Grieving 102

 There are grieving lessons that I've learned over the years. I don't mean the stages of grief or any of the psychological--numerous as they are--explanations of how each person handles grief differently and acceptance of these aspects of life that have no escape. No. I'm referring to the lessons about the difference between death of a loved one after long (or short) convalescence and the death of someone you love that strikes straight out of the blue. Surprise. You didn't see this one coming, did you? 

I didn't. Strange thing is that death was a subject we talked about frequently. The "we" I'm referring to is me and my neighbor, Milena. She made her exit sometime between last Sunday evening and Tuesday afternoon--when I received a desperate call from her cousin asking me to do a wellness check. There was a problem however. I informed her that I was in Mexico but would take steps to get one or more of my fellow HOA board members back in Atlanta to check in on her. Had I been there, I'd have skipped this formality as I had a key to her unit as a friend--and not one of her condominium board representatives. Protocol decided what happened after. Both of my neighbors and fellow board members knocked and checked windows but did not enter. Instead they called the police--which was the absolute right thing to do. The police found her deceased. Her faithful companion and love of her life--KiKi--was by her side. The police took the dog to animal control and my friend's body was removed by paramedics about an hour later, so I'm told.

We bought our condo in November of 2021. We were drawn to the in-city seclusion of our building...small by condo standards, only 36 units. We fell in love with the structure immediately and were so pleased when our offer was accepted. Moving took place over the months of October and November and by December, we were getting to know neighbors. We met and engaged with several and got to know them by name. Everyone was extremely kind and helpful. During the month of December, we noticed a lovely young lady walking a massive friendly dog several times back and forth on our floor corridor. We quickly learned the names Milena and KiKi--person and dog, respectively. Milena, young enough to be my daughter, was an interior designer and was skilled at her profession. She was an engaging young woman with kind eyes that belied wisdom far beyond her years. Her smile was infectious and her love for her dog was rekindling a feeling in me that I hadn't felt since we'd lost our dog Eva. It was only a matter of time before I was happily dog-sitting KiKi and getting to know Milena (who everyone else had referred to as Mimi) better than anyone I'd met in Atlanta since we'd arrived in 2018. It does seem to be true that there are those individuals we connect with during this short life on a spiritual level and I know she was one of them. She wasn't just my angel in the ensuing months, years. She was also someone's daughter and someone's cousin and someone's lover. She didn't belong to me. She belonged to the universe. She was the free spirit I always wanted to be. Okay, that maybe I once was. I really can count on one hand how many people had affected me this way through the years. But there it was. A connection! A rare one!

I got to know her so well in the months that followed. She told me everything as I did her...no holding back with no fear of recrimination or judgement from the other. I told her secrets and she told me secrets...none that I'd ever share to a public blog. Just know that they were personal and that she trusted me--as I did her. My husband and I adopted our dog from a shelter in December of 2022. Milena had spent Thanksgiving in Atlanta with us over the holiday and, as always, the subject came up. It was just a matter of time before we'd have the joy of a rescue beside us. KiKi and Frida became quick friends but there was always an underlying jealousy since KiKi was convinced that I was her property. That Thanksgiving, Milena actually ate some of my turkey taking a break from her usually strict vegetarian diet. During 2023, she spent a few months in Florida as her unit was refurbished and repaired from a water pipe burst that happened during a cold snap over Christmas. I was tasked with watering her plants but I missed her. I celebrated her return with more frequent visiting and outings to restaurants and engagements. I was thrilled that she chose to come with our group for my birthday. It was special to have her there. We went to a speakeasy and all of us ended up talking metaphysics over drinks. She picked up the tab as a birthday gift to me. That's who she was. As flawed as our egos are, she shined from within and brought joy to my life. I don't know how to be grateful for that. And I don't know how to grieve that. I don't know.

My current belief system--or the one I'm most attracted to--tells me that we are not bodies. In fact, we never were until some tiny, mad idea made all this up. We are eternal. Perfect. Nothing but Love. Our bodies are piles of dust at some point. Where does the energy go?

