Another year, another loss

My uncle Terry died this morning. He was my dad’s youngest brother and the two of them were good friends as adults. When they were together, off-color jokes and pranks were in abundance. I learned just a few weeks ago that Terry had stage 4 lung cancer that had spread throughout his organs and bones. I planned to visit this upcoming weekend, but when my cousin told me he had fallen in the shower (the day after she and I had been talking about my mom falling in the shower when she was in the last weeks of her life), I left the next day and drove to Ohio to see him and my aunt and cousins.

I don’t know that I would describe me and my uncle as close, but we liked each other. He was a fun guy. My brother and I grew up with him. I think he was closer to my brother, and was actually the last family member my brother spoke to before he died. Terry called my brother on the Sunday before Gary’s Monday death and I have a great video of Gary chatting on the phone with him.

When I arrived at the hospital on Thursday, I saw he had lost a lot of weight and his skin was jaundiced. But his spirit was the same and he made some off-color jokes while I was there, which let me know he was still himself. When he was wheeled off for brain radiation, my aunt turned to me and asked me what I thought about his condition now that I had seen him. I told her that I was concerned about his distended belly and his inability to stand on his own due to bone pain in his leg. She confided in me that she didn’t think the radiation would be much of help and I agreed with her, but we acknowledged that if he wanted to do it, we should let him make that decision.

He was released from the hospital the day I arrived, and I met them at their house to help carry his wheelchair inside. I also got to meet several of my cousin’s kids who live with my aunt and uncle. They were a total delight and we discussed crystals. They recommended I visit a local new age shop and when I did, I bought each of them a crystal bracelet. I gave my business card to the one daughter who is a straight-A student who wants to go to college out of state. I told my aunt that I’d be happy to answer questions/send her information. After I returned back to Mass., my aunt called me to ask me more about my brother’s transition process in order to compare it with what my uncle was going through. She told me the kids said they wished I would move back to Ohio because I’m so nice. That made me smile.

It was weird saying goodbye to my uncle, knowing I wouldn’t see him again. I often wished my brother was there because he could lighten any mood with jokes, and he and Terry would laugh and laugh together. I did my best to do the same, sharing memories of dad, telling them about TikTok videos I’d seen highlighting the troubles of a truck driver (Terry was a truck driver, and visited me in Florida on one of his hauls, and also gave me a ride in his truck to Ohio from Pennsylvania when I was interning at a paper in Harrisburg), and asking questions about his life. We mused on the tv show he was watching (something on the History Channel), and laughed at his youngest granddaughter, who is a total chaos agent.

So, with Terry’s death, another pillar of my childhood is gone. It’s hard for me to overstate how epic these people were to me when I was a child. They were in my week-to-week and my day-to-day. I regularly heard stories of my uncle Terry evading the law in clever ways. Terry lived with alcoholism for a long portion of his life, though he eventually went cold turkey and never drank again. I have a memory of being asleep at my dad’s house—I was around 15—and hearing someone knocking on the door at 2:00 A.M. I woke, but knew there was no chance I was going to the door to see who it was. Eventually I heard dad get up and answer the door. It was Terry and he was intoxicated. Dad let him come in, put a pot of coffee on, and they sat together at the dining room table and talked. At two in the morning. As an adult, I reflect on that memory and I think, that’s some generosity of spirit there because I’d be pissed if someone came drunk to my door at 2 o’clock in the morning. But it was his brother. He wouldn’t turn him out.

Cancer has just leveled all these people. My grandma, my dad, my mom, my brother and now my uncle. Also my closest friend from graduate school who was younger than me, and my MFA advisor, who was my age. It’s hard. I know living life means living with loss, but it just feels like a lot sometimes.

