grief

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Weighted to the Ground

This morning I drove to my hometown to get my hair trimmed. I go every 6-8 weeks and I often find it therapeutic. My dear friend, Lisa, has been cutting my hair for over 20 years. We were co-workers and friends before she began her shop with her business partner, Tanda. So when I get my hair cut and my eyebrows waxed, it’s typically a fun time–a time to catch up and a time for both of them to laugh as I swear and yell as Lisa rips my eyebrows off.

I was listening to my running playlist as I drove towards St. Albans. I had a pretty good run earlier and I wanted to keep my good mood going. Yet just 2 miles after I left my home, one of my favorite songs, “Little Bird” by Annie Lennox began to play. I’ve talked about this song before. It’s one that my brother added to one of two running cds he made me shortly after I started running 13 years ago, and we were both huge fans of both the Eurythmics and Annie Lennox. Since my brother’s death, it’s become a song that reminds me of him. I remember singing it with him in the car, and just this morning, I remembered how we would sometimes run our hands and arms out the car windows like a bird.

I had forgotten that little memory.

And since today is the eve of Phil’s death anniversary, it triggered the memories of that horrible day.

I was in his hospital room again, watching him trying to tear out his IVs so we wouldn’t see him hooked up to many machines. I was at the foot of his bed again with my sister, as we looked at the chart on his wall that showed how little he weighed–just 140 pounds at 6’5″. I was there again, holding his hand, telling him we came to say goodbye and that I loved him and my husband loved him and his nephew loved him. I was there once again, watching him nod his head over and over, like he was saying, “I know, I know.”

And then I was driving. I drove about 2 miles with no recognition this morning. None.

Needless to say, I sobbed much of the rest of the drive.

Yet just before I arrived at Lisa’s, I remembered my mother on that day. At one point Phil’s partner, Larry and I, went to talk to Phil, to convince him that it was ok not to live this way. It was ok to let go because we knew that was what he wanted, but it must have also been the scariest fucking thing to decide. (I remain steadfast in my knowledge that I saw the most courageous act that day when Phil made the decision to die.) Once he nodded his head and made that decision to be taken off of his life support, Larry and I went back to the private family waiting room. I remember my mother looking up at me with what I can only view as hope and saying, “What did he say?” I’m not sure what I replied exactly, but I think it was something like, “He doesn’t want to keep going.” But I do remember Mom’s face crumpling and shaking her head and lowering it to cry.

When I left Lisa’s, I just wanted to be with my mom. I went to her grave which is also in my old hometown. Once I got to the cemetery, I was jarred by the fact that the large, beautiful tree in front of the cemetery was cut down. “What the fuck?” I yelled. I realize the tree was probably dead or dying and would have toppled over and broken headstones. That better be why because it was really upsetting. Without that shade and just the glorious trunk, leaves and branches, the cemetery looks exactly like what it is–a field of stones. If a place like that is possible to get more depressing, it did.

I parked near Mom’s headstone, grabbed a blanket from my car, knelt down in front of her stone and wept. I talked to her, told her how much I missed her and Phil and Dad. I brushed off her stone and laid my forehead on it. I wasn’t there for very long. I just needed to see her name and pretend that she was there.

I stopped at Wal-Mart on the way home, feeling a bit dazed. I walked slowly in, bought dishwasher detergent and Tide Pens and left. As I walked across the parking lot, I saw this guy walking toward the entrance. I started to wonder if his day had been anything like mine. Did he spend part of the morning crying at his mother’s gravestone, laying his head on the warm stone, kissing her name? Did he wish she was there just for a few minutes to hold him, to listen to his worries and his frustrations?

I hope not.

But you never really know what others are going through, do you? Like Lennox’s “Little Bird,” some of those people you see each day may be “a troubled soul who’s weighted, weighted to the ground” and are just not able to fly.

Friends, in honor of my lovely brother, Phil, my “person,” I hope you take a little time this weekend and do something to feel like you are truly alive. Do something you absolutely enjoy, something to make you feel good. In Phil’s last few years of life, he couldn’t do much, but tried to live through food, whether it was making a fun international dish, or just enjoying whatever he ate or drank.

Tomorrow I will be hiking with two of my best friends. Typically, my son and I do something together, but now that he’s 16 with a job, license, and boyfriend, he’ll be working then hanging out with his lovey. We’ll both be spending time with some people that we love and that’s a huge part of what it means to live well.

Please, my friends, take a minute to hug, kiss, talk with or just touch someone you love this weekend, too. (With their permission, of course.) You won’t regret it.

Hugs and sloppy kisses.

❤

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Still Kickin’

It’s been over two months since I’ve sat down at my laptop and written with purpose. I’ve missed it. Since writing this blog is often a form of therapy, I ended up leaning on my friends more over the past few months and talking to my therapist about things I just can’t do here. But I’m ready to come back again.

