just want you to strike a balance between that and being judgmental."
And I have. I spent that weekend without you reviewing an old list, yellow on its first pages and white on its newest, crossing people and the offenses they had committed against me off of it. I burned it in the barbecue while our neighbor Cami looked on.
"Wishes?" she asked. "Are you burning your wishes for the genies?"
I smiled and looked up at her. "No, I am forgiving some people I should have done that for a long time ago."
I did not tell you what I had done, and I did not tell you how many times I had not added a name to that list when you soothed my hurt and anger before I burned it.
I will tell you that I am slower to take personal offense, fast to let it go, and completely willing to accept the known risks of people's foibles, and to either include them or exclude them from my life based on that critical calculus you gave me.
"It's important to forgive people for yourself," you said. "Sometimes, you should try to forget what they did to hurt you, too. But you shouldn't always forget, because some people don't make mistakes, they're just never going to be good to you."
When you told me that, I saw that rare and absolutely heartbreaking look cross your face in a blink of an eye, and I wondered what it was you were remembering.
But I am glad I do not know, because it may have revived the list, or maybe would have been something I did that made you gulp like that. By then, I had not learned the one most important lesson of your whole outlook.
I had not learned to forgive myself.
I have been rummaging through gifts, reflecting on all of those you gave me. Some of them are more abstract, and this one no less so, perhaps moreso, than any other. You taught me to forgive again.
I do not know where I had learned to never trust anyone, or to take every offense as some permanent black stain that could never be removed, but when we met, it was how I was. With your example, and your encouragement, I can honestly say this is no more
Perhaps it was the vast echo chamber of my sprawling family, where first mention of a given offense by someone may not be heard in all corners for years. Even then, notoriety was easily created as exaggeration replaced information. But some in my family were more forgiving than begrudging.
Perhaps it was in my upbringing at Catholic school, where a permanent record meant yearly carryover of every demerit. Or perhaps in foster care, where every element of behavior, once written down, became a guide for every person who touched your life, or passed you along to the next.
Perhaps it was in receiving too many wounds too quickly to heal them all. A backlog of bitterness, a pattern of pain conditioning me beyond my ability to analyze it and release it all.
But all the Christian upbringing in the world did not help me forgive, but in fact taught me more to note offense.
I don't know why it was how I was. I do know you could not understand it, but the first thing you chose to do was forgive me for it.
"You are being so ridiculous," you said. "You know, you really need to let things go. People make mistakes."
I know I did, and you pointed that out rather directly. Of course, I was pondering the loss of $500 at a friends' hand over a computer that did not work. I had known him for a year or so, and had decided he was no friend. Worse, his private disclosures were now reason to hold in that anger.
"I know he had meth problems," I said. "A few years ago. Maybe he ripped me off for that. At least he could pretend to want to help me out and cover his tracks."
You looked at me and sat down, you kissed my cheek. "He'll come help," you said. "But you can't be upset all weekend. You're ruining my time with you."
So I learned to let go in the form of moving on, neither forgetting nor forgiving. But you soon picked that out when I next saw him, nearly two years on.
He was working at an airport bookstore and smiled when he saw me. He smiled and waved us over. You tugged me to the counter and greeted him.
He told us he had moved and gotten a new job, and he apologized for the computer after we had some small talk. "I needed the money to move, I am sorry, dude," he said.
I started in on him. "That was weak and it was wrong," I said. "You could have asked to borrow or maybe for some side work, right? What, were you on drugs again?"
You squeezed my arm and he looked down. He told us about losing his wife in divorce, finding her cheating and having found his own account empty and hers closed with their shared on the next day. "I was ashamed, man, I was."
I shrugged and bought you Entertainment Weekly before you boarded your plane. I was ashamed, too. You, however, showed me something important.
"That's all very sad," you said. "But he ripped you off and I am sorry he did that to you. You deserve to be treated better, sweety, and I don't think you should talk to him again."
"I thought you said I had to learn to let things go?" I said.
"Well, you should, but I also think you have a big heart and people like him take advantage of everyone they can," you said. "I never liked him or his wife, but I know I did not want you to brood and you were."
I took out his business card and tossed it into the trash. You hugged me and a few minutes later we let go so you could fly north for a visit with your friend.
I smiled and I said, "You think I have a big heart?" I asked.
You smiled and tsk'd at my attention-seeking, "Yes, I do. It's something I love about you. I just want you to strike a balance between that and being judgmental."
And I have. I spent that weekend without you reviewing an old list, yellow on its first pages and white on its newest, crossing people and the offenses they had committed against me off of it. I burned it in the barbecue while our neighbor Cami looked on.
"Wishes?" she asked. "Are you burning your wishes for the genies?"
I smiled and looked up at her. "No, I am forgiving some people I should have done that for a long time ago."
I did not tell you what I had done, and I did not tell you how many times I had not added a name to that list when you soothed my hurt and anger before I burned it.
I will tell you that I am slower to take personal offense, fast to let it go, and completely willing to accept the known risks of people's foibles, and to either include them or exclude them from my life based on that critical calculus you gave me.
"It's important to forgive people for yourself," you said. "Sometimes, you should try to forget what they did to hurt you, too. But you shouldn't always forget, because some people don't make mistakes, they're just never going to be good to you."
When you told me that, I saw that rare and absolutely heartbreaking look cross your face in a blink of an eye, and I wondered what it was you were remembering.
But I am glad I do not know, because it may have revived the list, or maybe would have been something I did that made you gulp like that. By then, I had not learned the one most important lesson of your whole outlook.
I had not learned to forgive myself.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Anniversary
You were here.
I smelled your perfume around me.
I felt your warmth beside me.
I heard your voice behind me.
I tasted your lips against me.
I knew your soul as my own.
I saw your face before me.
You were mine.
I woke to you each morning.
I lived for you every day.
I ran to you each evening.
I held you every night.
I cherished every moment.
We were one.
We lived in our communion.
We loved and feared in union.
We walked beside each other.