How my dog’s bite saved me

A little more than a year ago, I developed a deep craving for baby carrots. We always had a bag in the fridge, and more often than not it would molder in the vegetable drawer. I wanted to like them more than I did, but even with hummus available, I didn’t eat them with any regularity. That is until one day when I decided to snack on a carrot and it satiated some sort of craving I didn’t realize I had. It felt good; it tasted good; I wanted more of them. I started buying bag after bag of baby carrots and would go through a 16 oz bag in a couple of days. When my husband would go shopping, the only item I needed more of was carrots. I packed them in my purse to have whenever I needed one. I started buying the two pound bags so I wouldn’t have to go to the grocery store as often during the week, but I would still make quick work of them. I would lie in bed at night, reading a book and randomly say to Spence, “You know what would be really good right now. A carrot.” We would be driving somewhere and I would say, “I really wish I had some carrots with me.” At times, Spence would question the health of eating so many carrots. I was nothing short of addicted to them, which is never a good attitude to have toward anything. Not even something healthy. I Googled carrot cravings and would read stories about people whose skin turned orange from eating so many. I hadn’t reached that point, surprisingly. I mostly wanted to know if a sudden and intense passion for carrots indicated some sort of nutrient deficiency. It wasn’t clear from the web search.

In April of this year, my dog Lucy bit my index finger when I was trying to keep her from attacking our other dog. It was a bad bite—she cracked off a small piece of my knuckle. Five days of antibiotics didn’t relieve the swelling in my finger, so the urgent care team directed me to the E.R. for liquid antibiotics. The place was busy, so I sat on a cot in the hallway waiting to be seen. They did an x-ray of my finger, which is how I learned about the chipped knuckle. Eventually a nurse came over to take blood. “Why do you need to take blood,” I asked. “Oh, it’s part of our standard procedure to check a patient’s panel and make sure everything looks okay.” She made her draw and then I went on listening to a podcast on my phone, grateful that I had my earbuds with me.

A while later, the E.R. doctor came over to me and asked how I was feeling. “Okay,” I said. “Has anyone ever told you your hemoglobin levels are low,” she asked. “I don’t think so,” I said. “I mean really, really low. Like, I should offer you a blood transfusion,” she said. I scrunched my face. “Really?” “Yes,” she said. “You’re feeling okay?” “I’m feeling like I usually do,” I said. “You look okay,” she responded. “But your iron levels are at 6.6 and typically anything under 7 requires a blood transfusion.” (I learned later that normal is 12-18) “That can’t be right,” I told her. “We can run the bloodwork again if you want,” the doctor said. “Maybe it’s a mistake.” “Let’s do that,” I responded.

The next result showed my blood iron even lower. I was flummoxed. I declined the blood transfusion, but was sent home with a prescription for iron and instructions to follow up with my primary care physician within ten days. I was in between PCPs at this point, but had an appointment to meet my new doctor in a month, so decided to keep taking iron in the meantime and discuss with my PCP at my first appointment with her.

I’ve been vegan for six years and I know the vegan diet often needs supplementation, but too much iron or b12 also causes problems. I had always assumed I was getting enough of these vitamins in my food, so I didn’t want to risk the problems that occur if you took too much in supplementation. Based on all the various tests that followed my visit to the E.R., the anemia was caused by diet, and more bloodwork showed I also needed b12 supplementation.

And as my iron levels improved, my craving for carrots vanished. Suddenly I was back to my usual feelings about the orange vegetable, which was total ambivalence. I didn’t even finish the bag that was half empty in my fridge. I knew these two things had to be connected—my anemia and my obsessive craving for carrots. Just last night, I did a google search on the two topics and learned of other cases where people had anemia and an out-of-the-blue desire for carrots. It’s called pica, a type of eating disorder. Most of the time it’s when people want to eat non-food items. A common craving for people with anemia is dirt. But when you have a nutritional deficiency that is triggering a compulsive eating of one type of food, that is also called pica.

Now my numbers are up and I’m feeling dynamic and energetic. I’m actually amazed at all the symptoms I ignored, assuming they were from being out of shape or depressed, since I’m still mourning my brother’s death. I would get winded SO easily while walking uphill…not a problem I had before but one I attributed to not exercising enough. I was tired often, wanting to nap. In the winter, my lips were cracked and peeling constantly. My fingernails were thin and breaking. All of these were symptoms. And untreated anemia can be life threatening—just a slow sapping of your life force. I give Lucy credit for saving my life, and I’m kidding only a little. I don’t know why my most recent doctor hadn’t checked my iron levels during my annual physical, but because Lucy bit me and sent me to the E.R., I caught the numbers when they were dangerously low and was able to turn it around.

