Category Archives: Grief

You Undoubtedly Noticed

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Weather in the Tries: 
Cold

You Undoubtedly Noticed:
I didn’t post a blog last week! I was with a couple of friends who died, one on Wednesday and the other on Monday. They weren’t close friends, but they were friends.

And then I read an article in (I think) the London Times by a man who was nine years old when his mother was diagnosed with cancer. I don’t remember what happened to Dad, but he wasn’t there. And this young boy became a primary care giver for his mom. She died when he was thirteen. He would take care of her in the morning, before school, and rush home to take care of her after school. He did everything, and when the pain got to be too much, she was taken to a psychiatric hospital, where she spent her last weeks without pain meds, and he would come buy every day on his way home from school to be with her, to help, to care.

He is a politician now, and when the vote comes up for medical assistance in dying in the UK, he will vote against it, because he thinks every child should have the same opportunities he did, to care for his dying parent, like he did. Do watch and listen to them scream in agony. Have you ever heard such selfish drivel? Not once did he think that maybe his mom was in enough pain she would have liked to exit earlier and to spare him the agony of watching her die. Maybe he’s a sadist in disguise.

I don’t know, but I sure think he was being mighty selfish. There was another letter a few days later, by a woman, a priest of her church, I forgot her title. Her letter was a little different, but it came down to suffering is good for the soul and I guess her god likes his humans to suffer now so they won’t suffer later. 

The subject of death came up in our Death Café this afternoon. (now is that a co inky dink? or what? /snort/) and I mentioned that in this state we have Death With Dignity for those who want it and qualify. Yes, people have to jump through hoops to partake, and every effort is exerted to be sure it is what the client wants, and 2 prescribers, one a doctor, agree. And they have the right to say, “No.” at any time. One person asked me if Death With Dignity was euthanasia. Another gal said no, euthanasia is what we do for our pets. I thought that was a good response and agreed with her, and gave the patrons of our café two sites to go to for information.

I think about Death With Dignity like I think about Abortion—if you don’t want either one, don’t have it—but don’t force your god’s peccadilloes down other people’s throats. They have enough to deal with, with their gods and his peccadilloes.

So, that’s why I didn’t write a post last week. I was grieving for two new friends I’d made who died before we could even have an argument, and then read those two letters. I was in no mood to write. Anything. Deal with it.

This Week’s Photo:
Took this photo two years ago this week, at Sheryl’s home. Thomas loved this tree, and could no longer see it as it was in the back of the house, and we couldn’t get him there, so I took the picture so he could enjoy the vibrant reds second hand.

from the desk of the mighty chihuahua;
it’s really cold out, and dark. the sun doesn’t come up until after 7 in the morning, and goes away before I can eat dinner and go for my afternoon walk. my human says another month and the days will start to get longer. I think the sun should be out half the time and the stars the other half. but I’m only a dog, and I don’t get no respect.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Auntie Lenora Presents: The Toddler in Chief!

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Weather in the Tries: We had a moderately cool week. All temps were double digit! However, today, Monday, is on the schedule to be 102, and then a week of mostly low 80s. There will be one dip into high 70s. After our couple of days of nearly unbreathable smoke-filled days, we’ve gone back to Good or Moderate Air Quality. 

What an odd week has just gone by. And yet one more reminder I’m still grieving. I was late for an appointment. I’d written down it was at 10:15, which was correct. However, every time I looked at it, I saw 10:45. I always get to those appointments early, and I was there at 10:30, and they marked me as ‘missed’ and I couldn’t be worked in later in the morning. To say I was confused would be to word it mildly. 

A couple days later my Grief Group met, and when I told them, they smiled knowingly, and the Facilitator told me about Grief Brain. Apparently, it’s a thing, and Boy Howdy! did I have a case of it. Then I got to thinking, took two aspirin, and realized it’s not yet three months since he died.

Fortunately, there was a great show on the telly Thursday night that took my mind off things for a while. Like many people, I watched what there was to see of the arrest and booking of the OP. And then the county released his mug shot and I had one of the best laughs I’ve had in a while. Not that the arrest and booking of a President is funny—it isn’t, it’s really a sad commentary on us—but the shot is priceless. Reminds me of when my kids were toddlers and if  told to do something they didn’t want to do. “NO! I DON’T WANNA AND YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!!!