We shared with one another.
We faced the world together.
We were strong.
Our love seemed never ending.
Our faith was unrelenting.
Our passion was unbridled.
Our bond could not be broken.
Our hearts could conquer all.
I am thankful.
Your loving touch transformed me.
Your gentle ways reformed me.
Your happy manner healed me.
Your patient probes revealed me.
Your lightness helped me soar.
I am here.
I know you are around me.
I know your warmth's beside me.
I know your voice will guide me.
I'll taste your lips against me.
I'll see your face before me.
I smelled your perfume around me.
I felt your warmth beside me.
I heard your voice behind me.
I tasted your lips against me.
I knew your soul as my own.
I saw your face before me.
You were mine.
I woke to you each morning.
I lived for you every day.
I ran to you each evening.
I held you every night.
I cherished every moment.
We were one.
We lived in our communion.
We loved and feared in union.
We walked beside each other.
We shared with one another.
We faced the world together.
We were strong.
Our love seemed never ending.
Our faith was unrelenting.
Our passion was unbridled.
Our bond could not be broken.
Our hearts could conquer all.
I am thankful.
Your loving touch transformed me.
Your gentle ways reformed me.
Your happy manner healed me.
Your patient probes revealed me.
Your lightness helped me soar.
I am here.
I know you are around me.
I know your warmth's beside me.
I know your voice will guide me.
I'll taste your lips against me.
I'll see your face before me.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Letter To Marcie - Cooking
To my dear Marcie,
I wanted to thank you about something I do almost every day, which I enjoy, and which I might have given up if it were not for you. Cooking.
I know, I know. I knew how to cook when we met. But you gave me the right and the appreciation for my cooking that made me wanty to cook. You inspired me to branch out, to try new vegetables, foods and tastes.
Most of all, you did not snicker when I told you I knew how to cook.
I learned how to cook passively until my early youth. Watching my father and grandma Pruett, my mother in much younger years, and my Aunt Gemma lent me a curiosity I never had the approval to pursue at home. But I watched and memorized their tricks.
My Aunt Gemma let me cook an omelet once. She was impressed that I had learned to flip it without breaking it. I was 12.
In foster care, I gravitated to the kitchen to observe the preparation of mass meals and learned how to cook in bulk, but with flavor. It was wonderful, and I occasionally got to help, even preparing my first meal for others in a group home at 16.
We had baked chicken breast with carmelized onion and lemon-soaked garlic on top, a side of home-made french fires, a salad with my own dressing, and vegetables were carrots and broccoli, lightly steamed and served with a ramekin of teriyaki and veggie broth.
I did not cook much except for myself after that farewell meal, but I always wanted to again.
You cooked for me and opened the world of French and Italian cuisine. You showed me that different potato types had different uses, not all peppers are green and bell, and convinced me to make my own sauces, fusing the tastes I knew well with those you loved.
You expanded me (in more ways than one). You gave me cooking. I don't know if that kind of inspiration will come from any women I might meet in the future.
You also let me experiment, you let me cook for you, and you honed my skills with knives and tools and techniques, and you taught me a little baking, though I will never be the better of the two of us in that department, either.
What I appreciate most was that you understood that I did not cook to threaten your domestic standing or make you irrelevant, and that if I was better at some style of food than you were, you left it to me.
You did not make me feel less anything for my little hobby, and making you smile when I cooked was always a proud and happy thing. Thank you for doing that every time, even when I know I had as many misses as hits in my cuisine.
There is so much more. Until next time...
Love,
F
I wanted to thank you about something I do almost every day, which I enjoy, and which I might have given up if it were not for you. Cooking.
I know, I know. I knew how to cook when we met. But you gave me the right and the appreciation for my cooking that made me wanty to cook. You inspired me to branch out, to try new vegetables, foods and tastes.
Most of all, you did not snicker when I told you I knew how to cook.
I learned how to cook passively until my early youth. Watching my father and grandma Pruett, my mother in much younger years, and my Aunt Gemma lent me a curiosity I never had the approval to pursue at home. But I watched and memorized their tricks.
My Aunt Gemma let me cook an omelet once. She was impressed that I had learned to flip it without breaking it. I was 12.
In foster care, I gravitated to the kitchen to observe the preparation of mass meals and learned how to cook in bulk, but with flavor. It was wonderful, and I occasionally got to help, even preparing my first meal for others in a group home at 16.
We had baked chicken breast with carmelized onion and lemon-soaked garlic on top, a side of home-made french fires, a salad with my own dressing, and vegetables were carrots and broccoli, lightly steamed and served with a ramekin of teriyaki and veggie broth.
I did not cook much except for myself after that farewell meal, but I always wanted to again.
You cooked for me and opened the world of French and Italian cuisine. You showed me that different potato types had different uses, not all peppers are green and bell, and convinced me to make my own sauces, fusing the tastes I knew well with those you loved.
You expanded me (in more ways than one). You gave me cooking. I don't know if that kind of inspiration will come from any women I might meet in the future.
You also let me experiment, you let me cook for you, and you honed my skills with knives and tools and techniques, and you taught me a little baking, though I will never be the better of the two of us in that department, either.
What I appreciate most was that you understood that I did not cook to threaten your domestic standing or make you irrelevant, and that if I was better at some style of food than you were, you left it to me.
You did not make me feel less anything for my little hobby, and making you smile when I cooked was always a proud and happy thing. Thank you for doing that every time, even when I know I had as many misses as hits in my cuisine.
There is so much more. Until next time...
Love,
F
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Letter to Marcie: Politics
So, I am sitting here after a long election night, thinking of you and some of the things we used to talk about. I remember how we meshed politically immediately, you care for people and disdain for close-mindedness a good match to my own.
Remember when you found out Hillary was running? I remember we didn't agree on her as a good choice. I was mostly concerned with electability, because she polarized people so much. You were mostly happy a woman couls be running for president.
