Vernon has been dipping in and out of my consciousness lately in a different way than usual. He hasn’t been as present as the early days, but just like I’d been warned by those who journeyed this road before, one should never be surprised when the grief and/or memories show up. In these moments, it’s almost palpable…at the least, like a sci-fi hologram. I was about to close up the other house the other day, doing the last bits of cleaning, and all of a sudden, with mop in hand, I leaned against the stove and looked out on the empty kitchen. I could imagine Vernon as if he were also there, leaning back on the opposite counter. It’s rare that I speak out to him, but it does happen, and those moments can be cathartic.
Just when I think I’ve made peace with his absence…that’s when he shows up. Or rather, another piece of myself shows up—a piece that still needs closure or healing or whatever—sometimes that is even more shocking than the ghost-talk. In this moment, I was able to more deeply say goodby to the memories in that house—a house he never visited himself, a home that brought the rest of our little family through a difficult season. So many good things happened there as well, but I can’t forget that he was hit on the same corner we drove out from every day. It was ALL there: the good, bad, the ugly, and the beautiful.
Now we are embarking on a new season. And just as life seems to go, things are difficult in different ways. I admonished the Vernon of that kitchen day for leaving me alone to cope with all of it without him. But I also know that what he taught me has helped me cope, so there is that. I also understood in that moment that we’d surely be a different couple now (if he’d lived) than we were five years ago. We were a different couple at every stage of his life after the accident, so there is no way of knowing who we would be now. Trying to imagine it is like losing a thread in a tapestry: impossible.
A few days earlier, while I was still in the slow stages of moving out/clearing out, a crew of fireman rushed to the door. My friend Mary and I sent them next door to the correct address. Not long after, we heard the news that our neighbor Jack had passed away in his sleep. Jack was the last (and only) neighbor to say goodby to us on moving day, and waving from our shared mailbox patch, he said: ” Oh bummer, you are moving! I was hoping to hear more music from the teenagers in the garage. I loved that.” Jack was the first neighbor we met when we moved in nearly 4 years before. He was fun to talk to, and though he couldn’t hear well, he always had a surfer’s stoked smile, a wave…he was always up for connecting. I used to send Justine next door first if we needed to ‘borrow’ anything like milk or sugar. Actually, Jack was the only neighbor I had any basic conversations with at all…it was not a community-spirit street.
I went back to finish the work at the house a couple days later. On my way out to the car, Jack’s son (that I’d never yet met) crossed the lawn to chat. He was so sad, but he clearly wanted to connect. He wanted to show me a video on his phone: his dad in his fun and glorious heyday. He’d only discovered this video when someone had sent it his way the day his dad died. He’d never seen it in in all the years he’d been online, but since he’d received it, he’d watched it one hundred times. It was great to see him young.
I remember how we too had discovered a video of Vernon speaking about his font work in Istanbul (of all faraway places) the day he went into hospice. We couldn’t believe the timing either. Some things, I guess, we aren’t meant to find till the right time. It was eerie that two strangers had such similar technological experiences in thier time of loss.
So its with added sadness that our family left that street—an extravagant end to an era. Now both Jack and Vernon were the bookends: yet another reminder that life (and death) happens when/where you least expect it. I hate to make this a recurring theme, but sorry…its my experience now.
Jack’s son invited us to the paddle-out for his dad next month. We won’t be here…we’ll be in Hawaii, of all places. But I told him that if I have a chance, I’ll take a moment in the shared-Pacific water to remember our lovely neighbor. Here is the video Jack’s son showed me. He told me his parents had met at age 15 (mom is in video too) so things will be hard/surreal for her for awhile. 🙁 RIP Jack Baxter. We are tied to you forever…like all our best memories of the best people. Thank you for gracing us with your smile..
Over and out Avenida Cornelio. We are grateful for our stay. After all, where would we be without you?
We are moving house again. Our landlords gave us lots of time, graciously, but a place in a neighborhood I like came up this month, and it seemed right to grab the chance. I want to stay as close as I can to Justine’s school so she can at least have that consistency for a few more years. We are moving about a ten minute drive north. I’m looking forward to living in a closer community and being able to walk to the cliffs to watch the sunset. Justine is looking forward to adopting a cat, which will be in perfect timing after dear Benson’s sudden demise. (Maybe he knew we’d be moving? I wouldn’t put anything past him.)
