“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.
“You can’t cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water.” —Rabindranath Tagore
Justine and I have been swimming a lot lately. It’s been so uncomfortably hot this summer and my good friend Sandy, who lives nearby, lets us use her pool whenever we ask. This is the same pool that I spent so many mornings in the weeks after Vernon died. It seemed like I always wanted to be in the water then. In the hospice weeks, when I stayed in hotels near the nursing home, I made sure they all had swimming pools and dipped in every afternoon. I’d never been much of a swimmer, but feeling weightless in the water must have brought some kind of comfort. Being underwater felt more like being in another world—a silent, dappled universe so distant from the dry land of humans and all its stress and death. I wanted to grow gils so I’d never have to return to the surface. I worked at holding my breath longer.
I decided I wanted to become a swimmer. The bottom had fallen out of all the systems I thought I could trust, reality was unreal. Why shouldn’t I become a swimmer if I decided to? I could be anything. After all, I had no identity for that period time: stripped down to simply being a woman vaguely in charge of some children. I bought goggles and a rubber cap. I imagined that with practice, I’d soon be doing fifty laps without stopping. But of course I was very sloppy. Just a few laps would wind me—it’s hard on the lungs, this exercise. I had no clue how to pace myself. And after that first month or so, when the morning air got cooler, I forgot my ambitions and tried something else to ease my grief and help me move forward: What would I be? I could be anything. I could learn anything. But I still didn’t know what I wanted. I was merely trying things out to see what would help, what would stick. All I knew is that my old life was behind me, and I was someone new that had never existed before. I didn’t know my own self anymore. I didn’t know her yet.
Now, I’m far from an excellent swimmer, but I’m better than I used to be, and I love being in the pool. My alien new self feels at home immediately. At this significant time of year, I’ve been thinking about the water and how many times I used that metaphor to describe parts of our journey with the ailing Vernon: mermaids, scuba diving, sea mammals surfacing…the sensation of drowning, This entry about the Ocean was posted after Vernon died exactly two years ago today. To my mind, its the most significant thing I’ve ever written. (I hope it stays that way.)
I want to stretch out a little more on the subject of swimming and talk about the healing the old stories that we’ve let define us. The summer I was twelve, while boogie-boarding with my friends at a San Clemente beach, I got caught in a rip tide. I would have drowned if a lifeguard hadn’t finally seen me and fished me out. I was terrified and humbled, and because my family moved away at the end of that summer, I never had to face my fear by getting back in the water. When we’d visit, I’d just stay on the shore. Playing in those waves didn’t appeal to me at all. But earlier this month, at our family reunion, a group of us went to the beach. I watched my younger brother dive in and start body surfing in the waves. He looked so great and natural, as if he was part dolphin, having so much fun. As I watched him, I had such a strong impulse that I wanted to have that kind of fun too. Suddenly it was time. I marched down to the water, unusually warm for California (turns out it was a record temperature that day, lucky me!) and made my way to him. “I want to do what you are doing. Show me how!” And we played and laughed and dunked under the waves together like kids. My arms felt strong, I knew I could swim. In that moment, my story had completely changed. I was now someone who enjoyed being in the sea. I wasn’t afraid. I was no longer living the story I’d believed for so long. At the end of the weekend, my brother and I agreed that that day was the highlight for both of us—we had so much fun together and felt so free.
Of course we all want to avoid trauma, but in time, and with work, its not without its gifts. It transforms you…and sometimes even makes pathways to healing that you never would have discovered without it.
School starts tomorrow. Maki and I are ready. Not so sure about the little one who, for the past few weeks, covers her ears and shouts “I don’t want to hear it” anytime I mention the word school. That said, it was probably the best summer we have had as a family. Maki stayed in California for the first time ever, which allowed us to relax in and out of each other’s schedules in a way that we can never do during the school year. We had a lot of fun: art lessons with Justine’s friends and band practice with Maki’s, visiting cousins from seemingly everywhere, getting to the beach to escape the heat, and way too many cartoons. Still its going to be a shock to all of us at 6.45 tomorrow morning. Cold Turkey.