Well, Hillary didn't make it in. Obama did. I remember that I liked Edwards but I preferred Obama, while you liked Obama from the beginning and thought Edwards might have more important things to do.
Yeah, he did. But he did worse than neglect those, it turns out.
At any rate, the only person we both decided we did not hate on the other side, John McCain, was their choice for a Republican candidate.
Hillary and Obama fought a running, bruising battle that saw her even invoke potential assassination a la Bobby Kennedy... a definite low moment. In the end, Obama prevailed and our polarized party pulled together for a big battle.
McCain was not doing well at first, but he managed to shake things up by picking a woman as his running mate... Srah Palin. Wow, what a crazy, apparently ignorant thing she was. She helped for all of five minutes.
Obama just moved forward with poise and grace, and he won. We have that Black president you thought would never happen. What a moment it was when they called it for Obama. People cried, sweety. I didn't until I got home.
Regardless that Palin claimed she could see Russia from her front door in Alaska, or that she did not know that Africa was a continent, or that she did not know who was part of NAFTA, consider that the Republicans offered the first female vice president
while the Democrats offered the first black president.
Looks like America was in the mood for the greater of two changes. Strange, huh?
I am pretty proud of my country right now. I wish we had been here to toast it and discuss it, as we did every election.
I walked my precinct again for the Dems, and man was it heartening. It was similar to 2004 but there were some great things missing... like you.
I missed my hug when I came home, your smile and your pride and encouragement for me, but I know that you are watching, and I know some time I will hear about it all... the good and the bad, since you departed me. Maybe in a dream, who knows?
I miss you, but the world is being kinder to me these days, and I just feel like somehow you are helping that along in your own way.
I love and miss you,
F.
Remember when you found out Hillary was running? I remember we didn't agree on her as a good choice. I was mostly concerned with electability, because she polarized people so much. You were mostly happy a woman couls be running for president.
Well, Hillary didn't make it in. Obama did. I remember that I liked Edwards but I preferred Obama, while you liked Obama from the beginning and thought Edwards might have more important things to do.
Yeah, he did. But he did worse than neglect those, it turns out.
At any rate, the only person we both decided we did not hate on the other side, John McCain, was their choice for a Republican candidate.
Hillary and Obama fought a running, bruising battle that saw her even invoke potential assassination a la Bobby Kennedy... a definite low moment. In the end, Obama prevailed and our polarized party pulled together for a big battle.
McCain was not doing well at first, but he managed to shake things up by picking a woman as his running mate... Srah Palin. Wow, what a crazy, apparently ignorant thing she was. She helped for all of five minutes.
Obama just moved forward with poise and grace, and he won. We have that Black president you thought would never happen. What a moment it was when they called it for Obama. People cried, sweety. I didn't until I got home.
Regardless that Palin claimed she could see Russia from her front door in Alaska, or that she did not know that Africa was a continent, or that she did not know who was part of NAFTA, consider that the Republicans offered the first female vice president
while the Democrats offered the first black president.
Looks like America was in the mood for the greater of two changes. Strange, huh?
I am pretty proud of my country right now. I wish we had been here to toast it and discuss it, as we did every election.
I walked my precinct again for the Dems, and man was it heartening. It was similar to 2004 but there were some great things missing... like you.
I missed my hug when I came home, your smile and your pride and encouragement for me, but I know that you are watching, and I know some time I will hear about it all... the good and the bad, since you departed me. Maybe in a dream, who knows?
I miss you, but the world is being kinder to me these days, and I just feel like somehow you are helping that along in your own way.
I love and miss you,
F.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Letter to Marcie-Sweet days in the sun
The fall sunset, so special still...
Saturday I was watching one happen from the rooftop of Park Manor Suites as two new friends tied the knot. I so remember seeing one just like it one cool November evening and I glanced over to old Mister A's.
"This was way too expensive," you said.
I nodded. It was. But I wanted to have a special night with you, and I had gotten it. And all the extra hours in the world could not make that any less of a thrill. I was so in love with you.
The fires up north created a spectacular backdrop to the ceremony Saturday. It was so close to our night above the city, I swear.
I felt you hold my hand again as I closed my eyes and clasped my little glass of Crown Royal. I listened to the wind and the crowd and went back. I remembered the smell of your Fendi and the slinky slide of your top against my chest as we swayed.
I remembered the long kiss and the feel of your nose in the crook of my neck, then the soft weight of your head against my chest and your hair in my hands as I rubbed your nape gently.
"I love you," you said.
It was just one of the many times you had, but it is distinct. And Saturday I danced with mothers and grandmothers and wives and two new brides, and thought of you. And I smiled for them because of it.
Love,
F.
Saturday I was watching one happen from the rooftop of Park Manor Suites as two new friends tied the knot. I so remember seeing one just like it one cool November evening and I glanced over to old Mister A's.
"This was way too expensive," you said.
I nodded. It was. But I wanted to have a special night with you, and I had gotten it. And all the extra hours in the world could not make that any less of a thrill. I was so in love with you.
The fires up north created a spectacular backdrop to the ceremony Saturday. It was so close to our night above the city, I swear.
I felt you hold my hand again as I closed my eyes and clasped my little glass of Crown Royal. I listened to the wind and the crowd and went back. I remembered the smell of your Fendi and the slinky slide of your top against my chest as we swayed.
I remembered the long kiss and the feel of your nose in the crook of my neck, then the soft weight of your head against my chest and your hair in my hands as I rubbed your nape gently.
"I love you," you said.
It was just one of the many times you had, but it is distinct. And Saturday I danced with mothers and grandmothers and wives and two new brides, and thought of you. And I smiled for them because of it.
Love,
F.
Letter to Marcie-Halloween
It's another little gift you gave me. In 1993, I had not celebrated Halloween for 10 years. I just didn't see the sense in it. But you prevailed upon me to take another look at the holiday.
"So I was thinking we shoul do something for Halloween," you said.
'Hmm... dinner, dancing and gymnastics?' I thought. 'Maybe in costume for the last two? Helllloooooo nurse!'