When I last visited Milena, we shared some wine at my unit and talked and it just felt so good to be with her. I was grateful even though my stay in Atlanta was just a week. I told her that I'd just read an online article about the psychology behind allowing the pet of a deceased owner to view the dead body of the deceased and spend some time with it. The sole reason for this is that the pet is able to sense death and if they are not allowed to see the body, they will believe the owner had deserted them. That was the gist of the article. I was like "What do you think of that?" She spent no time thinking about her answer and enthusiastically said, "It makes TOTAL sense!" We talked of many other things that evening but this part of the conversation still haunts me for obvious reasons. One of our last text exchanges referred to the anniversary of Frida's adoption. I sent her a pic taken at the shelter. I captioned it "We always imagine she's smiling and thinking 'holy fuck! I've got gays! How lucky can you get?'"  She responded with a "haha" click and then this: "She is so lucky!! Everyone is smiling in that pic. What a beautiful family you make." I spoke with her just a few times after that but we always ended our calls with "love you and miss you" so I know those were the last words I ever said to her. I love you, Milena...and I miss you. 

(with KiKi on one of our first dogs dates)

(on an excursion to the Atlanta Botanical Garden)

(a summer gathering of our condo community...sangria summer madness)

(our little family of smiles)

Adios...For Now!

We arrived in Monterrey (Nuevo León, Mexico) a little over a week ago and to say I'm overwhelmed might be an understatement. Despite previous visits to various states in Mexico (as a tourist) nothing can prepare a Spanish language deficient gringo like myself for an extended stay. It is a great benefit that my husband's first language is Spanish. Otherwise, I'd be lost.

There's no telling how long we'll be here. I am hoping that it will be long enough--for my sake--to become fully immersed and at least understand a bit more than I do now. There are lots of benefits to being here aside from the cultural intrigue and change of physical scenery. I hope to write more about both items moving forward. For now, I'll just say "welcome to our adventure" and stay tuned. It's definitely going to be an interesting journey!

Before my search for perfect tamales commences, I'll share some insights about learning another language...and what teaching English to non-English speakers has taught me through all these years as an ESOL instructor. First, never disparage anyone for speaking broken English when they are trying to communicate with you. Think about this. In how many languages are you fluent? The mere fact that someone is trying to communicate with you in your language is respectful and deserves to be honored--not disparaged. Second, exercise patience and put on your "teacher" hat (even if you aren't officially recognized as one--we're all teachers) if the person trying to communicate with you is struggling. It will be greatly appreciated. If you can't communicate with simple words in their language, there's always Google Translate and several other helpful apps. Third, use the experience as an opportunity to learn something about another language and culture that is different than yours. It's true that if the predominant language in a country is something other than your own, assimilation is expected and often necessary. However, there are many factors to consider when teaching: educational level in the speaker's experience, age of the speaker (yes, I'm perfect proof that it's more difficult to learn at an advanced age--but not impossible), learners environment (many speakers are more comfortable if they've found a community where their first language is spoken predominantly--therefore making it less necessary to learn) and the personality of the learner. If one is shy and introverted in one's own language, it stands to reason that it will only be amplified while taking on the immensity of tackling a new language. And my last piece of advice that I hope to model myself while attempting to learn Spanish...have fun. Laughter is the universal language. Sometime, the confusion and mistakes can actually be funny. Use this humor to lighten the experience. 

Wish me luck as I embark on becoming a student...at fifty-eight years of age! I hope I can find some patient teachers!

Mother's Day

 The memory of my childhood colds, sore throats, measles and upset tummies are always accompanied by the warmth of a constant presence throughout and that presence is my mother. I wasn't singled out for this warmth as the youngest of five...but I was the last recipient of that gift which was never appreciated in its time. I was, however, reminded of it early in the summer of 2016.

By that time, I was caregiver to my then 93 year-old mother. My father had passed away in 2013. I was living in Texas then and the thought of mom continuing on in the large home she shared with my father for close to sixty years was becoming less of a thought and more of a worry. Later that year, I moved to Virginia with hopes that mom would decide to sell the house and move in with me as her primary caregiver. She made the decision entirely on her own and, by April of 2014, we had settled into a nice little place just blocks from my sister Amy's house in Richmond. Mom was slower by then. At 91, her arthritis, hearing and vision were giving her still very sharp mind a run for its money. Still, it was an honor to care for her as I had been living in Texas for close to thirty years and our visits within the intervening years were never long enough. I was the only child who wasn't married. Nor was I saddled with children. We began a very lovely relationship as one adult to another but I often still felt like her baby. It was the singular honor of my lifetime to fulfill the role of caregiver to my aging mother. I wouldn't trade the years that followed for all the riches of the world.