I DESERVE TO BE PRESIDENT! IT’S THE ONLY WAY I CAN STAY OUT OF JAIL AND I AM YOUR RETRIBUTION! (I’m not at all sure what that means, really. I don’t need retribution for anything. Do you?)

How sad for him. He wants to look threatening and strong and will never surrender (though he did surrender, was arrested, booked, and released on bond!) and he looks like a petulant toddler throwing a temper tantrum. I’m surprised he hasn’t taken the old Don’t Tread on Me! rattlesnake and photoshopped his mug to that.

Since I have a genuine photo of the Hot Line to Jesus, I’ll post it, in case the OP needs it. Or anyone else. I know the photo is genuine, because I took it, I did not swipe it off the web 😉

Actually, the sign was in the mall where I used to walk in the winter. It was in the food court where they were installing a new pizza place, and Jesus was the general manager, and was looking for a few good workers. I apologize for the ugly crossing out of the area code, but it is, or at least was, a working number and I couldn’t figure out how to change any of them to a fictional number.

The book, Saying Goodbye to Thomas is coming along very nicely. There are 28 poems in it. There were 27, but I took a poetry workshop on Saturday, and wrote one more. The book (sans the new poem) is out to several people who asked to read it. I hope to have everyone’s comments back in a couple of weeks so I can wind it up and start sending it out. Sheryl has sent me some very nice photos of Thomas, his niece has given permission to use one her mother, his sister, took several years ago, I have one taken during the toast before the Final Cocktail where he’s happy and smiling. I now have seven shots of Thomas, I hope I can get them arranged on the page like I want. And a possible couple more coming from a friend in Arkansas.

And, I have submitted his novelette to a publisher. Fingers crossed.

The Big Chihuahua is liking this cooler weather a lot. Still warm enough for a Desert Dog, but not so hot he melts. He still dives under the summer quilt on my bed at night, but before long he’s topside. At least until about 4a.m. when he gets cool.

On Having Thomas in My Life

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On Tuesday (that would be tomorrow), Thomas will be dead for 5 weeks. I am so fortunate to have had him in my life, and he was so fortunate he maintained his sense of humor until the very end. If all the people who wanted to be there to cheer him on, to wish him well, could have been there, the house would have split at the seams. Literally.

I am reminded of an old blog of mine, where I asked Are You Adoptable? Thomas was not only adoptable, but he was adopted by many people. More women than men, I think, but that’s okay. In fact, it’s not surprising at all. Women liked Thomas. He made us feel important when we were with him, he made us laugh, he brought all the romantic thoughts to the fore. When he was with a woman, he valued her.

When Thomas died, he was not alone—and yet he was. There were close friends there, and many close friends who wanted to be there. People wanted to be with Thomas. He made everyone important. He listened to them. He laughed with them. He was interested in them. But birthing and dying are two of life’s most momentous times, and we must travel that path alone. True, Mom isn’t far away on the former, and loved ones can hold you for the latter, but you still gotta do the heavy part all by yourself alone.

Most, dare I say all, of my good friends are adoptable. They like and love me, and I like and love them. I wish I could say ALL of my friends, but I have a couple of friends who aren’t adoptable. They whine, they are lonely, they are sitting in a corner of their house just waiting to die. That’s what old people do; isn’t it? Just sit in the dark and wait to die. Sigh.

I think I was very lucky when I was in my mid 30s. I went into a deep funk. Really deep. I started reading self-help books, and the two I remember, that really helped me was My Mother/My Self by Nancy Friday and another one the name of which eludes me, as does the author, but on the cover was a girl with her arms in the air, and she was happy. I did the exercises, well, most of them. The primal scream I didn’t. But I realized, I really had to change. Of course, the big thing that scared me no end about the self-help books is once I got to know myself, well, what if I didn’t like myself? That’s a scary thought, or at least it was for me. | Today is Friday, but my friend, Meg just gave me the title of the second book I couldn’t remember: Born to Win. Marvelous book, and marvelous friends.|

But I figured I really needed to do something, so I did it. And I figured out I was pretty okay, just needed some tweaking here and there. I became happier, I complained less, in effect, without realizing it, I became adoptable. It was a long road, but I had friends who saw the end much clearer than I, and they helped and encouraged, and ya know what? It is a process, and it’s ongoing. I figure as long as I have questions, I can still search out the answers. 