"Well, what do you have in mind, Miss Stoddard?" I asked, trying to be suave.
"Let's go to Ralph's and get pumpkins to carve!" you blurted out. "We'll have some dinner and then we'll hand out candy. It'll be great. We get a few kids and all of my crazy neighbors come every year for candy. It'll be so fun!"
I guess the silence on the other end of the line tipped my hand. I was a bit taken aback, certainly. "I don't really do that on Halloween, usually," I said.
"Well, what do you do?" you asked, the edge of pre-annoyance (my name for that 'why didn't you just agree with me like you are supposed to' tone you had) definitely there.
"Well, usually I just hang out with friends and maybe go dancing or drinking or hit the beach for a bonfire," I offered. The truth was, I just used it as an excuse to party. I hadn't worn a costume in a decade.
"Well, I love Halloween and I would really like it if you would come over and carve a pumpkin with me, but I understand if you want to go out and get drunk with your friends," you said, matter-of-factly. "Some people need to do that."
Oh, it did sting, but it was effective. "No, that does sound fun," I said. "I'll tell you in class tomorrow. Maybe we can go to a party after trick or treaters stop coming by?"
"I work the next day," you said flatly. "Listen, I've gotta go, but I'll see you tomorrow. You know, you really don't have to if you don't want to. I understand and I won't be mad if you want to do your own thing."
It stung for sure. You would have been hurt, I could tell.
"You know what, let's get pumpkins tomorrow," I said. "Even if I don't hand out candy, we can have some fun and hang out making a mess."
"OKAY! OKay, we'll take the 7 after class," you said. "Oh, I am so excited! I can't wait to see what you carve."
And the die was cast. I read three articles on pumpkin carving that night and decided I had to make this a good Halloween. We carved them that night and yours was a wonderful one-tooth with a pointy grin and evil eyes.
I somewhat missed the mark. I made the theater faces in pumpkin but they lacked menace. "They look very nice," you said. "But they are not very Halloween, are they."
I guess vindication came in the form of your gay neighbors' exclamation. "Oh, my god, I want to take these home. These are the coolest. Can I have them?"
You shrugged and pointed at me, saying "Ask him, he made them."
Two days later I had a fittingly menacing and imperfect pumpkin to put next to yours as the stream of patrons began. I remember your black hat and gown, and the huge witch nose from CVS.
You were otherwise so cute... but that green nose...
It was my first Halloween in ten years. Last year, just two days after you left us, I handed out candy to the neighborhood kids. You were so happy at the anumber of them we got at our little house.
I knew you were there with me, and even if I had a very hard time doing it, I learned from you well, and I took a guess at each child's costume. This year, tyhe hulk, Darth Vader and devils were prominent.
Thank you for helping me understand the joy of the whole thing. This was a special holiday for you since you learned about it. For me, it was a special holiday for us because we got to be kids together, and simply play.
It was a sweet time of year for us, Marcie.
Of course, I noticed the perennial favorite... all the little witches in their regalia. There were plenty of those, but I could have used one more.
Love,
F
"So I was thinking we shoul do something for Halloween," you said.
'Hmm... dinner, dancing and gymnastics?' I thought. 'Maybe in costume for the last two? Helllloooooo nurse!'
"Well, what do you have in mind, Miss Stoddard?" I asked, trying to be suave.
"Let's go to Ralph's and get pumpkins to carve!" you blurted out. "We'll have some dinner and then we'll hand out candy. It'll be great. We get a few kids and all of my crazy neighbors come every year for candy. It'll be so fun!"
I guess the silence on the other end of the line tipped my hand. I was a bit taken aback, certainly. "I don't really do that on Halloween, usually," I said.
"Well, what do you do?" you asked, the edge of pre-annoyance (my name for that 'why didn't you just agree with me like you are supposed to' tone you had) definitely there.
"Well, usually I just hang out with friends and maybe go dancing or drinking or hit the beach for a bonfire," I offered. The truth was, I just used it as an excuse to party. I hadn't worn a costume in a decade.
"Well, I love Halloween and I would really like it if you would come over and carve a pumpkin with me, but I understand if you want to go out and get drunk with your friends," you said, matter-of-factly. "Some people need to do that."
Oh, it did sting, but it was effective. "No, that does sound fun," I said. "I'll tell you in class tomorrow. Maybe we can go to a party after trick or treaters stop coming by?"
"I work the next day," you said flatly. "Listen, I've gotta go, but I'll see you tomorrow. You know, you really don't have to if you don't want to. I understand and I won't be mad if you want to do your own thing."
It stung for sure. You would have been hurt, I could tell.
"You know what, let's get pumpkins tomorrow," I said. "Even if I don't hand out candy, we can have some fun and hang out making a mess."
"OKAY! OKay, we'll take the 7 after class," you said. "Oh, I am so excited! I can't wait to see what you carve."
And the die was cast. I read three articles on pumpkin carving that night and decided I had to make this a good Halloween. We carved them that night and yours was a wonderful one-tooth with a pointy grin and evil eyes.
I somewhat missed the mark. I made the theater faces in pumpkin but they lacked menace. "They look very nice," you said. "But they are not very Halloween, are they."
I guess vindication came in the form of your gay neighbors' exclamation. "Oh, my god, I want to take these home. These are the coolest. Can I have them?"
You shrugged and pointed at me, saying "Ask him, he made them."
Two days later I had a fittingly menacing and imperfect pumpkin to put next to yours as the stream of patrons began. I remember your black hat and gown, and the huge witch nose from CVS.
You were otherwise so cute... but that green nose...
It was my first Halloween in ten years. Last year, just two days after you left us, I handed out candy to the neighborhood kids. You were so happy at the anumber of them we got at our little house.
I knew you were there with me, and even if I had a very hard time doing it, I learned from you well, and I took a guess at each child's costume. This year, tyhe hulk, Darth Vader and devils were prominent.