But it’s going to be a quick move. We can be in on the 21st of September, a little over a week. Of course things are chaotic here, with boxes everywhere, but I think we’ve got a good pace down now. I’ve moved so many times in my life, but this is the first time since Vernon died. We got rid of most of his stuff (except the things we loved) in the past nearly-four years we’ve been in this house. But I’m still finding the odd things I never made decisions over…a book on Italian Design, cycling gear, football (soccer) jerseys. Not to mention my own box of old journals and childhood artwork my parents had brought over from their garage at some point. A life packed in a garage. Amazing what we accumulate in a few years. I do like packing up because it reminds me of what I can live without….and reminds me of what I have.
.We learned to be a family of three in this sweet little house. We became an official unit of our own. One of the best things about living here is that I was able to have a detached studio, which I took to complete advantage. I truly got into the discipline of painting everyday because I had a separate place to work. I made so main paintings…now what to do with all the ones I don’t like? Paint over them, I guess. Maki also expanded his musical talents in this house, he’s going to have to downsize some, unfortunately…but that’s ok, he’ll soon be driving and he can visit friends who have room for drums. 🙂
We have been so grateful for this cute little house, we’ve loved it. Incidentally, we moved to this street after Vernon was hit because the house had potential wheelchair access…not that he ever came home. But every day, we have to turn left on El Camino Real, pulling out from exactly the same stop sign that the people who hit Vernon did.. We don’t think about that corner as acutely as we used to, but the cloud, the awareness, is still there. I’m hoping a weight lifts from all of us with this move. There is sudden momentum. The future is happening.
I feel like a reverse-hermit-crab…looking for a smaller shell, so I can go into the future more streamlined, less burdened than before. After all, I have two youngster hermit-crabs I’m bringing along.
“Music does a lot of things for a lot of people. It’s transporting, for sure. It can take you right back, years back, to the very moment certain things happened in your life. It’s uplifting, it’s encouraging, it’s strengthening.” Aretha Franklin (May she rest in peace.)
I’ve been listening to music non stop lately, mostly my own…music that I listened to before Vernon was hit, or at least before he died…I’ve also been listening to Maki’s collection of music with more appreciation as it know it will keep me ‘young.’ And I’ve been listening to suggestions from friends that coax me in and out of my musical comfort zones. The best thing is that it keeps me from paying attention to the news, which for me is emotional Kryptonite if I’m not in a healthy place. Vernon’s most effective medicine came from music…and I see that in Maki too…so why shouldn’t it be for me too? It just seems to be panning out in surprisingly different ways. I will always love the music that attaches me to Vernon…but its been connected with so much sadness and dashed hope that it doesn’t feel great to listen to those songs for long, so I just stopped listening all together. I heard some awesome brain-bending podcasts in that period though…hit me up if want some links.
Anyway, with all this music in my mind, I thought to ask Maki to find something by a singer I suddenly remembered while I was driving him to his after-school job this afternoon. Her name is Missy Andersen, and she used to play sometimes at a restaurant in town. It’s a small southern-themed place, they have great music and can draw a fun crowd…plus they give out Mardi Gras beads for free, which I would bring my small daughter as gifts/penance for having fun without her. Vernon and I went together one night to see Missy play, probably only a couple weeks before he was hit. I had so much fun dancing with all the others who were also having fun dancing. Darling Vernon, forever British and shy about that sort of thing, watched from the bar. I wasn’t disappointed, I accepted this about him. I was just happy to do something sort-of together. We had our own understandings.
I was starting to tell this silly memory to Maki as I drove this afternoon, but I found myself so overcome with sudden emotion that I couldn’t talk. I was grateful to already be wearing sunglasses, at least. I talk about him to the kids all the time without feeling. But today, it was his sentiment that killed me.
I remember him smiling at me when I came back to him from the dance-floor for air. For the first time in seven years of marriage he said this thing: “I want to learn to dance. I want to be able to have as much fun as it looks like you are having.”
“I don’t think you learn,” I told him. “I think you just go for it! Just move your booty and try not to care. Maybe you learn not to care.” And of course, we couldn’t have known, but he wouldn’t ever dance again…he soon wouldn’t do a lot of things ever again. It was nice to see he wanted to, though. This is thing thing about music and memory: they aren’t just sad and blue when wrapped in song—they can be poignant, and maybe remind you of the lessons. We only have today.
So…who wants to go dancing with me! Doesn’t this idea of fun sound FUN?