The past few months have been a whirlwind. Here’s a quick and dirty list of what has transpired:

  • Started my new job as the Head of Circulation at the Bangor Public Library. It is seriously a fantastic workplace and job. I can’t begin to tell you how much I love it. Or I might do that in the coming weeks.
  • Discovered I had plantar fasciitis the same week I started my new job. It was so freaking painful and frustrating. Still working through it, but my foot is finally healing.
  • Won the Outstanding Library Advocate Award at the Maine Library Conference in May. It was a surprise and a surreal moment. I won it due to the backing of the Pittsfield Library community during budget season last fall, and because my colleagues are some of the most generous and kind souls that exist.
  • I turned 50 and went on a solo road trip with my goals being to have an adventure, and to be at the Christmas Story House on my birthday. Achievement unlocked! That trip will need to be a post all by itself. It was so dang fun.
  • I officially entered menopause. I’ve looked forward to this for years, and only recently started to dread it. I blame menopause on my body’s refusal to give up the 10-23 pounds I want to lose, but I am enjoying not bleeding every single month.
  • Many of my friends have just turned 50 also or will in the next 6-7 months. Because of this huge milestone in our lives, four of my dearest friends and I placed a deposit on a villa in Belize and will spend a (hopefully) glorious week there next year.
  • Continued to volunteer for both hospice and The Trevor Project. Both are getting a little more difficult, and I can already see myself stepping back from Trevor Project this winter. I don’t always give it the real time it deserves and if I can’t be truly present during my shifts, then I shouldn’t do it. I’m going to work on that this summer and hopefully will be able to continue for a lot longer.
  • My baby boy got his driver’s license and started taking an online college course in American Government. That has given me glimpses of his future and mine. It’s both scary and exciting.

What really has affected my mental health in the past few months has been my birthday. The number itself isn’t the problem. In so many ways I’ve loved turning 50. Heck, I talked to some folks from AARP at the Bangor Pride Festival, asking why I haven’t received anything in the mail yet!

I’ve referenced Sally O’Malley numerous times and listened to Molly Shannon’s autobiography, “Hello, Molly” when I began my road trip. I can, indeed, “kick and stretch and KICK!” Although I draw the line at wearing red polyester pants that would give me a camel toe. 😉

Fast forward to 1:30 to see this fantastic act. Watch the male actors try not to laugh at Shannon’s hilarity!

I’ve given gifts to a few friends that already turned 50 this year and look forward to celebrating next year with some of them. My husband and I bought a spectacular kitchen table and chairs for my birthday, too. Sounds like an odd gift, but one I desperately wanted. We’ll be paying for it for a while, but I’m ok with that. PB&J sandwiches are a-ok in my book!

My problem isn’t my age, it isn’t that I’m now a half century old. The issue is that my dear brother never made it here. He died 11 months before his 50th birthday. I absolutely HATE that I am older than him now. It’s wrong. It makes me angry and tremendously sad.

I don’t just grieve for the fact that I don’t have Phil around anymore to laugh with or to talk with or to read his stories. Nor do I just grieve for my son who battles depression that began with losing his uncle. I also grieve for my brother and everything that he didn’t get to do. To me, this is what a large part of grief is. It’s thinking about what that person lost. To be honest, when I start to think about what Phil lost, I can’t breathe. I start to panic and either take a walk or a run, move around the room, or just shut those thoughts down and think about something else. The latter never works so I usually eat something instead. (My go-to coping mechanism is to reach for food, something that I will probably work on in therapy for my eternity.)

He didn’t get to have a 50th birthday party. He didn’t get to see the Christmas Story House and I know he would have loved it. He didn’t get to see the fucking awesome display of George Carlin’s work at the National Comedy Center. Phil introduced me to Carlin so long ago and at that time I didn’t swear much. Carlin’s routine back then made me cringe and laugh and I thought it was incredible. Phil probably would have really liked to see the “Birthplace of Superman” in Cleveland, which is where Jerry Siegel, one of Superman’s co-creators, lived and created the character. My brother often said that he lived his life with the philosophy, “WWSD”–What Would Superman Do? You can still be good but a bad-ass, too. (Although Phil was really more like Batman. A decent person, but dark and would have lived in a cave if he could have.)

And the books Phil can never read? The stories he’ll never write? The films he’ll never see?

I AM STILL SO FUCKING MAD!

I will never be ok with the fact that my brother died at the age of 49. Never. I know it’s been said that we were all fortunate enough to get him for that long, because he was never supposed to make it to 18. But I don’t really care about that. I still want him here and you can’t tell me to feel lucky that I got to have him in my life for 44 years. It should have been longer. My parents certainly believed it should have been longer. I often wonder if both of my parents would have died just two years later if Phil had lived.

So….what now?

I keep on living, I guess. I will remain pissed off that Phil isn’t here, but I’ll also keep talking about him and re-telling stories to my son about his dear uncle, and about how much my boy is like him. I’ll keep reading books that I wish I could discuss with him, and I’ll continue to call Phil my big brother. He can’t be any other way to me, no matter my age or his.

And I’ll try to continue to “Kick, Stretch and KICK!” all without breaking a hip.

Hugs and sloppy kisses, friends.