Thank you for helping me understand the joy of the whole thing. This was a special holiday for you since you learned about it. For me, it was a special holiday for us because we got to be kids together, and simply play.
It was a sweet time of year for us, Marcie.
Of course, I noticed the perennial favorite... all the little witches in their regalia. There were plenty of those, but I could have used one more.
Love,
F
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
A letter to Marcie
Hello, my love
It has been a year. One year ago, my heart cracked and then broke as you slipped away. What a terrible night. That night will always haunt me with your kindness, your strength and courage, which all inspire me, and always will.
I thought, for the first few months, that I would not make it without you. I felt myself dying a little, day by day. I took care of myself, inside I just felt empty.
My longing for you ached like the hunger of a starving child. I noticed, as the months passed, your visits bolstered me. You nourished me with your soft presence and your happiness, so long forgotten in our lives, was a relief to see in our strange revels.
Of course, I have tried to write everything I can about the beauty of you, your spirit and your heart, your strength and your joy in life. I think you have approved, so far. I have tried to document everything that you made special in our lives, too. I think I have a good start...
I have been sorting my writing for your book. I know it would never be written if you still breathed, as modest as you are. But it will be. I need to have something of you outlast me. It was always my belief you would be there after me.
Sometimes I am glad, because this life beyond yours is so hard. I imagine it's what yours without me would have been like. I wouldn't want this for you, really.
I have so much to thank you for, my love. I will spend the next two weeks, between now and our anniversary, recalling them in letters to you.
Until the next letter, then. I miss you,
Me
It has been a year. One year ago, my heart cracked and then broke as you slipped away. What a terrible night. That night will always haunt me with your kindness, your strength and courage, which all inspire me, and always will.
I thought, for the first few months, that I would not make it without you. I felt myself dying a little, day by day. I took care of myself, inside I just felt empty.
My longing for you ached like the hunger of a starving child. I noticed, as the months passed, your visits bolstered me. You nourished me with your soft presence and your happiness, so long forgotten in our lives, was a relief to see in our strange revels.
Of course, I have tried to write everything I can about the beauty of you, your spirit and your heart, your strength and your joy in life. I think you have approved, so far. I have tried to document everything that you made special in our lives, too. I think I have a good start...
I have been sorting my writing for your book. I know it would never be written if you still breathed, as modest as you are. But it will be. I need to have something of you outlast me. It was always my belief you would be there after me.
Sometimes I am glad, because this life beyond yours is so hard. I imagine it's what yours without me would have been like. I wouldn't want this for you, really.
I have so much to thank you for, my love. I will spend the next two weeks, between now and our anniversary, recalling them in letters to you.
Until the next letter, then. I miss you,
Me
Thursday, October 9, 2008
A conversation
"You did not," she said.
"Yes, I did!" I insisted.
"Did you record it?" she asked.
I just smiled and she laughed. "Oh my god, honey, you are SO funny. Okay, let's see it."
I popped the tape in and on came John Gibson, talking about Monica Lewinsky and Bill Clinton.
"So, what do you think, people? I'll be back in a moment to take your comments on the air and hash it out with you, right here on MSNBC," he smiled, tossing some papers behind his shoulder and shaking his head.
She fast-forwarded until the transition screen appeared and played.
"So here we are again, people," Gibson said. "Tell me what you think. Is Monica Lewinsky going to testify and if so, what does this mean for Bill Clinton? Frank in Humboldt County, 30 seconds."
"John, I think she has good representation and if she doesn't, friends of the administration will be finding some for here pretty darn quickly," I said.
It drew a smile. "So you think that the Clinton clan will circle wagons with her? Pretty bold, Frank," he said. "Hey, how are things up there in Northern California? I had one of my first anchor jobs in Ukiah."
"Well, not bad, John," I said. "I love the rain."
"You'll love it up there, then," he said. "There's never a shortage!"
Marcie laughed and looked at me, shaking her head. "You liar," she said. "You like it until you get tired of it, then you get mad at it."
I shrugged as John continued, "So why do you think the Clintons huddle up with the Lewinsky clan?"
"John, it's the presidency," I said. "You don't blow that position for the whole party if you can help it, especially over a little blue dress. You get a lawyer, or even a few. And your spread them around liberally. Let's not dre4ss it up, you hos ethis fire down with cash."
Marcie, her broadcast experience in high school rearing up, shuckled, "Ho ho ho, careful honey!"
Gibson smiled and paused on the television, waiting as he shook his head for a good disarming comeback to occur to him. He looked up and smiled broadly, "So you don't let this incident stain an otherwise good record?" he asked.
"Well," I said. "Depends on who you ask, but I say 'A dry cleaner! A dry cleaner! My kingdom for a dry cleaner!' seems to lack a certain panache, right?"
He guffawed as Marcie held her hand over her mouth, eyes popped wide at my Newschat bravado, then looked at me.
"Point well taken, Frank," he said. "Let's keep it clean, then, right?"
"A bit late, John, but hey... there's always another dress... I mean intern... I mean day," I said.
He was silent this time for a few seconds, smiling and staring at the camera, almost incredulous. Marcie slapped me as she watched, wide-eyed, red as a beet. John changed the subject.
"So you're a student journalist up there in Humboldt?" he said. "You're a pretty funny guy and you have some personality, maybe I ought to watch out for my chair?"
"No, no, I'll get my own, John, when the time's right," I said. "Maybe I'll have an intern, too? Do you have an intern, John?"
"HA! No comment Frank," he said, shuffling his papers and smiling, laughing with nods, open-mouthed, silent.
"Wow, Gibson without a comment?" I asked. "Can it be?"
"It can, Frank, it can," he said, mirthfully, even. "Hey, I have to take more calls, but call back after the show. If you get down to San Francisco, I have someplace you might want to visit for some really good Chinese. The best ever."
"I'll do that, John," I said. "Great show, man. I'll see you on the tube or in the studio someday."
"I don't doubt it," he said. "I'll talk to you later."