But things changed drastically in 2016. By that time, I had finally married and mom now had two caregivers who lived with her as my husband became part of the family. We had been married less than an entire year when I began to have a recurrence of the diverticulitis that had started bothering me while still living in Texas. The pain became so significant that we had to visit the ER during an excruciating flare-up which left me doubled over in pain. The bad news revealed on Xray was critical: a perforated colon. Surgery would be required. And soon. The surgery was performed on March 31 and I was told that I would be in the surgical recovery unit for a week or so with the remaining recuperation time at home. As I was healing from what was at the time laparoscopic sigmoid colon resection, on April 7 I became acutely ill and was going into septic shock. I was eventually rushed into emergency surgery where I underwent radical resection and abdominal washout. I was then transferred to the Intensive Care Unit where I recovered initially but required two additional surgeries as there was fluid collection and a colon fistula. 

The following weeks turned into months of surgical recovery in the hospital and I was eventually discharged on June 10. The prolonged recovery would continue at home--but now the caregiver roles were reversed. With my husband at work during the day, mom became my caregiver and I suddenly became that shy, tempestuous child who took great comfort in her closeness--because I knew that she would protect and care for me. By this time, mom had just turned 93 and I honestly believe I healed because of her presence. As the new school year began, I was able to return to my teaching position and the worst days of my physical ordeal were largely behind me.

Unfortunately, for mom, things were getting physically worse. As her health declined, I found myself helpless to make things better for her. Despite telling myself repeatedly that we'd had two wonderful years together, there was nothing I could do to take us back to that first year or remove the hardships that began with my surgery. Mom hated Facebook but, with the exception of my journals, social media is the only place I can return for a photographic journey through the best of our three and a half years together during the twilight of her life. I expected her to live to 100. 

Our last Mother's Day together was in 2017. Eduardo and I prepared a lovely breakfast for her and she enjoyed our company as she opened her presents and gifts. She was always grateful for all of her blessings. I wish I could say the same for myself. She passed away in January of 2018. By then, she was in hospice care with my sister and her husband in Maryland. I made it in time to say my farewell but all I could think about was the fact that I would never again experience the profound care of a mother who loves with every single ounce of her being. I make peace with myself on these "motherless" Mother's Days by looking at the images of our short twilight journey and telling myself that many others aren't as blessed. It helps...but what I really want to do is give her a hug and tell her I love her.

Happy Mother's Day, mom. 

(mom visiting me at the hospital after the first surgery. April, 2016)

(mom at the tender age of 92...still baking cakes. This one was for my 50th birthday)

(Mother's Day, 2017--would be mom's last)

(a sign to greet her in the morning)

(my favorite...mom in Chicago, 1944)

Dead People

 A few days ago I picked up my newish journal (I finished the old one while still in California as September shifted to October) and settled in with it on our sunny lanai for an hour or so. I had to change pens halfway through my writing because favorite pens always run out of ink when I'm on a roll. My thoughts were racing as usual and there were constant reminders that my longhand skills were not what they used to be. Still, despite numerous interruptions, I was able to generate a piece of writing that absolutely made me feel better--once I got those thoughts out of me and onto the ruled sheets of my newest friend and therapist. I thought for a moment, journals have saved my life. Was I being dramatic? The thought had some resonance and I accepted it despite the drama. I moved into the rest of my day feeling like I'd had a breakthrough therapy session. And it was free. 

I've stated before--within the context of this blog that I write things in my journal--intensely personal things--that I wouldn't even think of releasing into the blogosphere (do they even still use that term?) or sharing to the general public. But my last entry here was deeply personal and up to the moment it was shared, very private. It felt good to finally move the cursor to the "publish" button even though I'll admit, it hovered there for a bit. When released, the weight of thirty years began to fall away. I began to sense a bit of regret that I hadn't done it sooner but I quickly let that go. Not productive. I resolved to be more emotionally honest with my blog entries moving forward. The weekend progressed and the journal stayed in my backpack until today (Wednesday) and this is my first blog entry since October 11. 

One of the patented musings I made in that journal entry on Friday, October 21, 2022, was regarding the short list of people I can feel comfortable calling. On the phone. Whenever and wherever I need to talk. The list is short for many reasons. I'm not much of what they call a "phone person" and most likely never have been. In those rare instances when I felt I really needed to talk with someone, I called from a select list of now dead people. Kathy. Aunt Bernice. Mom. René. The list extends through time and space but these are the most recent. There are other dead people. Interestingly, they are all women. That doesn't surprise me because--with the exception of my father--I don't believe I've developed the same type of relationship with any man. Sorry guys. Even while my father still lived, our conversations (before his dementia) were rare but often deep. 