❤

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Change=Grief

Tomorrow is my last day at the Pittsfield Public Library. I get a bellyache when I think about it. Am I excited for my new job at the Bangor Public Library? Yes. Absolutely. It’s like a career change! A larger library, new colleagues, new patrons, new policies and procedures and problems. It’s a new adventure for sure.

Will I miss my old job? Of course. My colleagues, my patrons, my friends, and honestly, being a big fish in a little pond can be fun. But I won’t miss the politics, the building maintenance, and a few other things and people that I won’t mention.

Two days ago, as I drove to work, I started to think about my brother. He had been a patron at Pittsfield–I have many memories of him there. As I got closer to the library, I started to cry. So much so that I couldn’t breathe. You know the kind of sobbing where you can’t catch your breath and you start to gulp for air? Yeah. That.

I feel like I’m losing Phil all over again. I’m losing another place that holds memories of him laughing and pointing out books he’s read or listened to or films he’s watched. I’m losing a place where he existed.

Once I got to work, though, I was able to calm down and just do my thing. The Friends of the Library threw me a farewell party, so I cried often throughout the day as people stopped by to wish me well.

You know…I feel a little lost. Working at a place for 17 1/2 years is a lifetime. I’ve watched so many kids grow up and have kids of their own. I’ve attended funerals of many of my beloved patrons, have given baby shower gifts to others. I will miss so many of these beautiful humans. I’m tremendously sad that I won’t see some of my favorite littles grow up, and this might sound odd, but I’m also upset I won’t see some of my favorite people die. I will no longer be a part of their lives and I’m having a hard time with that.

But, like the sweet notebook these folks gave me says, love is letting go. And it’s time I do that.

I’m trying.

So…if you’re reading this and you’ve been one of my Pittsfield Library patrons, I want to thank you for allowing me to be part of your lives. It’s truly been an honor and gift to be a part of your journey all these years. You’ve also been a part of mine. So many of you have watched my boy grow up, have been with me as I tried to live in a world without my dear brother and parents, have watched me struggle with my husband’s health, but also have watched me become a runner–something I wasn’t when I started at the Pittsfield Library. You’ve watched me lose over 50 pounds and gain nearly 20 since I became director. You’ve also seen a variety of hair lengths and styles and eyeglass frames. Thanks for being with me through so many of my life’s changes and being a witness to this latest one.

Keep reading, my friends, keep being kind, and please keep visiting that great library of yours. Continue to let the powers that be know how much the library and staff mean to you and your community.

And thank you, from the bottom of my heart and soul, for all the love. ❤

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Courage to Change

I am shocked to see I have not blogged since January 1st. Admittedly, these past three months have been filled with…a lot.

In January, on my way to a 9-day vacation in Mexico with my beautiful friend, Becky, I got caught in an ice storm in Texas and was trapped there for nearly 3 days. While there, I read a fun mystery involving Bernie Sanders. I left it in the airport, hoping its liberal sense would permeate through the conservative air. I don’t think it worked. 😉

My time in Mexico was lovely. Visiting with Becky was the highlight, but also seeing iguanas in trees, attending an authentic Mexican rodeo, eating apples with lime juice, and drinking margaritas on the beach with my toes in the sand while chatting with one of my dearest friends. Of course, losing my glasses in the ocean wasn’t great, but being able to try out contact lenses was life changing. Next week I finally get fit for a proper pair of contacts and I’ll be able to wear sunglasses while I run. Exciting!

Another “event” that happened in Mexico–I used a Nespresso machine. This might not seem like a big deal, but oh my word, I fell in love with it–the taste, the convenience, the recyclable pods, all of it. Before I left Becky’s home, I ordered one for my house so my vacation could continue indefinitely. It’s truly a fantastic way for my day to begin.

Once I got back home, it was back to reality–work, committees, home chores, volunteering, all the stuff. Unfortunately, just a week after I arrived back home, my husband was off to Florida to help care for his father. It was a bit of a rollercoaster ride for my husband–navigating the hospital and family, lack of sleep for days, plus emotionally exhausting. He came home after 10 days, but my father-in-law entered into hospice care the very next day. He was able to go home but died from lung cancer just two days later.

Supporting someone who is grieving can be difficult, but living with that person is even tougher. I don’t know how my husband survived living with me as I grieved my brother and parents. There are never any right words or even actions, except to listen–which I’ve done, but I always think I should do more. Maybe it’s because I just want to take the pain away, but I can’t. I have learned to step away and leave him alone when it seems best but made sure he knew that if he needs to talk or hug or just be in the same room with me, that he tells me. I don’t want to hover, but man, that’s not easy. I’ve had to tell my son all of these same things because I all I want to do is stick with him and constantly check that he’s ok. I have to step back, take him to therapy, spend time with him, talk with him, and just let him know that I’m here.

Throughout these past few months, as my family has been navigating another loss while still trying to work and go to school, balance all of life’s responsibilities, and even visit a college my son is interested in, I’ve continued to hope for a positive adjustment in my life. I haven’t just hoped but have started working towards some changes. And now it looks like a major one is coming to fruition.