I hung up on the tape and Marcie stopped the VCR. "You are so crazy," she said. "I am so proud of you. You were so funny and smart."
She hugged me and I noticed she was blushing. I kissed her forehead.
"So we'll go to the restaurant someday?" I asked. "I did call and get it after the show. I didn't record that."
"Maybe," she said. "Maybe we will."
We never did, but it was still a sweet moment. Her pride in me always made me feel like anything was worthwhile, even playing hookie from college for a rest.
We had stir fry for dinner. It was great.
"Yes, I did!" I insisted.
"Did you record it?" she asked.
I just smiled and she laughed. "Oh my god, honey, you are SO funny. Okay, let's see it."
I popped the tape in and on came John Gibson, talking about Monica Lewinsky and Bill Clinton.
"So, what do you think, people? I'll be back in a moment to take your comments on the air and hash it out with you, right here on MSNBC," he smiled, tossing some papers behind his shoulder and shaking his head.
She fast-forwarded until the transition screen appeared and played.
"So here we are again, people," Gibson said. "Tell me what you think. Is Monica Lewinsky going to testify and if so, what does this mean for Bill Clinton? Frank in Humboldt County, 30 seconds."
"John, I think she has good representation and if she doesn't, friends of the administration will be finding some for here pretty darn quickly," I said.
It drew a smile. "So you think that the Clinton clan will circle wagons with her? Pretty bold, Frank," he said. "Hey, how are things up there in Northern California? I had one of my first anchor jobs in Ukiah."
"Well, not bad, John," I said. "I love the rain."
"You'll love it up there, then," he said. "There's never a shortage!"
Marcie laughed and looked at me, shaking her head. "You liar," she said. "You like it until you get tired of it, then you get mad at it."
I shrugged as John continued, "So why do you think the Clintons huddle up with the Lewinsky clan?"
"John, it's the presidency," I said. "You don't blow that position for the whole party if you can help it, especially over a little blue dress. You get a lawyer, or even a few. And your spread them around liberally. Let's not dre4ss it up, you hos ethis fire down with cash."
Marcie, her broadcast experience in high school rearing up, shuckled, "Ho ho ho, careful honey!"
Gibson smiled and paused on the television, waiting as he shook his head for a good disarming comeback to occur to him. He looked up and smiled broadly, "So you don't let this incident stain an otherwise good record?" he asked.
"Well," I said. "Depends on who you ask, but I say 'A dry cleaner! A dry cleaner! My kingdom for a dry cleaner!' seems to lack a certain panache, right?"
He guffawed as Marcie held her hand over her mouth, eyes popped wide at my Newschat bravado, then looked at me.
"Point well taken, Frank," he said. "Let's keep it clean, then, right?"
"A bit late, John, but hey... there's always another dress... I mean intern... I mean day," I said.
He was silent this time for a few seconds, smiling and staring at the camera, almost incredulous. Marcie slapped me as she watched, wide-eyed, red as a beet. John changed the subject.
"So you're a student journalist up there in Humboldt?" he said. "You're a pretty funny guy and you have some personality, maybe I ought to watch out for my chair?"
"No, no, I'll get my own, John, when the time's right," I said. "Maybe I'll have an intern, too? Do you have an intern, John?"
"HA! No comment Frank," he said, shuffling his papers and smiling, laughing with nods, open-mouthed, silent.
"Wow, Gibson without a comment?" I asked. "Can it be?"
"It can, Frank, it can," he said, mirthfully, even. "Hey, I have to take more calls, but call back after the show. If you get down to San Francisco, I have someplace you might want to visit for some really good Chinese. The best ever."
"I'll do that, John," I said. "Great show, man. I'll see you on the tube or in the studio someday."
"I don't doubt it," he said. "I'll talk to you later."
I hung up on the tape and Marcie stopped the VCR. "You are so crazy," she said. "I am so proud of you. You were so funny and smart."
She hugged me and I noticed she was blushing. I kissed her forehead.
"So we'll go to the restaurant someday?" I asked. "I did call and get it after the show. I didn't record that."
"Maybe," she said. "Maybe we will."
We never did, but it was still a sweet moment. Her pride in me always made me feel like anything was worthwhile, even playing hookie from college for a rest.
We had stir fry for dinner. It was great.
Monday, October 6, 2008
One year ago
I walked into the room and asked her if she needed help getting up. She did. I helped her and her legs buckled under her. The day before, she had been walking fine. I was upset, of course, and called hospice for help.
By the time they arrived, Jane had come by. It was agonizing to fight with the hospice people. Marcie needed help, and they were insisting it was the progression of her disease.
I was suspicious. She had been fine the night before. She had also had a medication change.
Her diuretic, used to control her swelling in the arms from post-surgical edema, had been replaced by the hospice doctor with a powerful statin. I did not piece it together right away, but a few months after her death, I did.
They changed the drug that night while she slept at a nursing home. She never recovered.
There was no progression of her disease, her tumors had been retreating. I found this out a week later. She had, until that night, been recovering and gettign just a little stronger.
This will not stand. I think the statin did the damage, and her three-week downward spiral and death, losing function on one side of her body as she did, lies at the feet of the doctor whose care she was under.
On her birthday, last year, a mistake or something more sinister sent Marcie on a hellish journey to death.
I remembered her very good, sweet nature today as I went through my routine as best I could. I lit her candles and talked to her. Now that her special day has drawn to a close, I reflect on the injustice of it all.
Four decades of her grace, sweetness and beauty was not enough. She, and all of us deserved and had coming far more.
This will not stand.
By the time they arrived, Jane had come by. It was agonizing to fight with the hospice people. Marcie needed help, and they were insisting it was the progression of her disease.
I was suspicious. She had been fine the night before. She had also had a medication change.
Her diuretic, used to control her swelling in the arms from post-surgical edema, had been replaced by the hospice doctor with a powerful statin. I did not piece it together right away, but a few months after her death, I did.
They changed the drug that night while she slept at a nursing home. She never recovered.