Earlier today, a friend of mine mentioned that she knew it was a “big week” ahead for us, and was I ok? I assumed she meant summer ending and school starting. “Oh yes, it will be fine. I thought I’d have the house clean and supplies bought and organized, but I think this year we are just going to roll into it, and straighten up as the week goes on and we are forced to accept its ” (This is the beauty of Public School.) She gently laughed and told me that she meant Vernon’s passing-anniversary, which falls this next Friday. Then I realized how it hadn’t come to mind. I mean, I think of it a little here and there, maybe even every day for the past couple of weeks, but its a thought that soon disappears behind other thoughts, more current thoughts, like whatever is happening right now. I really didn’t expect to be so nonchalant about this year’s moment. As I’ve said before, last year’s grief seemed to hit so hard for most of August and September. I expected to at least have my guard up. But strangely, that hasn’t been necessary yet.
What a strange thing to not feel so sad about the sad things. Yes, of course it is still sad…its a sad story. But when I talk about him, I feel like I’m speaking from a distance now, another story that happened among many other stories in my life. Yes, it was the absolute worst one, and it was horrible and so unfair, but with a little time, it sort of blends into the collection of books in my body’s library. Again, let me stress it was a really transformative, important book. But now with a few smaller but still-interesting books under my belt, my imagination has blossomed, and I’m fascinated by the prospect of new stories, new pages, new voices.
I wonder if this has something to do with feeling like I was married twice. I was married to Vernon v.1 for 7.5 years, and I was married to Vernon v.2 for another two and a half. It mixes up, sometimes I miss the connection I had with the first one, but it seems so long ago now since he was here, I have to grasp the air to remember what that was. And I’m grateful to the second version in all his awkward helplessness because he taught me about a deeper substance of love that was in me somewhere after all. So it’s likely in the rest of you too, hidden away, a mysterious, beautiful strength you find when you need it (but possibly only then.)
I loved both of him. And both of him loved me. Both of him loved the children (whether they understand that yet or not.) That is a lot of love to experience. Now we know that we can live well without him too. All that love doesn’t just disappear though: it moves in my relationship with the kids, in whom I see more of their dad all the time. It moves in their connection with each other. I find I can even offer it to myself. It’s a strange kind of physics how our hearts divide and expand and keep going and giving regardless. This year, at this time, I am more interested in growth than grief. I’m sure he’d be happy with that. He’d be proud of us no matter what.
I’m especially grateful to have his two children in my life, these young fellow travelers, my anchors to the present…and I’m also happy to send them back to school tomorrow. 🙂
.
PS I also reserve the right to feel totally sad again whenever the grief comes next. I understand it never fully goes away and can sneak up on a person. The waves are rarely as strong as they were in the first year, and much of the fog as lifted. Its good to not feel defined by loss.
“As a child of God, I am greater than anything that can happen to me.” —A. P. J. Abdul Kalam
We’ve entered the sacred month of August, round three. The first year, of course, was that wild season of hospice, when we folded our entire beings into saying goodbye over 14 days instead of the anticipated eight. And then last year, at least for me, the whole month of August (and a few weeks in July) took me through a tug-of-war of feeling numb and desperately sad. This summer has been so busy, especially toward the end, that I haven’t been able to stop and make the annual grief review. But I can certainly report that its been much more mellow and pleasant than the previous two Augusts. From what I hear from those who have walked this road before me, this means absolutely nothing. Next year, or the Fifth year, or even the fiftieth year can be the surprise bang that takes you for a tumble under the waves again, gasping for breath, and scathed by the sharp sand below the surface.
Earlier this week, I was reminded that it had been two years to the day that Maki had been sent for early from visiting his New Zealand family. I remember telling the surgeon who first unofficially broke the news that Vernon might not make it (before Palliative Care or the Chaplain came in to tell me later) that I wouldn’t want to take him off dialysis until at least his son came back. I couldn’t live with myself if he died before Maki saw him. He arrived within a couple of days, a doctor’s note convincing the airline not to make new charges. I remember this blog entry that spoke about the sudden shift in the plan.
Here is a photo of the kids when I they first saw each other again that summer. Both had just come home from respective trips: Maki to New Zealand and Justine to visit cousins in Kansas City with my mom. Maki knew by then, Justine was about to be told. Here is a photo of the two of them reunited that day.
And here are a few pictures of later on:
HOWEVER…this isn’t just about memories of the past. It’s also a time to reflect on how things have changed since then. And nothing has changed more than the children. Here is a picture of them together just last week. I’ve never seen them looking so similar, so both like their dad, at the same time.
I’m so grateful for their sweet relationship, admittedly not always smooth with an 8 1/2 year difference, but obviously close—and delightful to witness. They’ve been through a lot together, that’s for sure. I probably should have found more happy, smiling photos to make my point. But they are the sadder, wiser types that are able to see life both full and half-full at once. We are in this together!