In my last blog post, I mentioned I need to change my work–either make changes at my workplace or look for something new. Amazingly, the Bangor Public Library, a large public library (large for Maine, anyways!), has hired me as their new Head of Circulation. Their current head of circ is retiring after 36 years–that is so much institutional knowledge I will never know, but I’m tremendously honored to have the chance to work for this fantastic institution, alongside their equally fantastic staff.

This is a tremendously bittersweet moment for me. My work as the Director of the Pittsfield Public Library (and previously as the Circulation & Catalog Librarian) has led me to people I’ve come to know and love as my family and friends. When I started there in 2005, I was still trying to get pregnant, I was 30 pounds heavier, and all my family was still alive. My brother and both of my parents used to visit me at the library. I still have specific memories of all of them in that building—the library even has several dvds that my brother donated. My son also spent many, many hours at that library. During one program, I had my boy strapped to my back as I walked around the library. When it was time to unstrap him, I couldn’t do it and a lovely older couple had to help me (the wife is still my patron–we still talk about that day).

I’m proud of the work I’ve done in Pittsfield. I’ve worked with dozens of organizations and helped connect them with community members that needed their services, I’ve matched patrons with books they’ve fallen in love with, and I’ve advocated for the library and the staff within the town government by inviting community members to tell their elected officials what the library means to them.

But it’s time for me to go. I know I can do more at the Pittsfield Library, but I need a new adventure. Working at an urban library will be a huge change and challenge, and I’m looking forward to it. I still have another month in my beautiful, small and rural library, and I hope to make the best of it.

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The Letter

It’s been 5 years since I wrote my family’s annual holiday letter. Since my brother, Phil, died on July 23, 2017, I’ve had no desire to write a happy holiday letter, or any holiday letter at all. My favorite time of year became the time of year I dreaded.

I no longer dread Christmastime, but I also don’t look forward to it like I used to. I enjoy the music, the lights, the gift giving and receiving, the stories, and the movies (I’m an absolute sucker for holiday romance films). Yet all of those things blend with loss and longing for the people that are no longer here.

I’m currently in my kitchen typing this with cookies cooling on the counter and George Michael crooning a Christmas tune about heartbreak. This is my element, folks. Yet my stomach and chest are tight from all the withheld tears I just refuse to shed today.

Phil should be here right now. I should be slapping his hand as he tries to steal a cookie. We should be drinking tea at this very kitchen counter, gossiping about one of his friends or editing his latest erotica story. Instead, I keep looking beside me, just fucking wishing for him to appear.

*deep breath*

I do understand why I’m feeling this grief so intensely this week. Besides it being Thanksgiving (which my brother came over to my house every Thanksgiving), I stumbled across a bunch of photos from the last Christmas we had with Phil. At first, I was just in awe and was enjoying seeing his face. Then I became across this photo:

This is my then 9-year-old son, leaning over to kiss my brother on the cheek. They were both enthralled with the new Yoda my son received, and honestly, they both just loved each other fiercely. When I saw this photo, I gasped because I forgot its existence. Then I sobbed. And sobbed. I rocked my body and just sat in that feeling of immense, overwhelming grief.

I took a long break from looking at any photos, then I dove in once again last night. This time, I came across a few short videos of my son as a toddler and my brother’s voice or laughter is in them. There’s one video in particular that my entire family knows and we’ve all watched it probably countless times just to hear Phil’s voice and laughter. He’s reading to my toddler and it’s sweet and funny and wonderful. My now 15-year-old son came over to me as I started to go through the videos, and he asked to watch and listen to that one video a couple of times. “I haven’t heard his voice in years, Mom. But it’s like my chest lit up when I heard him!” This kiddo of mine then thanked me and asked for a hug. ❤ I’m a really lucky mom.

So….that letter? I really thought this was the year, but I guess it’s not. I’m realizing now that I may not be able to write it again. Each year I did a bit of a recap of what was happening in all of our lives, and although we’ve made some wonderful memories in the past 5 years, we’ve also suffered so much loss that it’s difficult to do an annual letter without talking about who or what we no longer have.

Maybe a January letter about what we hope to accomplish in the new year? Maybe.

Until then, enjoy these pics of my dear big brother. If you watch the video, I hope you can see why I miss him so much. (And you can see what an annoying mom I can be.) Phil brought us so much joy and I am certainly grateful we have at least this video to refer to so we can see and hear him whenever we want. Obviously, it’s not the same as having him here with us, but it’s something.

Hugs to you all, my friends.

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Take a Seat

For the past few weeks, my work has taken over my life–something I’m always telling other librarians NOT to do. But in this case, I was fighting for the library I work in and for the community it serves. It was a battle worth fighting and it looks like things might be ok. In another month the town’s budget will be voted on, and we’ll see how things turn out. The community has spoken and have shown their support for the library, its services and its staff. It was an amazing thing to see the community come together and show their love for this institution and for the work we do.