There was no progression of her disease, her tumors had been retreating. I found this out a week later. She had, until that night, been recovering and gettign just a little stronger.
This will not stand. I think the statin did the damage, and her three-week downward spiral and death, losing function on one side of her body as she did, lies at the feet of the doctor whose care she was under.
On her birthday, last year, a mistake or something more sinister sent Marcie on a hellish journey to death.
I remembered her very good, sweet nature today as I went through my routine as best I could. I lit her candles and talked to her. Now that her special day has drawn to a close, I reflect on the injustice of it all.
Four decades of her grace, sweetness and beauty was not enough. She, and all of us deserved and had coming far more.
This will not stand.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Ending a long week
She has been all over my heart and mind, and now I am tired. But I will be taking her to the Turtle Place soon, and I will have to be rested, I think, to deal with that emotional bomb. Today I meditated after a long work day and watched the sky change. I thought I'd share some of it, too.
I wish I had her here to enjoy it with me, of course.
I have been collecting pictures of little things around the island that make me feel her presence. I'll share that in a day or two as I prepare for the film of my trip to Turtle Beach.
The Thoughtful Skies of Lamma
I wish I had her here to enjoy it with me, of course.
I have been collecting pictures of little things around the island that make me feel her presence. I'll share that in a day or two as I prepare for the film of my trip to Turtle Beach.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
So say alright...
This song makes me think of all the times Marcie and I worried about how to pay the bills and buy our loved ones gifts. We never failed to do it. We had lean years but we ate a little more poorly to be sure we provided tokens of our love to our families.
She was the first one to hold my hand through lean times when my work or businesses were not making much. She was also the first woman to understand the need to give even when it hurt. That, I think, I will never find again.
It looks like a few hundred million people will be needing their own Marcies soon. This song should have some resonance to them.
Of course, there is a little more resonance for me in this if you listen closely...
More Time
I promised you the world again
Everything within my hands
All the riches one could dream
They will come from me
I hoped that you could understand
That this is not what I had planned
Please don’t worry now
It will turn around
Cause I need more time
Just a few more months and we’ll be fine
So say what’s on your mind
Cause I can’t figure out just what’s inside
I hoped that you could understand
That this is not what I had planned
Please don’t worry now
It will turn around
Cause I need more time
Just a few more months and we’ll be fine
So say what’s on your mind
Cause I can’t figure out just what’s inside
So say alright
Cause I know we can make it if we try
Cause I need more time
Just a few more months and we’ll be fine
We’re off to new lands
So hold on to my hands
It’s gonna be alright
It’s a whole lot brighter
So stand by the fire
It’s gonna be alright
Yeah, the road gets harder
But it’s not much farther
It’s gonna be alright
You know that it ain’t easy
Please believe me
It’s gonna be alright
Please don’t worry now
It will turn around
Cause I need more time
Just a few more months and we’ll be fine
So say what’s on your mind
Cause I can’t figure out just what’s inside
So say alright
Cause I know we can make it if we try
Cause I need more time
Just a few more months and we’ll be fine
She was the first one to hold my hand through lean times when my work or businesses were not making much. She was also the first woman to understand the need to give even when it hurt. That, I think, I will never find again.
It looks like a few hundred million people will be needing their own Marcies soon. This song should have some resonance to them.
Of course, there is a little more resonance for me in this if you listen closely...
More Time
I promised you the world again
Everything within my hands
All the riches one could dream
They will come from me
I hoped that you could understand
That this is not what I had planned
Please don’t worry now
It will turn around
Cause I need more time
Just a few more months and we’ll be fine
So say what’s on your mind
Cause I can’t figure out just what’s inside
I hoped that you could understand
That this is not what I had planned
Please don’t worry now
It will turn around
Cause I need more time
Just a few more months and we’ll be fine
So say what’s on your mind
Cause I can’t figure out just what’s inside
So say alright
Cause I know we can make it if we try
Cause I need more time
Just a few more months and we’ll be fine
We’re off to new lands
So hold on to my hands
It’s gonna be alright
It’s a whole lot brighter
So stand by the fire
It’s gonna be alright
Yeah, the road gets harder
But it’s not much farther
It’s gonna be alright
You know that it ain’t easy
Please believe me
It’s gonna be alright
Please don’t worry now
It will turn around
Cause I need more time
Just a few more months and we’ll be fine
So say what’s on your mind
Cause I can’t figure out just what’s inside
So say alright
Cause I know we can make it if we try
Cause I need more time
Just a few more months and we’ll be fine
Monday, September 15, 2008
Hong Kong Preparation-The Plan Begins
I have begun to pack for the trip and prepare my house. I am sorry to have to leave Seamus behind, but he will be in good hands. In the mean time, I have decided to bring a little bit of Marcie's cremains to Hong Kong.
Marcie's family and friends know of her love for sea turtles. She was enchanted by one during her trip to Hawaii. She spoke of it constantly afterward, and looked forward to going back to that lagoon for another "encounter," as she described it.
The island of Lamma, where I will be staying, is home to the Green turtle, an endangered species that lays its eggs there after travelling thousands of miles. Their breeding season ends in October, so we are just in time.
I will leave some of her ashes on or near the beach with the turtles, so that she can commune with them and be visited every summer. I will try to place her in a place with a nice view of the beach it all happens at.
I will, of course, snap pictures.
Marcie's family and friends know of her love for sea turtles. She was enchanted by one during her trip to Hawaii. She spoke of it constantly afterward, and looked forward to going back to that lagoon for another "encounter," as she described it.
The island of Lamma, where I will be staying, is home to the Green turtle, an endangered species that lays its eggs there after travelling thousands of miles. Their breeding season ends in October, so we are just in time.
I will leave some of her ashes on or near the beach with the turtles, so that she can commune with them and be visited every summer. I will try to place her in a place with a nice view of the beach it all happens at.
I will, of course, snap pictures.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Scullery Maid
Marcie was particular about her house. She might let things, say dusting the bookshelf, go. But others, like the kiycjen floor, she had to have clean.