It’s Sunny Today and it Helps

My altar

It has been a difficult start to 2023. Already, toward the end of 2022, I noticed I was not moving and exercising nearly as much as I should. However, I didn’t want to. I didn’t feel like running. I didn’t feel like taking walks most days either, though I would typically try and get out around the lake while at work. I know I’m in mourning. Will always be in some form of mourning. Have been in mourning for so long. I come back to my brother’s death so often—how there was hope and then there was none. Mom lived with her diagnoses for many many years. Dad lived with his for three. There’s a level of processing that happens during those years that doesn’t take away the grief, but provides time to reflect, prepare. I have had a number of dreams since Gary’s death where I’m sure he’s not dead but just lost. In one, I was looking for him and thought I heard him in another room and was frantic to see him to let him know that people thought he was dead, but I knew he wasn’t. In another—a dream when I was in the throes of covid—I was sitting with him and told him I didn’t think he was dead, but that he had just been misplaced in another dimension. Basically, my heart is broken. But one doesn’t get through life without a heart broken into pieces over and over.

And 2023 started with covid. On 12/30/22 I thought I had a sinus infection and didn’t give it a second thought. At 2:15 a.m. on 12/31/22, I woke up and felt a blockiness in my chest—like a lung full of congestion. I leapt out of bed and took a test that came back positive almost immediately (I barely had to wait 3 minutes to see the positive line). I took another, thinking something might be off with a test that turned positive so quickly, but the second one did the same. I moved into the guest room to quarantine and spent a hellacious week in there. I had heard from friends that their experience with covid was mild, but mine was definitely not. Coughing wasn’t the primary symptom though it was one. It was mostly my head and sinuses and body aches. My faithful companion Jojo seldom left my side, which I appreciated so much. She left only to eat and potty and then came right back and stayed by my side. Spence took a photo of me asleep with Jojo sitting next to me, looking over her shoulder at him. I didn’t know he took it at the time (a perk/con of living with a photojournalist), but when he showed it to me after I was better, I was shocked at the fact that I looked ready for the coffin. Completely drained of color. I did survive, happily, and am so grateful to my immune system, but that time being beaten up from the inside out as my immune system fought the covid virus did not leave me feeling ready to get up and move my body once the fight was over. I was tired for days and days, even after I was ostensibly over covid. And I am better today than I have been, but still dragging a bit when it comes to exercising for its own sake. Last week, Spence and I went on a 4.3 mile hike and I felt invigorated when we were finished, but also thirsty and a bit achey. I came home and slept for 2 hours. The question I’m looking at now is how do I return to a routine of movement? One that I look forward to again? (The cold weather doesn’t inspire me to get outside, unless I’m heading to the woods.) Considering a treadmill, but maybe a space for resistance work is better? I don’t know.