After this long, exhilarating yet exhausting week, I was looking forward to a weekend at home, reading a few books and getting some cleaning done. Yesterday morning I decided it was time to change things up. We have a sectional couch in our living room, and half of it has had some issues for some time. It was time to get rid of it.

As I pulled the cushions from the couch, I listened to Anderson Cooper’s podcast, All There Is. (Thanks, Anne.) Cooper begins the first episode of the podcast with cleaning out his mother’s apartment after she has died. This included finding some of his father’s and brother’s things. His father died of a heart condition when Anderson was 10, and his brother died from suicide when Anderson was 21. Most of the episodes talk to other famous people who have faced tremendous loss in their lives.

I had my earbuds in, listening to Anderson’s voice break when he discussed his dad, sometimes cry when he talked about either of his parents or brother. While I listened, I found myself really getting into tearing apart this couch. I took a sledgehammer to part of the wooden frame, I cut the fabric in places and other times I tore at it with my bare hands. At one point I found myself crying on the floor, thinking about my brother sitting on this very couch with me. How we would sit side by side and watch a movie and drink coffee together or talk about our latest read. I thought about my mom’s last Thanksgiving and how my son sat between us on that couch as we watched a Christmas movie together.

I was angry that my brother wasn’t there with me, helping me tear that fucking couch apart. I was angry that my mom wasn’t truly my mom for so many years before she died and devastated again that she had to die in a god damned nursing home.

And then….I wasn’t angry. Just achingly lonely. Although I have my family and my friends, sometimes the people I want are no longer here and I just feel so lonely without their presence, without their conversation and laughter and love.

Yet, what could I do at the moment? I could pound the shit out of that couch. So, I did.

This morning, though, as I drove my son to school, he turned to me and said, “You know what I realized this weekend? Right after I left work, my first job, I realized that I couldn’t share that first with Uncle or Grammy.” I nodded my head and sighed, “Yeah,” then rubbed his arm. We sat in silence the rest of the ride and told each other that we loved one another as he left the car.

As a parent, I celebrate so many of these firsts my son experiences–his first steps, first word (“no” by the way), his first ice cream cone, his first plane ride–and now I celebrate and grieve each of his firsts, and I have since my brother died 5 years ago. I just never realized that my bright, beautiful boy did, too.

When my brother, Phil, died, I was not available to my son. I thought I was to a point, but when I think about it now, and the fact that I didn’t realize that my kid would be missing his family just as much as me, I realize that I fucked up.

Yet I know I couldn’t have done anything different. During those dark days, there was a time when I was ready to die myself. I didn’t know how to live in this existence without Phil being here, too. To help my son was pretty much impossible at that time. I know I did try to listen to him and spend time with him, but once my mom moved in a few months later, my kid couldn’t count on me.

I truly hope that I’ve done better by my son since then. The amount of grief he’s had to experience would be insurmountable for some adults. He’s had to see me go through this loss while going through it himself, and literally having to pick me up off the floor. (I fainted after my mother’s funeral while he and I were home alone.)

I’ll do my best to keep the memory of my family in the present. We’ll keep acknowledging all of those firsts and talk about how proud the family would be, or what hilarious jokes my brother would tell. And I’ll keep taking my child and myself to therapy so we can continue to heal or at least function.

After all, we only have so much furniture we can tear apart.

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Grappling with the Past

I woke up thinking about my mom this morning. Actually…I woke up thinking about everything I did wrong with Mom during the last two years of her life.

I just began training to be a hospice volunteer. Much of our homework is reading about dying and watching videos about hospice care as well as the dying process. In just two weeks I’ve learned a lot about what actively dying looks like (which I witnessed with Mom) as well as what all of the signs actually mean. For instance, when someone seems agitated as they are going through the dying process, the person could have a full bladder, could be in pain, or maybe the music being played in the room reminds them of a particularly bad time in their lives.

I was with both of my parents as they lay dying. Much of the literature and information I’m consuming reflect my own experiences. Stories of people dying who talk to a dead loved one or reach out to something that you can’t see. (Dad saw his grandfather.) Stories of people dying after their spouse leaves the room or once their adult child finally made it to the hospital after they flew across the country to see them one more time. (Mom died less than 5 minutes after I left the room. My sister said it was because she was trying to protect me one last time.) As I work through the coursework, I feel like this is all in my wheelhouse–bereavement, dying, extensive grief, hospice care–these actions and feelings have defined my life for the past five years. I feel like I’m ready to listen to others now and be present for those families that are suffering and for that person in hospice care. And to be honest? Although I’ve set some boundaries in my life, I know at some point I may need to be my husband’s caregiver as he continues his congestive heart failure journey. That journey may end in hospice care. I want to be prepared and help him prepare for what that involves.

This morning, I started to doubt my hospice volunteer readiness. I watched two hours of videos yesterday about the dying process and Mom’s birthday is in two days, so of course she’s on my mind. But I felt sick thinking about Mom being in the memory care unit of the nursing home. I know she had many, many good days there, and I know I was not able to take care of her. (I tried but was not successful.) But what about once she went into hospice care? Why didn’t I bring her home? Could I have taken a leave of absence and taken care of her here? Would she still have died just three weeks after she went into hospice care, or maybe she would have lived longer?