Maki, now 16, is starting his Senior Year of High School next week. What a milestone that feels like. He’s doing great, he has a job, great friends, a girlfriend, and he’s starting to plan a path for his potential. He knows so much about so many things. He’s often been called an old soul, and it seems to be true. Shortly, after Vernon died, we discussed what he would throw his energy into, and he chose his music. It’s quite incredible to look at how he has grown that passion and ability since then. Now it’s his plan: he wants to be a sound engineer, and after first learning guitar, he has taught himself how to play piano as well as drums, let alone the music mixing software. I’m so proud of him. I’d go on, but I know privacy is also important to him. 🙂 However, I will say, that as he gets older, he reminds me more and more of how his dad must have been when he was young.
Justine will be going into 3rd grade. She’s my sidekick, and I am so thankful for her affectionate and expressive ways. Because we are so similar (or is that different?) in so many ways, I am digging my heels in for the next decade of growing up together. It’s clearly going to be a fantastic voyage. She is amazing…always keeping me on my toes with the wise, honest things she says and her sharp intuition/questions about life and people. I am happy they are both so smart, but I think that is mostly due to Vernon. I can hardly keep up, to be honest. Both children are wonderful humans, and I’m truly blessed to have them in my life, always helping to move me into the next best me. However weird and unconventional our family at times may seem, we do support one another. (I often tell them that “weird” should be a compliment.)
The moment after Vernon died, I remember my specific thought: “I need to get back home to the kids. I need to make sure they are ok.” It felt as if I hadn’t really been there for them as they deserved those years I’d been caring for Vernon. That thought ruled my mind for the next two years…it still does, but I’m beginning to relax and understand that they are far better than ok. They are truly magnificent children who will become even better adults in time.
I used to think I was taking care of them. But now I understand that they were saving me. I used to think I could parent them into their best selves. Now I understand they are turning me into the parent I am. They are childrening me. And so we continue to grow into our next selves together.
Maki has very special visitors at the moment. 11 of them to be exact…his mum and stepdad and his little brother and sister from New Zealand and aunts, uncles, cousins, and his grandmother from Norway—every single person he is related to on his mother’s side. It seems that southern California is as convenient as it gets for a half-way point family reunion. I think we are all a little dazed in the experience, but its been great!
This year, Maki told his mum that this year he wanted to stay in California, especially as it was the last summer before his senior year in high school. He’s never spent a summer here in the six years since we moved to California. Instead, he asked if she would visit him in his world. Not only did she agree, but the whole family decided to come and check out his town. It’s really quite amazing.
They’ve been staying at an Airbnb in Oceanside, about a half hour south of us. It’s a great house, a perfect base for all of them in as they choose their own adventures. Maki has been with them there, and Justine and I have gone down several times to join them. Synnove, Maki’s mother, recognizes that having a new place to base their California vacation memories is I met most of them last summer, when I visited Norway with Maki. But it was still a poignant moment for me the first evening we all ate together after taking the children to the beach:Just as the sun was setting, I looked up from the end of the long table on the restaurant’s rooftop space, counting 13 other people, all coming together to show their support at making an internationally blended family work. It IS work, there is a lot of loss and too much distance involved on both sides. But who cares anymore? The point is, we are all deeply connected by the love of a young man that we want to see thriving and strong as he goes into his future. We know him in different ways, and all of them are valuable and valid.
Even Justine and Jennifer, Maki’s little sisters, both eight years old, understand that their family has grown. Now they call each other sisters. Justine says she has two brothers now, Maki and Daniel and one sister, Jennifer. Some of them just happen to live somewhere else. She loves adding cousins and aunts and uncles to her expanded family too. Jennifer asked me yesterday if I was her step-mother. After some explaining to a confused little face, I decided to agree with her: “If that makes the most sense, then yes, I guess I’m your step-mother.” So I guess I inherited a bunch of new kids too!
So for those who can’t get over the differences and the distances in their own families, I offer this page from our book. It’s possible. LOVE is the most powerful force of all, if you remember to let it come to the surface where it can do its best work.
Here are the kids yesterday at the Laguna Art Festival, where my mother is exhibiting her work. They are are all focused on making ink prints. Magnus: Norway, Jennifer: Norway/New Zealand, Maki: England/Norway (with USA Green Card), Maria: Norway, Justine: England/USA, Daniel: Norway/New Zealand. If anyone asks me why I don’t believe in borders, I can show them this photo, I suppose. I love all these little citizens of the world. What a delight it is to have them come together.
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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