In late 2022, I spoke with my therapist at length about grief, my brother, mom and dad, and how sometimes it feels like I don’t have anyone anymore, even as I know that’s untrue. I have Spence, who is my favorite person on this earth, and terrific friends. But losing your entire nuclear family is unmooring. I miss them all the time. She and I discussed the future and finding things to look forward to or setting goals. She reminded me of some work goals I had set and met in an earlier timeframe, and when I turned 40, that was the year of running and getting to my first half-marathon. Some weeks after that conversation, I realized what I wanted to turn my attention to more fully: Buddhism. I have been informally studying and reading about Buddhism since I was 16, when I was introduced to it by the Beat writers. It has always, always resonated with me deeply and helped me in so many ways when my parents were living with cancer—remembering to live in the moment and not to get carried away by what ifs. Not an easy balance to strike, and I wasn’t always successful, but it was there as a guiding light. When I lived in South Florida, I remember driving by a Buddhist temple on my way to an assignment and thinking how much I’d like to stop, but being too intimidated—I didn’t know what kind of rituals were required before walking in. When I knew we were relocating to our current town, one of the first searches I did (outside of vegan restaurants) was for Buddhist temples. There is one only 20 minutes from my house and it is a Zen temple, going back to the roots of my first introduction! I started attending some online meditation sessions in late 2021 (online sessions were a covid precaution), but didn’t get into the habit. Then I spent 2022 preoccupied with Gary and his diagnosis. In his absence, and in realizing all the people who are gone from my life now, I realized this may be the perfect time to fully turn my attention to Buddhism. It has been in my life as a thread all along, but now, at mid-life, I could practice it and study it more intentionally. The fact that this house is likely our home base for the rest of our lives (even if we snowbird it to a second home) and it’s only 20 minutes from a Zen Buddhist temple fills me with gladness. I enjoy all the teachers and have been to the Koan Cafes, the Heart of Buddhist teachings, and join their morning and evening meditation 2-4 times a week. I hope to take the precepts at some point when the time is right. It’s also nice to be building a community nearby. At one of the sutra services, the Five Remembrances was chanted and that night I wrote it down and hung it above the altar I have dedicated to my deceased loved ones. I think some may read this and feel sad/pessimistic, but, for me, this is the essence of it all. Recognizing that nothing lasts forever is what makes the current moment so luscious and beautiful—it’s going by quickly. Soak it all up.

The Five Remembrances

(Shakyamuni Buddha, from the Upajjhatthana Sutta)

{I am of the nature to grow old;}

There is no way to escape growing old.

I am of the nature to have ill health;

There is no way to escape having ill health.

I am of the nature to die;

There is no way to escape death.

All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature of change;

There is no way to escape being separated from them.

My deeds are my closest companions.

I am the beneficiary of my deeds;

My deeds are the ground on which I stand.

Wintering

I recently wondered if I was depressed. My interest in getting up early to go walking or running has diminished almost completely. Each morning, I am cocooned in my blankets, flanked by my dogs and I am not interested in starting the day. It is such a pleasure to rest there, warm and sleepy.

Just a few weeks ago (August/September), I was getting up early to run/walk and enjoying it. Feeling good. But just like that, the weather cools down and I can barely roll out of bed. And when I do, I feel a bit “blah” about everything. Just unmotivated. Uninspired. Not sad, exactly, but not like myself. (I tend to think of myself as upbeat and positive. My mom used to call my a Big Ball of Sunshine when I arrived for a visit.)

I think about my brother all the time, especially when I’m walking to and from my car at work. I realized one day that I will never get over losing him so abruptly and quickly. And I don’t mean that in some hyperbolic sense, overwrought and emotional. Of course I am filled with grief all the time—for losing all my family and close friends—but it ebbs and flows and strengthens and lessens as the hours go by. That is the nature of grief. But the swiftness of my brother’s experience will always leave me breathless and astonished.

Maybe I’m depressed? I thought. It’s not like me to be this unmotivated to move my body. And when I do, I feel better. When Spence convinces me to hike or go on a walk, I feel better almost immediately. When I’m at work, I feel good, too—interacting with my colleagues cheers me. Perhaps it’s just getting out of my own head that helps.

I receive a substack called Culture Study and it’s excellent. The author recently asked the community to share what they are reading/listening to. I’ve gotten so many great recommendations from this substack. One of the first comments I saw was for a book called Wintering. The commenter wrote “the message is timely as I’m preparing for both literal winter and the metaphorical one I’m dealing with as I navigate a divorce. Ready to hunker down and tend to myself in the next few months, and hopefully emerge in the spring as a brighter, stronger shelf.” Her comment resonated with me. Rather than feeling guilty over not being my usual active self, maybe just see that winter is coming and with it, a time to turn inward and tend to my heart and spirit. To sit with all the changes in my life, in the lives of people I love, in the communities I’m part of. To hold close those I’ve lost and those I’m privileged to still have with me. To just wrap myself in my blankets, get a cup of hot chocolate and a book and be still. (I also bought Wintering)

Summer’s End

It’s raining today, which is absolutely fitting for my mood on the unofficial last day of summer. I don’t recall ever feeling summer end with such finality. Even as someone who hated returning to school—I can still feel the dread that crept in my heart as the first day drew closer—it wasn’t so much the end of summer, but the start of school that was the problem.