I’ve been doing exactly what I tell people not to do. I have no idea how things could have been. She could have died sooner, or what if she lived even longer? Could I really have afforded to take a leave of absence? (I already know the answer is “no.” And if you’re one of those people who say, “If that was my mother, I would have stayed home with her,” then congratulations to you for not living paycheck to paycheck.)

Don’t second guess yourself, I tell people. I want to say I did the best I could with what I had, but I’m not sure that’s true. Tomorrow I may feel differently. I may be ok with how it all went down.

But today I’m struggling.

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“You do not have to be good.”

I’ve always enjoyed Mary Oliver’s poetry, and “Wild Geese” is one of her most popular ones for good reason. But it’s been a while since I read it, and earlier this week, I saw the first line of the poem, “You do not have to be good” in someone’s email signature. It stopped me from moving past the email, from doing much of anything really, except crying. What was it about that line that got to me?

I found the poem and like nearly every other time I’ve read it, I got stuck on the line “Meanwhile the world goes on.” I never hated that phrase until my brother died. The world was supposed to stop that day. I wanted what W.H. Auden wanted in his “Funeral Blues” poem, to “stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.” How could the people on the planet be so cruel as to keep on living while my brother could not?

And now here it is, five years later today. This shit hole of a world didn’t stop. It’s certainly gotten worse, but it hasn’t stopped.

So, I went back to “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver and read the poem again. I stopped at my usual line, then finally pushed on. I had never understood the poem, really, because I could never finish it. My anger and grief built a wall tall enough for me not to see or hear anything further after “the world goes on.” Now I finally see what the fuss is about.

“Wild Geese” is about living. It hasn’t been easy for me to really do that these past five years. I tried but have often failed. I did start learning to appreciate the little things in life that make me laugh or bring me joy–just watching dragonflies flit around my head made me so happy that I logged it in my brain to remember later. I have tried to cement a few friendships and relationships that I never, ever want to lose. But I also cut a few people loose that were not good for me. I want to and need to do more of that in the future.

I’m not much of a risk taker, so I won’t be skydiving or jumping off cliffs to swim with sharks. I won’t be traveling the world, only because I don’t have the financial means to do so. But I’ll at least get my passport so if a windfall of cash comes my way, I might finally be able to go to Europe or even see my lovely friend and soul sister, Becky in Mexico. But what else?

Knowing I was a step away from pancreatic cancer and also knowing that my big brother never got this second chance that I have now, I don’t want to piss it away. But unfortunately, bills still have to be paid and responsibilities still have to be tended to. Is there a way to fit in this new vigor for life into my current life?

I’ve recently begun training to be a volunteer for The Trevor Project. This will require one 3-hour shift per week and the training is 10 weeks long. It’s quite a process and I love it. I’m learning so much and honestly, it’s really difficult. But I’m so, so happy to do it. Watching my son and his friends try to live their lives and seeing how much pain some of them have gone through specifically from being part of the LGBTQ+ community, has given me the push to help more young people like them. And hopefully I can.

I’ve also signed up to train as a hospice volunteer. Training starts with that in the fall, with a 2-hour shift requirement per week. This has been a passion of mine for a while now, especially after talking and working with Mom’s hospice nurse. I’d like to be able to help patients and/or their families in any way I am able.

So…back to the “You do not have to be good” line. There is SO much in that line to unpack. First, I saw the sentence in a hospice worker’s email, and I think it’s one reason why it caught me off guard. I had forgotten the line and maybe when I read it before it just didn’t mean much to me then. But now it means everything. I think I cried because I immediately thought of my brother. Much of his life, especially his adult life, he lived with no excuses and no regrets. You didn’t like how he lived his life? “Fuck you,” he’d say and sometimes with a smile. To me he always lived as large a life as he could with what he had. He was loyal to his friends and family and loved us fiercely. He was a voracious reader and wrote humor, horror, romance and erotica, and sometimes all in the same story. He was known for his morbid and often perverted sense of humor that often had you shaking your head but also holding your belly from laughing so hard. He was a giant of a man with a giant heart.

But again, why did “you do not have to be good” resonate? Because Phil was like that. He wasn’t always “good” and certainly didn’t get on his knees to repent (he got on his knees for other activities), but he loved what he loved and loved whom he loved. And he lived. For those few 49 years and 33 days, he fucking lived. No excuses. No regrets.

I’m trying to be like my big brother. I want to fucking live, too. Volunteering at these two places is one way I can live more like I want to. It may seem like this isn’t me jumping out of an airplane, but it sort of is. This is me putting my heart out there and seeing people when they are at their most vulnerable–asking for help because they don’t feel heard or understood or loved and just want to die, and those that are actively dying or watching their loved ones go through that process. I suppose I’m trying to save lives with one position and help those die with dignity with the other.