If you like Missy Anderson’s vibe, here is her southwestern schedule. She’s great. And she encourages dancing! (Here are some random videos I found:)
“If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans.” – James Herriot
I have some sad news to share tonight. Justine’s beloved hamster has finally crossed over the rainbow bridge into that mysterious otherworld that the great souls of tiny pets eventually return to.
I had brought my brother and his son back to our house after picking them up from the airport, and Justine immediately went to pick up her pet, who admittedly had been a little more lethargic than usual the past few days, making is bed directly under the water bottle, which he was constantly lapping. Within a few seconds of cuddles, she knew something was wrong and promptly dropped him on the living room floor in horror. Indeed, there was something wrong. Not only didn’t he have his usual Benovolent Benson energy, he could barely move. But he wasn’t nearly as twitchy and macabre as Justine’s second hamster, Oreo, when he died in my hands a couple of months ago. Benson, true to his gentle nature, went peacefully and may or may not have waited for his imprinted owner to hold him one last time so they could say a proper goodbye. I am probably anthropomorphizing that little rodent and his attitudes, but the sweet relationship that Justine and Benson (her first pet) developed humbled me. As the lone wolf I’ve tended to be (I only had cats growing up, does that make sense now?) I had to admit that interspecies connections can be strong and beautiful, even with the smallest and short-lived of creatures.
This suddenly reminded me so much of Vernon’s hospice period, even though the relativity factor kicks in (fortunately) making Benson’s final hours a lot shorter. So I kind of knew how to guide her. “This is sacred time, Justine. This is the time that we send him off with our blessings and love and all the things we still have a chance for him to know.” She refused to hold his body, so I held him close to her face, and she stroked him with her tiny hamster-sized fingers, just the way she always had. I could tell he relaxed. He didn’t even blink; his eyes were like passionfruit seeds, bright and black, but clearly off. “I’m going to miss him so much,” she cried. “He was a replacement for my dad.” What a strangely self-aware thing for a third-grader to say! (I’m telling you, that fuzzball brought out the best of my daughter’s soul. How can I deny that?) After a while, I had to start getting ready for my dad’s birthday party. I asked if I should put him in his bed or if I should hold him close a little longer. She requested I hold him even as I went about getting ready, and so I did. He didn’t move much, but I hoped he felt safe. About ten minutes later, Justine came into the office, looked at us briefly, and said: “He’s dead.” Then she turned away and started to get herself ready for the party. “I don’t want to think about it right now,” she said a little later. It kind of shocked me, because here I was HOLDING the poor thing, and I hadn’t even realized he’d died. But she knew. Again, it reminded me of that night. It was so important to me to be there for Vernon’s final breath…and then it was there, and then it was gone, and all I could do was bolt out of there, thinking: “He’s gone. I’m done. I need to get away. Now I want to be with the kids and make sure they are alright.” These superimposed flashes with every grief we go through, no matter how significant is clearly something I’ll need to get used to.
There is a lot of the threat of death again on my radar at the moment. Friends’ parents struggling with complications in hospitals, unexpected tears, more stories of cancer, blah blah… Benson is so small in comparison, but it brushes against the same emotions, doesn’t it? The practice of grieving, the acceptance of loss. This has got to be the most annoying part of being human, which is generally great! The most annoying part of loving, which also is generally great.
Justine showed up to my dad’s 75th birthday party last night with a small cardboard box, clearly containing Benson. She didn’t show his body, but as she worked the party, she did point to the box in her hands, Sharpie-marked with an x-eyed smiley face and Benson’s name, lest it be confused for something else. Oh the horror! I remembered the best part of that last palliative period with my husband was that no one told me how to do it. I had complete freedom in doing things as I wished, I was allowed to be leader of my own story. And I could see today that Justine must have been paying attention after all. She told me call a specific list of people and invite them to my parent’s house at noon on Sunday. Those who could make the short notice made it. And it was perfect.
I can’t even explain the bittersweet emotion that filled the spaces between rolled-eye contact and giggles at the silliness of it all. But everyone had something to say about how Benson had touched them, and then Justine broke into her own pure eulogy about how he was the best pet ever and that he could never be replaced in her heart…and most importantly, that she would see him again one day perhaps.
