About My Mom

My mom died about three weeks ago. I originally thought I would have a better understanding of how I'm feeling three months later, but I don't. I still feel numb. I really loved my mom and I know I'm going to miss her.

I feel at peace with my Mom's death. Partly I'm relieved that she's no longer confined to a bed with a stomach tube. I'm relieved that her health will no longer create havoc in my sister's life or discord between all of my siblings. I'm relieved to not have the psychic burden of hearing that she's dead.

I accept that my mom has died in that she was 78 and her health was in long decline. I've said all of my good-byes to her and soaked up her stories. In November, I sat with her in the hospital and we sang every standard both of us knew; songs as old as "Pennies from Heaven" and as new as "Close to You."

Neither of my parents ever accepted the deaths of their parents very well. My dad would spend Father's Day holed up in the bedroom trying to sleep through to Monday. My mom, always affable when drunk, would sometimes wail late at night and cry for her mom and dad.

This is how unprocessed grief ruins us. We go on the lam from the hurt, and it makes us look over our shoulder.

But my understanding of death has changed, too. It honestly doesn't seem so bad any more. I was always afraid of it--more so after my father died. I thought I was next, for sure. I could never imagine how someone could want to die the way, I think, my grandfather did when his time was up.

My buddy Mike's atheistic take on death sums up to this: When I'm dead, it will be like before I was born. There was nothing bad, frightening, or dreadful about that time, so why should death be any different.

I'm only now starting to see his point. Discounting the idea of going to Hell, which has always seemed logically implausible to me, death is, at its worst, like going to sleep.

Sleep well, Mama. I hope to see you again.

Mom, 1928-2007

My mother died Sunday night. It occurred to me then how frightening the world is when your mother is no longer alive.

My mother was a source of grace. She knew every song on the radio and could sing it, well. She knew almost every correct answer on the TV game shows.

I could never stump my mom on a definition or a spelling of a word. She had an incredible capacity for language.

My mom and I didn't always agree or see eye-to-eye, but I always knew that she loved me, no matter what. That is an important gift.

My Mother's Last Stand

The doctor told my sister on Thursday night that if family wanted to come and see my mother before she died, now would be a good time. She had been asleep by then for 48 hours straight, fighting pneumonia and two other infections. By Friday morning, she was awake and able to recognize my sister and, later that night, she spoke, with difficulty, to my brother and another sister who had each traveled from different states to be by her side.

On Saturday morning, I thought she was coming out of this. Everyone now says she's not. She's dying.

It's difficult to understand why she's dying now. Over the last dozen years, she has starred in long-running series of personal medical dramas, starting with a Transient Ischemic Attack (TIA), a kind of temporary stroke that we noticed because the corner of her mouth started drooping one morning. By my wedding in 1999, she needed help going up steps, but was still able to dance with me.

Since then, it's been a long, steady decline in her physical capabilities slowed only by thorough doctoring and complicated Rx combinations. Since then, she's gone from cane to walker to wheelchair and back again. Since then, she's endured several stays in the hospital, has been in and out of physical therapy, on and off oxygen.

I worried about losing my mother for as long as I can remember. She used to drink to excess, buy cigarettes by the carton, avoid social interactions and exercise, and generously add butter and salt to almost anything she ate. Still, she's outlived her oldest son, one of her grandchildren, both her first and second husbands (the latter was my father), and my wife. She's had a tremendous will to live. I hope she still does.

A Cubic Foot of Memory Suspended in the Air

Castaic Lake, CA

I took Cinder to Battle Point Park last week. It was a rare sunny winter day. We walked around the park, I occasionally throwing the ball for her, but mostly just walking along. We saw high school kids playing lacrosse, joggers, and lazy geese who didn't fly any farther south. We wandered around the far edge of the park, up against its southern boundary fence, and cutting back across a field to where we had left the car, I walked into a smell identical to that of fishing at dawn with my father at Castaic Lake.

I walked out of the smell before I recognized what it was and paused, trying to figure out how a field in Washington during afternoon hours could smell so much like a distant time and space. It smelled like the location, but not the event. I didn't smell my father's cigarette, the oily Coppertone lotion, or the garlic cheese paste we used as bait. I retraced my steps, leading with my nose, trying to find that smell again. I walked back and forth; I walked in circles. I couldn't find it.

My stumbling search was interrupted by a child's voice. She was in a stroller pushed along the path by her mother. The girl was shouting something, testing out words. As they passed by, the little girl leaned out of the stroller, pointed at me, and said "Papa dead!"

I waited in the middle of the field for a few minutes in case there was a message coming from beyond, but nothing happened. Maybe what the girl really said was "Papa dog."