Will these activities make me happier? Eh, I don’t even like that word right now. That’s a blog post for another time. But I think the work will help me feel fulfilled. Being a librarian was always what did that for me but being a library director is not the same. I’m fortunate to work in a small, rural library so I still get to know and help people, but nothing like what I did before. Now there’s too much of the bureaucratic bullshit and that part sucks. Right now, though, it’s where I need to be.

There are other things I need to do to make my life a better one: getting rid of more “stuff,” finding my own space in my home, eliminating more debt, writing and reading more poetry, keeping up those forever friendships and relationships, and having more new experiences. Will I have time or energy to do it all?

Probably not, but I have to try, right?

Not just for me, but for Phil. At 49 years and 39 days old, I am officially older than my big brother. It’s time for me to try and live, to prove to him and to myself, that I don’t waste this “one wild and precious life.” (Seriously, Mary Oliver was kick ass, so check her stuff out.) Sometimes that might mean I take a walk to observe the leaves dancing in the trees or to see that momma turkey and her adolescents wander the field instead of finishing a book I was supposed to read for work. Or it might mean giving up an evening of relaxing to talk with a friend who needs a shoulder to lean on. Or it could mean that I make some bigger changes in my life and figure out who Holly is.

Thanks for coming on this journey with me. I wish Phil were here, too. I know he’d have a lot to say about it, and it would probably be a bit sarcastic and/or hilarious, and also said with love.

If you ever met my brother, I hope you think of him today. I won’t let him be forgotten, so even if you didn’t know him, think of him anyway. Just know that you probably would have liked him. I certainly did.

Phil’s potholder codpiece.

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How I Am. Really.

As many of you know, recovering from any kind of surgery takes time. It’s typically not pleasant. There are wounds to care for, pain to manage, and a wide variety of little issues you may have never had and now have no idea if it’s “normal” or if something is wrong. For instance, my chest hurt quite a bit while I was in the hospital having the tail of my pancreas removed (distal pancreatectomy). When I asked one of my doctors about it, she informed me that my pain was legitimate since they were up in my ribcage at one point and she could see where my heart was beating. 😳

It’s been 2 1/2 weeks since the surgery and I’ve really been recovering well. I did feel awful after getting home and I was frustrated and angry and sad. My husband was sick with some kind of infection, and he did not have the capacity to take care of me. I’m not gonna lie–that was heartbreaking for me. I needed him and he just couldn’t deliver. Our son helped me tremendously though and one of my dearest friends in the world visited me with treats and conversation and it gave me a great boost. All in all I didn’t think I was doing that badly. And then I took a survey the surgeons sent me. And when I finished, they told me to call the doctor. It was because I wasn’t moving much, I was in pain and trying to go by what they did in the hospital, and I was honest about my depressed state. But I was grateful for the survey because it made me look at what I was doing and feeling, and I had to change.

Instead of calling the surgeon, I got up and moved every hour, took mini walks with my son, changed my pain meds to make sure something was always in my system (only Tylenol and ibuprofren). But I started to feel a bit better, or at least more in control. (And I wish I could tell you more about what I can eat and can’t eat, because it’s still a crap shoot.)

The next day, 8 days post-op, I went to see my PCP like you’re supposed to. I think I’ve talked about Dr. Lauer here before. He’s a great guy, my age, and has become like a family friend. I have his personal cell phone number and I text him with concerns and he actually responds. (We should all have doctors like this!) When he walked into the exam room, he first told me how great I looked. “Umm…you look 7 weeks post-op, not 1 week.” See why I love him? 😉

He did an exam, we talked about the surgery, what I was doing, etc. He asked me to not run or train for anything for 12 weeks, and for the first time in my running years, I was happy to say yes. The thought of running right now is painful. We talked about my spleen, and the hope that the few blood vessels going to it now can keep it healthy. We discussed the possibility of diabetes and having to take enzymes, but right now we just see how I heal and go from there.

Then he went over the pathology report with me. When Dr. MacGillivray removed the tail of my pancreas, he sent it to the lab for them to dissect it and see what’s what. Dr. Lauer was reading it out loud and then stopped. At this point, I’m still lying on the table after the exam because I’m tired and didn’t want to get up yet. I looked over at him as he’s reading and I said, “I’m not sure what that means.” He repeated part of the report and said, “You just sidestepped pancreatic cancer.” If I had put my surgery off, which is what the great doctors at Portland Gastro told me to NOT do (they said to please get it done within a year, but preferably before fall), then I might be talking about chemo in this post instead. I knew the lesions on the tail were precancerous but having my doctor (and then my surgeon) say that I was able to avoid pancreatic cancer, at least for now, was a bit mind-blowing.

Dr. Lauer then went on to give me this lovely philosophical speech about letting go of people or situations in my life that I’ve been fretting over. “This is a new path forward,” he said. He had a few medical situations in his own life recently and it’s made him look at his life and everything around him a little differently.