She did not wear her sweats to do her housework. "Too hot," she said when I asked.
She wore her older long skirts, her worn out tank tops and her tight t-shirts that had faded or were stained. She looked very domestic, in a cute way. To add to the effect, she often tied her hair up in a mass on her head to keep it out of her way,
This was intriguing to me. She looked awfully cute down there, scrubbing the floor.
Apparently, though, she didn't feel cute. And as important as cleaning was, she didn't like humor to be injected into her routine.
So when I stood behind her and growled, "Yar, ye fine scullery wench, I've come for your booty," it is not surprising that she took some small offense.
She turned and looked at me from the kitchen floor, slowly, her face beet red and covered in sweat, the little sponge she insisted in using in place of a mop in her hand. She looked at me incredulously, then bit her lower lip and narrowed her eyes.
I suddenly understood very clearly that this might not end well.
"Scull-a what?" she asked, tossing the sponge onto the ground and standing up. "What did you just call me? And you've for my BOOTY? My sweaty, unhappy, housecleaning, mad at you for not helping booty?"
I nodded and tried the cheeky approach. "Yar, I jave."
She gritted her teeth and pointed. "Get out. Now. Out, Frank."
She took my arm by the bicep and led me to the door, practically shoving me out. I stepped on the porch and she closed the door.
Then she locked it, and latched it, and then she bolted the window closed, too.
From inside I heard her say, "Why don't you go play pirate with your friends at the coffee shop and come back when you want to help out around here?"
I looked down at my jockeys and socks. No shoes, no pants, and a Soft Cell t-shirt. I knocked.
Twenty minutes later, we started the Domestic Duties and Roles war.
She did not wear her sweats to do her housework. "Too hot," she said when I asked.
She wore her older long skirts, her worn out tank tops and her tight t-shirts that had faded or were stained. She looked very domestic, in a cute way. To add to the effect, she often tied her hair up in a mass on her head to keep it out of her way,
This was intriguing to me. She looked awfully cute down there, scrubbing the floor.
Apparently, though, she didn't feel cute. And as important as cleaning was, she didn't like humor to be injected into her routine.
So when I stood behind her and growled, "Yar, ye fine scullery wench, I've come for your booty," it is not surprising that she took some small offense.
She turned and looked at me from the kitchen floor, slowly, her face beet red and covered in sweat, the little sponge she insisted in using in place of a mop in her hand. She looked at me incredulously, then bit her lower lip and narrowed her eyes.
I suddenly understood very clearly that this might not end well.
"Scull-a what?" she asked, tossing the sponge onto the ground and standing up. "What did you just call me? And you've for my BOOTY? My sweaty, unhappy, housecleaning, mad at you for not helping booty?"
I nodded and tried the cheeky approach. "Yar, I jave."
She gritted her teeth and pointed. "Get out. Now. Out, Frank."
She took my arm by the bicep and led me to the door, practically shoving me out. I stepped on the porch and she closed the door.
Then she locked it, and latched it, and then she bolted the window closed, too.
From inside I heard her say, "Why don't you go play pirate with your friends at the coffee shop and come back when you want to help out around here?"
I looked down at my jockeys and socks. No shoes, no pants, and a Soft Cell t-shirt. I knocked.
Twenty minutes later, we started the Domestic Duties and Roles war.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Marcie's kind of weather
As the days have finally begun to cool down here, i have reflected on Marcie's favorite weather. It isn't a simple matter to pin that down, really.
Marcie liked it sunny or partly cloudt, but avoided the sun. She liked it warm but hated when it was dry. Finally, she loved the rain, but only for a little while at a time, and then she preferred it to remain partly cloudy. She hated overcast days.
If you could give her all those conditions in a given week, she would be content.
She preferred her warmth, but there was one thing she looked forward to. Just enough coolness in the air to curl into or next to me, laying on the couch or in bed, napping or sleeping, draped on me comfortably.
It was a nice reason to hope for rain and a chill in the air. I always did.
Marcie liked it sunny or partly cloudt, but avoided the sun. She liked it warm but hated when it was dry. Finally, she loved the rain, but only for a little while at a time, and then she preferred it to remain partly cloudy. She hated overcast days.
If you could give her all those conditions in a given week, she would be content.
She preferred her warmth, but there was one thing she looked forward to. Just enough coolness in the air to curl into or next to me, laying on the couch or in bed, napping or sleeping, draped on me comfortably.
It was a nice reason to hope for rain and a chill in the air. I always did.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
First New Years
I half-carried her up the stairs as she laughed and giggled. She smiled and flopped back dramatically, arms out as her tequila-laced, Midori-sweetened breath rolled out at me.
"Oh yeah, I am so drunk," she said, closing her eyes a second.
She opened her eyes and grabbed my neck, nearly pulling me off balance as I negotiated the doorway.
"Bathroom," she said. "Bathroom!"
I helped her in and she looked at me ruefully as I waited to assist. I regretted being so sober but was glad to get her home safely.
"Go away," she said, closing the door and kneeling before the porcelain god and preparing for her purgative purgatory.
I heard her leave the bathroom about 20 minutes later and helped her to the bed, slipping her brown boots off and getting her safely set up on the edge of the bed.
"I love you," she said. "I'm so drunk."
Sometimes I was, too, and for all the same reasons.
"Oh yeah, I am so drunk," she said, closing her eyes a second.
She opened her eyes and grabbed my neck, nearly pulling me off balance as I negotiated the doorway.
"Bathroom," she said. "Bathroom!"
I helped her in and she looked at me ruefully as I waited to assist. I regretted being so sober but was glad to get her home safely.
"Go away," she said, closing the door and kneeling before the porcelain god and preparing for her purgative purgatory.
I heard her leave the bathroom about 20 minutes later and helped her to the bed, slipping her brown boots off and getting her safely set up on the edge of the bed.
"I love you," she said. "I'm so drunk."
Sometimes I was, too, and for all the same reasons.