"We Are Created by Being Destroyed"

"Excuse me, do you know what time it is?" by Damiel

I was coming home one night last month from a church potluck when I heard an interview with the poet Franz Wright on the radio program Open Source. He was reading a poem called "Letter, January 1998," from his book Walking to Martha's Vineyard, which ended with the line, "We are created by being destroyed."

Church potlucks are about getting to know people better. In a situation like that, it's impossible not to have to explain the circumstances of Wendy's illness and death. It doesn't bother me to tell the story since now, in those circumstances, it's merely a string of facts. The irreducible pain doesn't come from those facts, but from her constant absence.

People ask, "So, what do you do." That's usually how it comes out. I am eager now for people who are getting to know me to know what's happened. This is who I am now. The answer to their question is, "I survive."

Each Death an Opportunity

Here's a hand-addressed personal letter I received last week:

Dear Mr. Hall

First, let me take a moment to offer my condolences on the passing of your loved one; Wendy Hall. While I know this can be a very emotionally sensitive period, I also understand you may be facing some serious decisions with which I might be able to assist you. The reason I am contacting you is often time real estate property must be sold in order to pay taxes, pay any outstanding liabilities and to pay the legitimate heirs.

Often, I buy real estate and other personal property found in estates. It is my understanding that you may have property available to purchase in the near future. If it is, I am interested in buying proerty in this area and would be interested in making you an offer. I'm sure at this time selling this property probably is not a priority for your family, but if in the future the heirs decide to sell, please call and I'll be happy to make an offer.

While I do not know your particular situation, I am prepared to do what is best for you and the estate. Some of the advantages I may be able to offer are: 1. I can buy the property in...[blah blah blah]

Life goes on. The guy is performing a necessary service that I'm sure some people are thankful for. But is he really prepared to do what's best for me and the estate?

That's what turns my stomach about this letter. He's prepared to do what's best for him, his kids, and his dinner table.

Making Light of Loss

For Shame!

I'm so very angry at this president. Tonight is the last straw. We need to rise up as a nation, with torches and pitchforks, and drive this monster out of our land. Here's why: Tonight he addressed a national TV audience and urged America to continue to back this wrong, corrupt, wasteful war. During his speech, he said this:

"I know that some of my decisions have led to terrible loss and not one of those decisions has been taken lightly."

So you furrowed your brow when your mistakes condemned thousands of Americans and tens of thousands of Iraqis to death. You also made light of those mistakes. On March 24, 2004, at a Radio and Television Correspondens' dinner, you presented slides of yourself looking under tables and out the windows of the Oval Office while commenting “Those weapons of mass destruction must be somewhere!” and “Nope, no weapons over there!”

For Shame!

The Pope is Dead

The pope died a week ago and the news coverage is finally dying down. My friend David talked on Thursday about his views on the Pope and the Catholic church, some of which I agree with. But as the Vietnamese said after Richard Nixon's death, "There are no enemies in death."

I disagreed with this Pope on some issues, agreed with him on others. His "Culture of Life" stance against condoms and birth control was horrifying in the face of AIDS, the third-world population explosion, and modern attitudes about women's reproductive rights, but at least it was consistent and predictable. The guy believed that this is what God wants. You just can't despise people on matters of faith. When you look at his overall career, you've got to admire a man who stood up to bullies (like the Soviets and George W. Bush) for what he thought was a good and noble cause. Besides, for all his admonitions for teens not to have sex and not to use contraception, there's a lot of evidence that shows they loved hearing the message but couldn't remember it on Saturday night.

But David also gripes about the coverage of his death, which I agree was mostly insipid and redundant. One thing that was nice to read was how he died. He refused to be taken back to the hospital, preferring to die right in his apartment. Various people he had worked with all these years came by for brief good-byes. He couldn't talk to them, but they all reported seeing recognition and love in his eyes for them.

It makes me think of similar death scenes, like that of Alan Ginsburg and Mark Twain. To go quietly, in your own bed: What a beautiful way to die.

