It was messiier than that

It was a glorious fall day.  I was in the Ghost Ranch Library, working on donations, when my phone rang.  The call was from my ex-sister-in-law.  I last saw her in August 2017, when my sister and I drove up to Oregon from my house-sits in California in order to say a graveside farewell to Aunt J.  (Some ceremonies take longer to arrange than others, especially when everyone is farflung.) After the ceremony, I dropped my sister at the airport and drove out to Mulino to stay with R and L in their new (to me) home.  Cousins, daughters, and granddaughters came out for a potluck, but D and my stepson K chose otherwise.  I was sorry about that, as K and I are on reasonably good terms and I do love him, but I was relieved to have the uncomfortable meeting with D postponed for some other visit. He had suggested a getaway, and that just was never going to be in the cards.

Now that I was back in the States, I did plan to visit Portland, and I was happy to hear L's voice.  I took the phone out to patio, where the reception was better.  The heart-shaped golden cottonwood leaves were blowing about, and the sky was a deep blue.  It was a gorgeous day.  We talked a bit and then L told me why she had called.  D took his life on Oct 1.  He had apparently been struggling for the last year.  He was her only sibling, and their parents passed some time ago, so she's the last of that nuclear family.

We talked about that, and about K, and to my surprise, I found myself weeping.  Mainly I was grieving for his pain and despair, and for his family.  I left D almost 6 years ago, so my personal sorrow was buried deep,  compounded by some guilt.  Could I have saved him?  He never did well living alone.  But then again, I did not do well living with him.  And in the long run, this was his lifelong battle.  I was only a small part of the army of friends and family that fought beside him and ultimately could only stand aside and watch him flailing and losing in single combat.  It was heartbreaking then, and it's heartbreaking now.

October passed. My college friends were scheduled to visit that weekend and were a loving distraction and sounding board.  The Ghost Ranch management continued to be dysfunctional and provide both drama and angst for most of the staff.  I volunteered at the Balloon fiesta and played in an APO concert.  I played trios with nearby friends.  I hiked through the golden autumnal weather.  And I provided pix, words, and memories for L as she and K and M planned the memorial and attended grief counseling.

Memories of his affiliations and accomplishments:

I know that he belonged to the Oregon Alternative Educators’ Association (can’t recall exact name.) He helped produce E’s play, Home to Walata. His coffee klatsch did something with Panera, can’t recall what.  KA would know.  He did overnights at a few homeless shelters.  KL could speak to his involvement with the day shelter at UU.  Lots of UU involvement:  singing in Chalice Choir, teaching in the Learning Community, Men’s Group, donating to the building fund. He marched in NAMI parades and Parkinson’s walks.  He was a loyal and supportive friend, which is a huge accomplishment in my book. GR included him in the thank you credits of his woodworking book.

The list of activities and involvement is long, but could be summed up by a spiritual and social activist sensibility.

In a word, a good and complicated man.

 

Adjectives, good and bad:

Loving, lovable, frustrating, creative (especially in the kitchen), needy, fun-loving, caring, giving, ethical, intelligent, socially conscious, angry, depressed, fiscally incompetent, sports loving, jazz aficionado, TV-addict, fatherly, impatient, well-dressed, opinionated, abrasive, devoted (to family, friends, and causes), selfish, never boring.

I miss the good times and am grateful for the many gifts of spirit and connection, especially with his family (my family.)

 

My sisters came to visit from Oct 31 to Nov 7 and during that time frame I learned that E, now 103, was in hospice.  I went out the next week for a farewell visit at her Berkeley care facility.  While there, the dates were set for D's memorial and wake:  Dec 8/9.  I cancelled the next several weeks with Ghost Ranch and arranged a trip to Portland.  In the midst of that, Ghost Ranch decided to make me move out during Thanksgiving week, despite the fact that no one was going to be in the farmhouse, and I wanted, as a professional, to come back in January and wind up my projects.  But that's a story for another post.

So, I came to Portland, to drink the wine that L and G had been storing for me during my 18 nomadic months, to visit friends, and to say goodbye to D.  I thought I was okay until the night before my flight out, when I started weeping again.  I came out to the living room and told P:  "I'm never going to see D again."  Suddenly, I was no longer grieving for him and his family.  I was grieving for myself.

For the most part, my friends and family understood, but they also reminded me that there were good reasons I gave up on the marriage and good reasons I had a restraining order for the first year after I left him.  For the memorial service, I sang Fragile at the end of the prelude, the song he sang to me at our wedding.  "On and on, the rains will fall, like tears from a star, like tears from a star.  On and on, the star will say, how fragile we are, how fragile we are."  True of our marriage, true of his life.

It was a beautiful service.  Most of my personal friends and family did not attend, but those who did benefited by hearing the loving words and memories.  There were good reasons I loved him. Friends talked of Big Red, Robbie, Big Unc, the boy and man with a joyous lack of boundaries, the man who held his friends and family close in love and laughter until the last year, when he shut them all out.  He stopped initiating gatherings, stopped cooking, stopped returning calls and emails, stopped accessing the joy that surrounded him.  His mental illness took him.  But, while acknowledging that battle, the service and reception celebrated the lovable D. 