Thomas and I had several discussions about what happens when we die? Nobody knows. People of faith are sure theyknow and they will go to their heaven to be with their God. Far be it from me to tell them otherwise. If it makes their dying easier, by all means they should believe it. I waffle. Since no one has come back with irrefutable proof of life after life, I figure my ideas are as good as anyone else’s. When Mole asked Raven Roshi what happens at the moment of death, Raven Roshi thought then said, “I give away all my belongings.” (From Zen Master Raven, sayings and doings of a wise bird, by Robert Aitken.) At the moment of death we give away all our clothes, our books, our computers, our wants, our desires, our anger, our love—we give them all away. We no longer need or want them.

As I said, I waffle. I hope my Ancestors will call me to them. But I really hope Schrodinger had it right, that we are on this planet both alive and dead until (God?) observed and we must decide. If dead, do we slide into another universe? Do we just die, everything goes dark, and that’s it? Buddhists believe in reincarnation. I’d like that if I can come back as a spoiled lap cat!

Will I see my family again, Thomas again? I don’t know. I can hope, I suppose I could have faith, but I won’t have proof until I’m dead. And then it won’t really matter, because I won’t be able to come back and tell any of you about my last adventure. Bummer. And I’d so like to share with y’all.

I only had Thomas in my life for about 5 years, but I am so fortunate to have had those years, and to have been introduced to some of his friends and family, so we can all keep him in our lives when we get together. I can truly say I am a better person for having him in my life. I have deleted his email from my contact list, but not his name. As long as he is remembered by someone, he isn’t truly gone. I’m still keeping my EBOC in my computer, as well as my heart.

If you missed my earlier blog, “Are You Adoptable?” or have forgotten it, and would like to read it, drop me a note and I’ll send you a copy.

Addendum: I wrote this over a week ago, then my hard drive crashed. I mistakenly thought my computer had suffered the lonesome blues while I was gone so long and had invited some outlaw bikers in to keep her company, and the not only trashed the place, but left her full of viruses, malwares and a trojan or two. Now, I have apologized hugely, because she was merely trying to keep the hard drive from dying. One needs to treat their computers nicely. It looks like the only thing I lost of great import is all my passwords. Oh, well…

Anyhow I have her back, and today is Tuesday, the 11th of July. On Sunday, the 9th, I was back on the Dark Side for the Celebration of Life we held for Thomas. It was beautiful. The sun came out, it was warm, and 50 people were there. I will post a couple of readings in the Spoken Word later today, or possibly tomorrow. As soon as I can remember how. 😉 And postings should begin, again, on Mondays.

This was the wine. The beer was in a washtub and a cooler or two, all filled with ice. Do you see the little ceramic shot glasses in the basket at the upper left corner? Those were made by Sheryl’s sister, Lori, who is a potter. She made 50. And the bottle of booze next to the wine is a bottle of Bullet Rye. When everyone had finished telling their Thomas Tales, we all got a shot glass, a shot of Rye, and toasted Thomas. The shot glass then went home with us. Thanks Lori for the wonderful memento, and thanks Sheryl for giving Thomas a beautiful place to live out his remaining time. I am so grateful to have met you, and Lori, and Matthew, Andrew, Olga, all the kids, two-legged and four-legged, and to have been so lovingly accepted by all.

Some of the people who came. They are looking forward to someone who is speaking. I am standing in the back, the short one with a black tee that says Metaphors Be With You that I bought in honor of Thomas, and holding the poem he wrote the morning after his sister, Sally, died. I managed to get through it and sit before I lost it. Photo is by: MarySue Finley

An elephant ear (baby, still growing) and a huge drop of water, either from a bit of rain, dew, or sprinkler. Not sure which. Probably a good tablespoon of water. It’s growing in MarySue’s yard.

Thanks for your patience, and hugs all around.

Funny thing, this thing called grief

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Weather in the Tries. Gonna be more hot than not. But the nights will cool some. Mostly in the mid-high 80s with a couple forays into the 90s. The nights will be, mostly, mid 50s with a couple forays into the 60s. I think it’s summer, yes?

Funny thing, this thing called grief. It’s been almost two weeks since Thomas died. I’ve lost people I’ve loved before him—parents, friends. I’m a reader, ya know? Except for reading War Dances, by Sherman Alexie, to Thomas I haven’t read a book in weeks, probably months. I can’t concentrate long enough to hold the plot in my wee tiny brain. I watch the news. I don’t have to pay attention, it’s just there. 