I guess I tend to think about death more often at this time of the year. Maybe it's because the "Day of the Dead" coincides with my birthday. Maybe it's because I see nature's awesome display of death and eventual renewal play out before my eyes. Maybe it's got something to do with the fact that I recognize the sheer miraculousness of it all. Whatever the reason I don't think about it with fear...usually. Pain still bothers me a lot. I don't want a death preceded by lots of pain. Who the hell does? It all makes for some deep inner conversations or words on a page that are becoming more and more difficult to write. Still.

It sure would be nice to talk with someone.

Collage Project: Dad

 [Two blog entries. That's how long my experiment lasted. There might be some truth to the old adage "you can't teach an old dog new tricks" but I prefer to look at this a bit more positively by saying "if it ain't broke, don't fix it." So here goes another blog, transcribed from the good old dusty notebook.]

I've embarked on a new ambitious art project. With a realization that it's impractical and too demanding of studio space to begin painting again--and with my photography at a sad standstill--I've decided to express myself creatively through collage. In previous creative spurts I derided the collage medium and didn't give it much attention. But it's grown on me. I've done several experiments on a small scale but a few days ago, I committed to larger projects by purchasing some poster board. Today I'll begin working on my first larger scale collage which will be a tribute to my father. 

My dad's story is unique--as all our stories are. There's no earth shattering adventure to share nor is there any remarkable life achievement award to post. But there is great pride and it cries for expression about a life well lived. I was at odds with my dad all through my teen years. As a child I was fearful of him at times although my father never once disciplined me physically. My early adult years were distant by choice and geography as I'd moved to Texas. I would say that it was distance that finally endeared my father to me. 

I'm hoping my collage will do honor to the man I came to know later--perhaps later than it should have been. There were poignant moments before a time when his memory began to fade. As the ravages of dementia took their inevitable toll, there were opportunities to express care and love in ways that were gently acknowledged. I just wish I could have gotten more of his story. My best advice to anyone who has living parents--regardless of your relationship status--get all you can before it's too late. Have conversations. Record them. Take notes. Do whatever.

My father was eight years old when his father died from Polio. A dashingly handsome man from the few photos I have, Clarence was a hardworking father of five. My father was the oldest. Dad finished high school on an accelerated program so that he could become a pilot during WWII. He survived a nearly fatal car accident when he was only 25. A lifetime of paralysis seemed likely. A skilled surgeon was able to repair his broken neck with a truly experimental procedure and his mobility was restored. Adversity seemed to have prepared him for everything. In 1952, he met my mother and they were married the following year. I don't think my father ever met a challenge he didn't at least try to overcome. Giving up wasn't in his nature. He fathered five children of his own of which I am the youngest. He and my mother certainly faced some lean times with his railway clerk salary. He often lamented that a job in the railway industry was all he could get when the standard commercial pilot wasn't a dark-haired, short, Catholic Irish guy but a tall, blonde-haired, blue eyed nordic Protestant type. I imagine there was some truth to that. He continued to renew his pilot license--even bought a small plane. But I think some of his dreams were dashed early on. He trudged away at his job until a later than deserved retirement in 1985. By that time, I'd graduated high school and moved to Texas. Conversations were few and far between. And those were the typical, surfacey talks. I don't think we ever had a "heart to heart." That didn't happen until 1998--when I would have killed myself if I'd had the balls. But...since I didn't have that kind of nerve I just stopped wanting to live. I was willing myself to death through self-starving and sleep deprivation. Mom and dad made a special trip to Texas to bring me back to the hometown from which I'd worked so hard to escape. Dad gave me a pep talk and helped me realize there was still a life for me if I wanted it. He shared parts of his life story in a way that made me feel that I came from some pretty resilient blood. I stayed in Texas. I survived. I owe so much to him. 

The project for my collage is beginning with him. I want to convey some key points, among them survival, resilience and loss. I don't know how long it will take but I will do the best I can, which is clearly what he did. For his entire, remarkable life.

(my father William Boylan, unknown location, unknown photographer--with my brother John in 1954)

The Smell of Dial Soap

[Until this entry, my writing process has been a laborious three-step ritual that begins with a rough draft in a longhand notebook, editing by hand and then transcribing those words to these digital pages. For the first time, I'm trying to do it all on my laptop or desktop and it's a challenge! I'm so resistant to change! Particularly challenging is this piece which taps memories--so there has been lots of cross-referencing existing journals for content. But change is good. Shall we embrace it?]