It was so sweet, the whole thing. I was proud of my girl and her little playmates, who took turns flattening the earth with my dad’s garden trowel. We rent, so we knew it would be better to leave such a precious pet in my parent’s yard, which is paid off. Watching Justine take over the funeral, guest list and heart-shaped memorial rock in place, made me realize she was going to be ok. She’s going to keep dealing with death in her life, big ones, little ones…they all hurt, but they all have a specific honor that can be found, and watching my 8-year old walk in the pure confidence of what-to-do-next made me feel more secure in my own life. I know its just a hamster, but through our relationship with him, I know Justine will be alright.
My personal contribution at the funeral: Benson taught me more about tenacity than anyone—just keep at that wheel, all night if you have to. And also; there is ALWAYS an escape, just keep at it and you’ll find it. 🙂
For digital safekeeping, I’ve collected some of Benson’s moments on this Instagram tag:#bensonhamster.
PS it was so strange being in this space with our little community and family, and then remembering my own kitten, Mr Boots, who I still long for sometimes…and how he was found under this very deck a zillion years ago. The SAME place, there has got to be some poetry in that, at the very least.
This song came into my space today. I hadn’t heard it for a long time, most vividly around the time of Vernon’s death and memorial. My inner-circle of musician friends (the ones who selflessly surrounded him with their songs on his hardest days) came together as a group, and with a little direction, they performed a beautiful tribute…a gift to him, but mostly to me. After all, I was here on earth to receive it (and to re-receive it today.) Even Maki and Justine were involved in the finale.
So to hear it again after so long, a song so special to me, of course I got all the feels and listened closer to the words, from this end, two years out: God only knows what I’d be without you. (I certainly had no clue back then.)
I’m still not sure. The answer is: PROBABLY A LOT OF DIFFERENT THINGS. Some, you. Some, me. Some the kids. Some, my family. Some, my heritage and society. Some, the clear influence of my parents. Some, natural rebellion and the polar opposite of my parents. Some, my future self, and some, my youthful self. A little heaven, a little hell, a whole lot of earth. So bear with me, and I’ll bear with you. I’m sure we all have these things in common.
The past few years have been such an intense processing of liquified identity for me. Maybe I notice that more because I am an “identity seeking type” on the Enneagram (let alone an ENFP…with apologies to my wonderful, longsuffering friends.) Some people laugh at me as I’m remind them of their own mothers in the 1970s, studying all my books on personality types and why we do things the way we do—but I’ve found it validating as I find my way back to myself (and my family.) I’m ok, you’re ok. 😛
For someone else, grief and pain and transformation will involve a completely different process. In writing and sharing like I do, I only offer one. ONE angle. Identifying with my process might work for some, as they enter their own grief/growth journey and remember the examples that came before, but I’d’ recommend they their own unique pathway from that simple starting point. I’m a storyteller from the core. Not everyone is. Some are listeners, doers, exercisers, builders, sleepers, surfers, lawyers, teachers, servants, leaders… whatever your thing is, my advice is to fold toward it, despite the fear of folding too far. In my experience so far, one of the truths I’ve learned best is this: God gives you the tools you need, hidden inside your complicated personality and history. Bend into those things, be true to yourself, and if you don’t know what that self IS yet, spend time finding it. You can be your own best friend, you just may need to spend a little time in the playground getting reacquainted No one will stick by your side through thick and thin like you will.
The other day, I met with a nurse from Mission Hospital, where Vernon stayed the first three months, mostly in a coma. She had followed our story, but she wanted to hear feedback to bring back to the board, if I had any to offer. I was amazed and touched to hear, after all this time, that the hospital tries to match their nurses with the family’s according to their personality and needs. I had no idea that was intentional— I just though we got lucky with nurses who seemed so encouraging of the way I handled the situation at the time: with visitors, children, instruments and song, photos and drawings wallpapering the room, trying to bring as much beauty in as possible….because for me, that was clearly a comfort. I told the nurse how grateful I was that they allowed me to express myself as big or little as I wanted to, how having a safe, non-judging place to start that long journey gave me permission to keep that up through the entire long journey. Can you imagine what a different experience that would have been if they had shut me down and told me to walk on tiptoe instead?
Blessings, everyone. I hope you find more ways to be your best you. Stay inspired. This world needs the real you, even if that is ever-changing. I believe in that completely. And I believe in you, that you’ll get through your most challenging seasons too. Wherever you put your feet, that you’ll find your way.. One foot, then the other. The map is inside you, you’ll find it.
A special cover of Vernon's fav song 'Waterloo Sunset' by friend and singer/song-writer Ian McGlynn. All proceeds support Vernon's recovery! Donate what you can and download a beautiful song in return.
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