I’ll try to get a review written and posted about War Dances, but in the meantime, get thee to a bookstore and get a copy. It’s a collection of very well written stories (fiction) and poetry. Highly recommend the book.

Housemate Dan woke me the other morning at the ungodly hour of 6am to inform me he’d called 9-1-1 to take him to the hospital. I brought him home after about 3 days. I don’t hurt, but I don’t not hurt. Does that make sense? 

For years, I ended every night with a text to Thomas. Every morning was an email and as he lost the ability to easily read them, texts, and then texts to both Thomas and Sheryl so she could read them to him. Of course, when I was there, I didn’t do either. But I’m home now, and it feels very, very odd not to be able to text/email him. It’s hard trying to sleep when my routine is upset. I would read a bit, then send him a text. Now I’m not reading, nor sending him a text.

I think I’m mostly through with the crying, but I find myself sitting and staring at nothing. It turns out the meds I’m on for my neuropathy is also known as Elavil—an anti-depressant. Which explains why I put on wait since starting them. Today, I’ll start looking for a support group for hospice caregivers.  

I learned a long time ago that when something happens and you grieve, GRIEVE. If you put it off, for whatever reason, Grief will wait in the back room of your brain/heart for a while. And when you think you got away without grieving, it strikes, at the most inopportune time. So I’m grieving. But it’s different than any I’ve gone through before. I’m not crying so much, but I’m sitting and staring. At something. Sammy must remind me to feed him and to take him for a walk. But he’s great at snuggling and letting me know I may be a bit absent minded, but I’m still his Person of Choice 😉

I did find one thing to read, that was pretty interesting. The full 49-page Indictment of the OP. I won’t ‘fess up to the amount of time it took to read it, how often I started over, etc. IF you haven’t read it, I strongly urge you to read it. It’s written in English instead of Legalese, and is pretty interesting, no matter which side of the aisle you prefer.

As grieving as I am, I’m still laughing. It’s weird, really. So feel free to send me jokes and funny things.

I took this shot of Thomas last August.

And this is wy I don’t dust. It could be Thomas. Or Tashiko. Or Mom or Daddy. Or…

Having yourself a great week, and I’ll see you next Monday, same Bat Time, same Bat Channel.

This was scheduled to go out a tad after midnight, and this morning my computer tells me the schedule was missed. Probably a good thing. I had a typo in the paragraph above that I missed in the proof cycle. I wished everyone a “…great wee,..” and though I wish you all that, too, I really am wishing you a great week. sigh.

I’m Back!

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In Memoriam
Thomas Leo “Walks Easy” Hubbard
15 June 1938 — 30 May 2023
Aho!

I came home Thursday after having the great honor to be with my EBOC (elder brother of choice) the last weeks and months of his life. We had a lot in common, we are both part Native American, though neither of us is registered with our Tribe. We both have Native names, Thomas Walks Easy and Lenora Rain Dancing Feet—we both took our names, they hold great meaning for both of us, but no Tribe bestowed them. We are both writers, he was a musician and I’m a listener. We are both artistic—he sketched people, made cartoons, was a silver-smith—I love silver jewelry, I quilt, I sometimes paint, I take way too many photos. He was very generous with his help, advice, his being.  

Thomas was diagnosed with ALS about the time we met each other, five or so years ago. It takes a lot of energy to die, and we decided to become siblings of choice rather than enter into a romantic relationship. That’s not to say we didn’t love each other, but it was a sibling sort of love. And it was an honor to be with him, and his partner, Sheryl.

And, of course, because he’s my brother, I agreed to be his Literary Executrix. When I’m through crying, I’ll get to work. He’s got lots of stuff to print, sort, submit, etc.

I’m of the idea that the more we love, the more we hurt. There are a lot of people out there hurting now, who truly loved that man. 

If you, or someone you know and love is facing the end of life, I heartily recommend your local Hospice. They were so good not just to Thomas, but to his caregivers, too. He was able to stay in his home until the end, and did not have to go into a new and different space, with new and strange people.

He spent the last several months wearing either nightshirts or tee’s with the back sliced up to the neckband so he was comfortable, but we were able to get him dressed for his last day, and we turned his bed so he could see the back yard without having to turn his head. His caregiver, Mikeshia, got him dressed in his favorite “pineapple” shirt and a pair of slacks.