A Third of the World Will Be Asleep

Wendy and I spent all weekend working on our basement room. We took almost everything out of there, fixed a problem where the drywall was wicking moisture up from the drainhole in the floor, put down a lot of plastic, and then painted the ceiling and walls. Wendy did most of the painting; I went out to Lowes and got a new rug, supplies to build her a work bench in the studio part of the room, and assorted other things. I got back and we painted until we ran out of paint. We finished Sunday afternoon and moved the couch back in, along with the TV and the coffee table. We decided to give the room a name, like the Bijou or the Orpheum.
At one point yesterday, when we were waiting for the paint to dry and we were soaking in the jacuzzi, I really felt afraid that all this comfort and luxury could be taken away from us. It can--by thieves, war, depression, sickness, death and a lot else. I thought of Jesus saying, "I will come like a thief in the night," as someone who will come and surprise us by what he takes away and less by what he brings. In a nuclear holocost, a third of the world will be asleep. I thought of the burden of waking loved ones up just to talk to them one more time before they're put forever asleep.
Don't shy away from this. Bad things, as well as good things, will happen in your life. Try your best to enjoy today and don't worry about tomorrow. You've endured every one until now, so there's no reason to believe you won't be able to endure the ones after now.

The Dinosaur Moment

I am feeling horribly depressed today. I wish I had more control over how I felt from time to time. It's sunny (a little warm), I didn't have any immediate difficulties at work, things are great at home--pretty much the same as yesterday, and yesterday was grand.

I think it's the overall uncertainty at work, combined with recent macroeconomic problems, that makes me fear for the future. David talked today about a "dinosaur moment," which is that feeling of doom headed right for you--much like the way the dinosaurs must have felt when they looked up and saw that big, dark spot in the sky.

And we're buying a boat, which is a good but very scary thing. Part of me believes that it will lead to my death, my bankruptcy, or both. I always feel that way before a big purchase--even though this purchase is on the scale of, say, a nice two-week vacation or a cruise to Alaska. After I buy it and it starts gently rusting on my driveway, I suppose I'll feel better about things.

Alright, I won't write any more today since I'm just wallowing. I'm going to relax on the ferry and enjoy this nice weather. Everything will work out.

Timbo, RIP

Another death: Timothy White, the editor-in-chief of Billboard, at 50. He died of a heart attack, just like his father did. He prided himself on keeping fit, but in the end, he only lived a year longer than his father. Stuff like that makes me wonder how much of our futures are set in stone. Will I end up with the same health probgems as my parents or granddarents?

My Fatherless Father's Day

It's difficult not to let the summer slip away from me. I'm putting in a lot of hours at work again, and when I'm not there it seems like I'm doing some project around the house. Right now we're working on a fence for the side yard that will keep Cinder from chasing the neighbor's car and getting dashed beneath their tires again. We're taking photos of the work and I'm keeping a little log (well, okay, it's still inside my head). I'm planning to make a webpage for the site.

Last Sunday was Father's Day, and it was pretty difficult for me. I wondered beforehand how I would react. I was in the driveway cutting wood for the fence posts when a story came on the radio promoting a new book of essays by famous people on the subject "What Baseball Means to Me." Of course, the day before the holiday, they kept talking about the bonds between father and son forged during baseball games, and how this would make a perfect present. I tried to keep working, but I just stood there with the saw in my hand, weeping into my safety goggles. Wendy told me to sit down and let it all out and I did…for about twenty minutes. I guess the odd thing about grieving is that there is no straight path to acceptance. A couple days before, I felt like I was adjusted to him being dead, but then again on Saturday it felt like the most unbelievable injustice. I had tried to pre-accept his death. When he was sick but still alive, I tried to keep consciously remind myself of the fact that he was still alive and that I was fortunate that he was since two friends had already lost their fathers.

Introducing Poor Yorick's Almanack

So, a name change, for several reasons. First, I was dissatisfied with the country-fried sound of "Jiggle the Handle". I thought it sounded too much like the punchline of a Jeff Foxworthy joke. I used it because that is what came to mind right before I started this whole stinking endeavor. Second, Wendy cut my hair this morning very close...so close, in fact, that in the mirror I could see the clear detail of my skull underneath. I immediately thought of Hamlet act 5, scene 1, upon finding his dead friend's long-ago-buried skull:

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is!

I'm not a huge Shakespear fan, but I really liked that line because it's crucial to Hamlet's understanding of life and death and of time passing...something I am considering a lot these days. The name also comes from Ben Franklin's Poor Richard's Almanack, a work of which I have minimal yet pleasant experience. Anyway, it's just a name change.

Today is better. The sun is out and the sky is blue (the world is beautiful, and so are you dear Prudence). I think that lately I've been suffering from some seasonal depression, and that it's difficult for me to recognize being depressed because I don't so much feel sad as I feel vaguely dissatisfied, fearful, and cranky. I think with just the sun being out, I'm a lot better off. Wendy and I are about to go out for a walk on the beach to fully explore its vitamin-E charms.

One thing I want to remember for later, though, is an article I read in this morning's Seattle Times, about a warm, evil wind that is the bane of people living in western Austria.