Still, I could not get through the final hymn, thinking how the peace it epitomized had failed him.  I give thanks to the waves upholding me Hail the great winds urging me on Greet the infinite sea before me Sing the sky my sailor's song I was born upon the fathoms Never harbor or port have I known The wide universe is the ocean I travel And the Earth is my blue boat home 

That night I stayed with R and L, helping with preparations for the wake. I learned how D's last year had spiralled downward.   Although R and L were his lifeline and he stayed with them every weekend, he spent his time holed up in the TV room.  He ignored the weekly messages from one of his oldest friends, a friend who spoke at our wedding and spoke equally movingly at the service.  The last time L saw D, she told him he needed to resume therapy and he later asked her to drive him to a therapy session. When she arrived for the drive, he was not there.  I asked R, who found D.  And that's when I discovered how D chose to end it.  It wasn't drugs, his choice in several previous attempts.  As L told her cousins, "It was messier than that."  And irrevocable.  I don't need to wonder if anyone could have saved him.  But the image of that final act is indelible, and as I watch him crying in my imagination, I cry too.  

I wish I could have saved him.  I wish he could have saved himself.

 

We walked together
And with friends. I walked endings
Alone, then and now.

RIP Dave. I will always love you.

 

 

On our honeymoon

 

Do we have to go home now?

 

 

 

Fragile

10/4/13.....I wrote this some time ago, posted it for an evening, decided it was too whiny, and took it down.  Today, after writing about my next steps in this weird journey of mine, I decided to glance through old posts. It was sort of an attempt to see just how I got to this place.  Now, this post gives the context better than any of the others.  I've been spiraling for years, it seems.  It appears that it's time to stop spinning and just be for awhile.  Be a musician.  Be a friend.  Be a caregiver.  Be lazy.  Be broke.  Be there.

Here's the context............................

Last night I attended a performance of the Santa Fe Chamber Music Festival, one of their four Albuquerque run-outs.  It was excellent:  the auditorium acoustics were exceptional, and the players were simultaneously physical and sensitive.  And they played Brahms, which always works for me.  My companion is a fellow violinist, and she knew everyone in the audience it seemed, except for the woman with the intrusive perfume, sitting next to me.  She also had the chutzpah to spot 2 other seats, 3 rows ahead of us, and make plans to shift us there:  at intermission we moved to a place where I could breathe.  At the end, we were both jazzed and dazed by the performances.  We parted ways, promising to get together soon for duets and future concerts.  The future was enticing, full of promise.

It was also the first day in months that I was not exhausted at 2 pm, yawning at 3, and barely able to keep my eyes open at 4.  In fact, I was energized by L's visit the night before, and happy in my life.  I was re-applying myself to the search for a new job in a new place, and I was also figuring out how to continue to connect to the good things in my life here.

So, what happened over night?  When the alarm woke me at 6:45 am, I was prepared to start my routine.  Check out the e-mail and facebook, stretch, walk, shower, make coffee and toast, go to work, pick out the books for the daycare visit.  I read for a bit and then put away the ipad, poised to rise.  And then I realized:  all I wanted to do was sleep.  I didn't feel disgust for the job, I didn't feel stressed or want to avoid anyone or anything, but I didn't want to go in.  With very little pondering, I called in sick, asked J to call the daycare and cancel for me, and I went back to bed.

Except, I couldn't sleep.

So, I've been puttering all day.  Make bed, put away L's air mattress, rearrange the space, wash dishes, drink coffee.  The computer cord doesn't work, so I fuss about getting it replaced.  I finish a book. I notice that the cord started magically working on its own, and I call off the replacement and start editing pix and finishing up my blacksmith blog.  I hear from my realtor:  another roadblock to selling the house.  I talk to the lawyer.  T stops by with a DQ blizzard and keeps me company for a bit.  He leaves and I start reading another book and editing some more pix.

And....I don't want to do anything.  I feel twitchy and at loose ends.  I want to call in sick again, not because I'm physically sick, but because I'm sick of my scheduled, repetitive life.  Yet, I don't have anything better to replace it with, look at how I've spent today.  90 percent of success is showing up.  So I keep showing up.  I keep doing what I'm paid to do, people are generally okay with what I do, how I do it, who I am.  Why am I seriously considering not showing up?

I have managed that for years, and I'm like Jane Eyre, "I tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon. I desired liberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it and framed a humbler supplication; for change, stimulus: that petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space: "Then," I cried, half desperate, "grant me at least a new servitude!"

T would say I'm tempting the bored angels again.  What is the point of a new servitude in a new place? I have a reasonably well-paying job, I'm living within my means,  I like New Mexico, I have friends, acquaintances, activities worth doing.  I've had enough change in that last few years to last a lifetime.  A new job is just a distraction from the real issue:  I don't like who I am.  I won't go into the self-hating litany (why give voice to it?), but it's there, nattering monotonously.

I turn on music to silence the thoughts while I continue to edit pix from my iPhone.  Listening to "Fragile," I think about D.  He sang it at our wedding, while I sang "My ship." Now I think, what odd choices those were.  It's almost like a foreshadowing of the collapse of our marriage. I sang that all the jewels in the world meant nothing without my own true love.  Dave sang that we (and our love?) are fragile.  And here I am, without my love, without a lover, without the beauty and joy.  Fragile.

People I saw in Portland talked about how strong and healthy and happy I seemed.  I wish it were true.  I'm so tired of this game face.