As he was giving me this talk, I got very teary of course. Not just because I was feeling grateful and proud that I took charge of my health and that my doctor listened to me when I had problems, but also because I was sitting in my doctor’s office at the age of 49 and being told that I had a new lease on life. But my beautiful, funny, big-hearted brother never got this speech. Instead, he was being told at 49 that he had to choose to either stay on those machines to keep him alive or die.

To say I was feeling a huge mixed bag of emotions is an understatement.

But…I was and am grateful.

I hugged my doctor before I left, then told my son who was in the waiting room the news and he smiled a big smile and hugged me. My husband had a delayed reaction, but there have been lots of “I can’t live without you” moments. Plus we’ve agreed that he has to die first so there’s that. 😉

My appointment with my surgeon the following week was not so joyful. The physician’s assistant was awesome, and she told me how fabulous I looked and was happy with my numbers. The surgeon, Dr MacGillivray, doesn’t have the best personality. He knows his shit, which is what matters, but he did tell me that it’s possible the rest of my pancreas could still become cancerous, and we have to scan it each year to check on it, as well as my spleen to make sure that it doesn’t die. I asked, “Since I had precancer in my pancreas, what about the rest of my body?” But he couldn’t answer that, and it left me feeling bereft.

When I left that office, I ended up going to Holy Donut and eating a gorgeous gluten-free donut while walking around a park in Portland. At first, I was like, “Ok, Holly, just enjoy this delicious treat and the sunshine and the beautiful space.” And I did. And then I ended up angry eating the last half of it. I should have thrown part of it to the ducks, but I said, “Fuck it” and ate it. (These are delicious and large and expensive, so the thought of throwing away any of it seemed insane.)

Later that day I cried and cried with a dear friend about the whole situation. We talked about it and I had to just let all of that news settle. I had been on high, thinking I had dodged this big bullet, which I did, but then the surgeon was waiting for more rounds to shoot my way.

So what did I do? I texted Dr. Lauer. He reminded me of the major scans I had done in the spring that showed no cancer anywhere else and I didn’t have symptoms of other cancers. He told me that he’d let me know when to worry, but now wasn’t the time. 🙂

And so I’ve taken his advice. My job now is to heal. I have definitely been doing way too much–I was walking up to 2 miles at a time, and that would have been fine if I didn’t try and do other things during the day. But I did and this past weekend I was really sick. Naps helped but overall, I felt awful. Today, though, I started my day with a half mile walk, then went to work for a few hours. Came home to rest and worked some more but am able to take more breaks than I could at work. I’ll keep pecking away at it and do my best to get stronger.

I’m not sure what I’ll do with my newfound lease on life or wake-up call or tremendous gift. I don’t want to squander it, you know? Maybe it just means I keep going down the path I started before the surgery–doing more activities that make me happy and making my voice heard about issues that matter to me like LGBTQ+ rights and being pro-abortion and that I want to fight for a longer bereavement leave for people in this country. (Having a 3-day bereavement leave that most organizations “allow” is a slap in the face to every human being that has lost another human being.) Maybe it means cutting more people out of my life, or maybe it means letting even more in.

Whatever my “path forward” will be, I hope some of you will join me. Or who knows? Maybe I’ll join you instead. ❤

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Summer Months

June is a friggin’ minefield of grief. My birthday isn’t much fun anymore without my family. Father’s Day is typically sad, but I try to think and remember good thoughts about my Pop and we celebrate my husband, the father of my child. And today, June 20th, is my brother’s birthday. He should be 54 today and not still 49 like I am now.

Summer is just filled with all of these dates that I used to embrace and enjoy and now just dread. Today though? Today was just a little bit different.

A friend asked how I was, knowing that Father’s Day can suck, but then I told them about Phil’s birthday. I ended up recalling and telling some really fun stories of our childhood. Like the time when that wench of a bully who lived up the street came down to either play with me or be mean to me, and both my brother and sister ran her off, yelling at her and chasing her with their bikes.

Or how we used to swim in the brook out back, the one that our toilet actually flushed into. (I know, I know!) Hell, we swam downstream in this lovely little “swim hole” yet we also used to carry sticks so we could push the poop away while we swam. It was beautiful without the shit and occasional clumps of toilet paper.

It sounds so crazy, disgusting and unreal now, but it was fun!

I’m the little one on the car, Phil on the left and my sister, Bonnie on the right.

We certainly were not the Waltons, but rural life had its moments. Of course, there was also the alcoholic parent, the verbal and physical abuse, the fear of not knowing what you’ll find when you get home…like I said, we weren’t the Waltons. But honestly? I’m not sure I’d change much. I wish Phil had born a few years later, because he’d more than likely be alive right now. The technology just wasn’t great in 1968 and he was the only one born at that time with the heart problems he had, to live until the age of 49. No one else even came close. Imagine if he had been born in 1970?

I can’t do that to myself, though. Not tonight. Instead, I’ll just keep thinking of some of the great times we did have, and how Phil’s humor and laughter made everyone around him laugh until they nearly peed their pants.

Or that might just have been me. 😉

Love and miss you, big brother. ❤ Wishing you were here.