I try to flesh out memories and add to content when it suits my writing. Essays on life, loss and love are observational in real time but memories are fleeting--snippets like short YouTube clips with distortions. Kind of like watching those videos while exceptionally high on whatever your mind-altering substance of choice. Most of my recall of late has been prompted by smells, sounds and sights. A few years ago when I was deep into my family photograph archive scanning frenzy, most of my memory essays were based on photographs. I'd see these images in a new light at higher resolution--with details that baffled me. That dresser was never in that corner! The pajamas with feet were red, not yellow! He never wore glasses! But the photos were great source material. They still are. With memories related to senses, however, there are rarely photographs to corroborate the evidence. The only evidence is that memory. We hold it somewhere in the recesses of those less used parts of the brain. Then the trigger. I think mine are generally happy with a few exceptions. Mostly, they're neutral but evoke reflection that may result in a quizzical smile or raising of the eyebrow...later.

 My childhood trips to Texas--thanks to parents who kept close contact with relatives who participated in the post WWII migration to the land of favorable jobs--gave me an early appreciation of the smallest of details in regards to personal hygiene. My Texas relatives used Dial soap in the shower. At least that's what I remember. My Aunt Bernice (mom's oldest sister) and her husband lived in a ranch style home built sometime around the year I was born and they had an in-ground pool which favored heavily in decision-making when it came to which relative we'd be staying with. They lived on the outskirts of the city of Fort Worth, Texas. Mom's youngest sister Kay lived closer to Dallas but they didn't have a pool. There's one picture of me at Aunt Kay's house in a small plastic backyard pool that explains why the in-ground pool was optimal. But I digress. Both of these families used Dial soap in their bathrooms. The smell--to my child's mind recollection--was invigorating and pleasant. It was nothing like the fragrance of Dove or Ivory, which were the preference at our home in Pennsylvania. Dove and Ivory get mixed up in my mind but I remember the floral scent of Dove and the unmistakable "clean" scent of Ivory bar that was so pure "it floats!" When one walked into the pink tiled  guest bathroom of my Aunt Bernice's house, the smell of Dial soap permeated the walls it seemed. No Ivory or Dove in this place!

Dial Soap originated in Chicago with a chemist who worked for Armour and Company--a meat-packing industrial giant. The year it was introduced--1949--it was touted as "the first active, really effective deodorant soap in all history [because it] removes skin bacteria that cause perspiration odor." From 1953 on, it was touted under the slogan "Aren't you glad you use Dial? Don't you wish everyone did?" I also remember the numerous ads seen in Newsweek and LIFE magazines which were those we subscribed to at home. I think I implored my mother to buy Dial soap but she never did.

Years later, in an effort to reinvigorate those sensory memories of my youth, I bought a bar of Dial soap just to see if it would trigger anything. It didn't. The formula had changed through the years particularly when the U.S. Food and Drug Administration outlawed the use of hexachlorophene in non-medicinal products. Hexachlorophene was the active anti-bacterial agent in the product. Armour replaced it with triclocarban--a synthetic anti-bacterial agent. I have no idea if this changed the fragrance but it certainly wasn't the same fragrance I remembered as a child. It wasn't until many years later, as my husband and I wandered through a street fair in North Carolina, that I smelled that scent again. I have no idea what product was being peddled but there were lots of organic soaps and candles in the booth. The scent was fleeting but it was definitely the scent I remembered all those years prior. For just a moment, I was a 10 year-old kid spending a few weeks of the summer in Texas and I could see and feel everything. EVERYTHING. 

Sharing Stuff

 It has been years since I started this blog. It was at the time a blog with no direction. It is still that. To be honest, I kind of like it that way. I can write about whatever subject comes to mind and, given that it's a subject that holds my interest--at least for the time, it generally means that I'm pleased with the result. Many life events have taken place since that day in 2009 when I decided to make some of my thoughts public. I concurrently kept (and keep) a private journal that is often sourced for material that I think would be suitable for public consumption. 

Recent events have created a sense of urgency to get my writing out there. This isn't due to some impending calamity or premonition but a series of natural "happenings" in which my mortality was examined in detail and the desire to make a mark more relevant. I don't have children--therefore, my writings are my children. My artwork/photography to a lesser extent fits on the spectrum as well. There's not much of that. But...my writing is deeply personal. It is no exaggeration to say that writing is my absolute best therapy. 

In the coming weeks, I will embark on a new project to finish recording previous blogs (many have already been done) and create new material based on memories and expanding out to some observations on art, culture and politics. I hope to share some good stuff but I can no longer feel comfortable censoring my writing to accommodate sensibilities for fear of offending someone somewhere. I hope this is as freeing to me as I hope it to be. I do still write for myself primarily. But if someone out there happens to get something out of it, I'm gratified even if I never know about it.