This summer started off with great joy—a new pool! Something I had wanted for so, so long. I texted photos to my friends. I told my brother I was a capitalist pig, installing my pool and buying first class airline tickets to see him. He assured me I was not and said he was happy I got my pool and could travel comfortably. We have so many texts from before July—jokes, stories, rants, photos, doctor updates. Then July came along—the month of Gary’s birth—and summer changed precipitously. There was hope for a new treatment at the start, and none by the 12th. By the 18th, he transitioned. Remembering it makes me breathless. The speed of it all. It’s so destabilizing.

I returned home just before the start of August. I canceled a pool party I had planned for my friends from work. I used the pool for exercise more than relaxation. I started spending less time in the pool. When the air is cool, the water feels cool, too, and I must have a low tolerance for cold water. There were fewer scorching hot days that made me excited to get in. A week ago, I went to clear the filter basket and inside was a dead mouse. It startled me—having an above ground pool means we don’t deal with animals finding their way in the water. But this mouse did. I had planned to get in the pool after clearing the filter, but I couldn’t make myself get in. As a germaphobe, all I could think of was the mouse soup I’d be swimming in. I cried off and on all day—wept and wept. Spence didn’t understand why I was so bothered by a dead mouse, but it felt more symbolic to me. This notion of joy being polluted, tainted by death. Summer—where the pool was my refuge while I processed my brother’s situation—ending and this poor, dead mouse being a manifestation of it all…fouling the very water I had found sanctuary.

And, of course, Gary is gone. Even typing those words now makes me cry. We had so much hope. And now I know last Christmas was our last one together. New Year’s was our last one together. Our hikes and meals and movies and books and conversations—they were the last.

I thought pretty seriously about shaving my head as a sort of symbolic, cathartic, visual mourning. I watched videos of women doing it; researched how long it would take for hair to grow back (my ultimate plan is to let my hair grow all one length, but with an undercut to grow out, I thought it might also make sense to shave it all and start fresh). I pulled my hair tight away from my face to get an idea of what it might look like. I slept on it and cried and cried. Was relieved when I woke up the next day and hadn’t shaved my head. Went to my stylist who assured me she could help me grow out my undercut without shaving all my hair off. It would take years to grow back to the length it is now. But it’s nice to know that shaving my head is always an option.

Instead I wondered what I could better do to honor Gary’s life? How can I best represent him and our parents in the world? While I was attending an event earlier this week, I briefly thought about sneaking out early, knowing no one would notice, but it occurred to me then that one way to honor Gary’s life would be to fully put myself into the world. He doesn’t get to be in the world anymore, so I need to fully embrace the opportunities around me to put myself out there more often, talk to strangers, go to events, be in the world. Enjoy it. Enjoy people. Don’t sneak out of events.

During one of our visits in Tucson, Gary and I were walking around a park near his apartment, watching people play pickleball. We were trying to understand what the balls were like—tennis balls? Wiffle balls? As we were walking around the courts, one of the players was leaving and Gary stopped and asked him. He gave us one of the balls to hold and when I told him I was interested in learning to play, he told us to keep it and gave us directions for a place that gave lessons. When we left, Gary said it was so cool that the guy was friendly and gave us one of his pickleballs that I could learn the game with. This curiosity and openness—carrying it with me, letting it move me, reminding me to laugh and find joy, be joy—that is a way to honor Gary and our parents.

I know the grief will ease even as it never leaves. It will shape shift and overwhelm me at different and surprising times. But the feeling of this summer, filled with great delight and hope, and then sudden, awful grief, is imprinted on me. For better or worse, I will always be able to recall it.