This is Sheryl, sharing something humorous with Thomas. Probably many of the comments from his last Facebook post that morning. By bedtime Tuesday, I believe Sheryl told me there were over 70 comments in response.

These are “Bonus Sons,”–Sheryl’s two boys, who brought a very good bottle of Rye for us to toast the successful downing of the pre-meds (anti-nausea and tranquilizer). We told stories, shared many laughs, for the intervening hour before the final meds. Sheryl is sitting the chair, and Keshia is standing in the background.

And here he is sporting his pineapple shirt and drinking his toast of rye. He couldn’t lift his hands to hold a drink, so he had to drink everything through a straw–coffee, water, juice, beer, wine, soda, Rye.

I put my phone on the pillow next to his head, and this is the view he had. The bouquet of wildflowers on the right was from one of his great friends, Anna, and the roses from one of his caregivers, Kini. On the table is the bottle of Rye, and a few of his coffeehouse napkin drawings.

Keshia, his primary caregiver. He had three, not counting Sheryl and me–Keshia, Kini, and Abike. They were all super, and so caring and patient (and not just with Thomas, but also with me!) and loving.

These are more of his napkin art. The bottle of Rye on the left, and a quilt I made and gave Thomas shortly after we met. And I just received this from one of his friends:
“Half the sketches Thomas drew in his later years were studies of himself. In moods of mild pleasure, curiosity, anger, bafflement. He wasn’t a moody sort, and didn’t use a mirror, or catch his reflection in the coffee shop window, didn’t need either one. The inner reflection of the felt life got to be plenty by then.” –Paul Hunter

Sheryl took this picture of Thomas, with me in the corner. I held his left hand after he took the final meds, and stroked his arm until the end. They say that people in a coma can hear others speak, so I thought maybe he would feel the human warmth of touch as he walked that final path, and know he was not alone for the whole journey.

After he died, we all went out and cut a flower from Sheryl’s Garden to place on him. When the guys from the Funeral home came, they left the blanket, but took the flowers, and instead of putting him in a black body bag for our last goodbye, they covered him in a soft blue and white quilt.

And here I am surrounded by Keshia and Sheryl. They helped me pack up Big Red, and I came home.

Thomas said he wanted to die when he finished the first draft of his memoir. And that’s what he did. As Frank Sinatra sang, he did it his way. He gave away all his belongings, his woulda’s, coulda’s, shoulda’s, art, everything at 2:55 Tuesday afternoon. He gave away all the pains and hurts and frustrations at 2:55 Tuesday afternoon. He gave away his memoir, to me, to finish with Sheryl’s help. 

I am especially thankful that we have Death with Dignity in our state. I know not everyone wants to take advantage of it, and they don’t need to do so, but Thomas was so tired of the constant pain, of being totally dependent on someone else—ear itch? call someone to scratch it. Nose itch? back itch? Want a sip of coffee? Call someone to hold it for you. Eat? Yeah. His legs were useless, his arms were useless, the muscles of his core were gone, so were his back and neck muscles (do you have any idea how much a head weighs when it’s full of skull, brain, words, etc.?) If he needed to type, he had to dictate, and his facial muscles were beginning to go, and the computer didn’t always understand him, and then he’d get frustrated. It’s good the computer didn’t understand what he was saying as he yelled at it. 

MedPage Today has an interesting article—Dying With Dignity: A Look at the Advantages of the Medicare Hospice Benefit—the program is both cost-effective and compassionate. I strongly suggest you read it if you have any questions about Death With Dignity. 

Thank you for your patience with your Old Auntie, while she was gone. It’s good to be home, though there is more than a little pain involved. One of the super nice, wonderful things, is some time ago, my Ol’ Same gifted me with some very nice soap and a travel tin. I used them both on this trip. Thank you, Ol’ Same. You and your gift brought many smiles.

Somehow, one of Thomas’s tee shirts ended up in my suitcase. It’s bright red, short sleeved, and has a pocket. I’m told he loved this shirt and liked to wear it on Tuesdays (the day he died). No one has confessed they put it in my suitcase, but I’ve worn it all day for a couple of days. Like having a Thomas Hug all day long. Maybe his ghost put it there?

Walk Easy, 
my brother.
Sing and dance
live and laugh,
run and play
now that you can,
with our Ancestors.
Walk Easy,
my beloved elder brother.