|
||||||||||||
Click here to go back to the main page.
Saturday, August 12, 2006 1:05 PM CDT
The trip to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area was arduous, beautiful, fun, challenging, healing. To get into our intended area we lugged our stuff over a 380-rod portage (one mile is 320 rods) in two trips each and wondered why. After two nights of torrential rains and a few equipment failures (leaky tent and tarp, a stove that failed after one use), we left our campsite and returned to Ely to refurbish and repair our gear (and eat a fine restaurant lunch). On the way back to camp the weather was threatening again, so we begged and received a lift across Burntside Lake to the portage in a motorboat with a canoe rack. Thank goodness for that! Otherwise the next storm would have caught us in the middle of a big lake instead of in the middle of a horrendous portage. As it was, we hunkered down under the new tarp while the rain pummeled our already sodden backs. We laughed and joked, not the least bit miserable, and remarked about how many friends at home would ask us (rightly, perhaps), “Now what about this is fun?” Later in the trip the weather was just glorious, and we did a lot of exploring both on land and on the water.
Sonny had lost her brother just three weeks earlier, so it was a grief trip for both of us—hers fresh, mine intensified around the first anniversary. Because Sonny’s brother had Down Syndrome, they enjoyed a special relationship, one of protection and tremendous fondness, and his death has hit her hard. Both Lou Ann and Dickie were on the trip with us, and we spoke of them often and invoked their help.
The first day, I was making that mile-plus portage, feeling somewhat like a yak, carrying a big pack on my back and a big pack on my front. (No osteoporosis for me!) The packs were heavy, and I was hot. As I trudged along I asked Lou Ann to help me out a bit, lighten my load. Next I knew I had tripped over a root and gone sprawling, the packs not weighing me down any more! I laughed out loud really hard—especially since I couldn’t get up—and resolved to be more specific with my requests. Later we would both say, “No joking now! Just help.”
Day four was our day of remarkable wildlife encounters. It was sunny and gorgeous, perfect for drying out all our stuff. Wet clothing, tents, tarps, sleeping bags were hung on lines and spread out on the rocks. Some dozen butterflies flitted about, landing on our clothing and acting friendly. One landed on my hand and allowed me to pass it from one hand to the other. Since it seemed to have one bum leg, I recognized the same individual as it flitted away and came back. After a while, the butterfly started knocking into me. It bumped into my head, my knee, even the side of my face. It appeared to do this intentionally, as though trying to convey something; it was the closest thing to being kissed without being kissed.
Mid-afternoon we set off for our next campsite on Cummings Lake. We crossed Crab Lake and made the short portage from the northernmost bay, again in two trips. When I returned from the first run, there were two loons in the bay, quite close to me. They were not just any two loons. I’m not even sure how to portray their unusual behavior. It wasn’t a courtship ritual that I knew of, but they were so indescribably connected. They swam past each other at close range, turned around and passed each other again, and again, and again. They faced each other and lingered there, then returned to the circling. Then facing away from each other they dipped their heads in the water at precisely the same moment several times. Returned to passing by one another, then dipped their heads in the water together but facing each other. It was a tightly choreographed dance that had both me and Sonny completely entranced for 20-30 minutes looking through our binoculars. As with the butterflies, I felt an intentionality to their actions that was both mystifying and gratifying. Gradually they moved off into the main part of the lake and went their way, leaving me on the shore, tearfully saying “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” and reminding myself to “let go of the beauty,” as Mark of Common Ground Meditation Center tells us.
Other enchantments that day included a hummingbird, bats, dragonflies, other butterflies, and a beaver that let us watch it eat at the Lily Pad Diner. Again, we were transfixed, with our binoculars bolted to our eyes, as the beaver selected one after another large lily pad, folded it in half and then into a wrinkly funnel shape and gobbled it down with eyes closed in apparent bliss. We were probably twenty feet away.
As if that weren’t enough, that night I dreamed about Lou Ann for the first time in months and in the only healing way since she died. We were together in our house. She had been away for a while, since she had died, but had returned to stay. We hugged each other and were so glad to see each other! We talked about how she had been away, and I asked her what it had been like to be dead and look back at this world from that vantage point. She didn’t get to tell me, perhaps because we started crying, and I woke up. A shift had taken place in me. I realized two things: that we living humans worry about things that are truly inconsequential most of the time; and that it’s not accurate to say that Lou Ann really loved me. It’s not in the past! It’s in the present! She loves me (and others, too, of course) now, still, always. While it hasn’t been very long since I dreamed that, incredibly enough the sense of her presence has remained, and I have been happier ever since.
I’ll make one more posting, but this site will be up for awhile, so people can add to it or take whatever is useful from it. If you’re inclined to tell me, I would still very much appreciate memories of Lou Ann. Thank you so much for what I have already received.
Blessings and love,
Elizabeth
Friday, July 28, 2006 12:18 AM CDT
As I head off to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, I’m remembering various camping times with a lot of fondness. Lou Ann and I used to camp many times every year, so of course I always think of her when I go now. But I’m starting to build up memories with others as well: most recently the trip to Olympic National Park with my young relatives. What a place that is! We got to see the high mountains and the rain forest. The last day, it even rained in the rain forest—an added bonus. While the rain forest that’s protected is a minute fraction of its previous extent, it is significantly different from the surrounding area.
Abby is already a terrific camper, being shepherded by her parents. She knows how to do a lot of things, is interested in the natural surroundings, and is patient and comfortable outdoors. Every evening she would climb up on something (such as a huge tree stump) and “produce” a spontaneous “show” for us, doing a running commentary about something or other. One night Elena said as an aside, “This is why Abby needs a sibling!”
Nature continues to be a source of solace for me, and I continue to have adventures with various animals. A couple of weeks ago I caught one of our cats with what I thought was a newly killed young rabbit. I gingerly picked it up and put it in the empty outdoor trashcan. The next morning, the other cat was unusually interested in the trashcan; when I looked in it, there was the rabbit, alive and unharmed! (I let it out away from the cats.)
I enjoyed a long visit the other day with a dear high school friend of Lou Ann’s whom I had never met. She was in town visiting and wanted to meet me. We were out in the flower gardens talking about how sorry she was that she and Lou Ann had lost touch, because it appeared they had so much in common in their adult lives. Just then, not one but two yellow swallowtail butterflies landed on nearby coneflowers and lingered there. I told Jane about the swallowtail that had circled and circled the house at the second storey the day before Lou Ann died. It felt like a needed moment of comfort for each of us.
Pat stayed a couple of days before returning to Duluth. Early one morning she was out with her dog and saw a white chicken in the street near the house! What’s a chicken doing walking around out there? She almost woke me up, and I would have loved it if she had. Recently I’ve heard a rooster crowing in the neighborhood. I hadn’t thought about it till Pat mentioned it, because it was so incongruous that I suspected it was part of my dreaming. In fact, I heard it just this morning. It’s a sound that reminds me of my childhood.
Lastly, yesterday morning I saw a hummingbird drink out of the feeder I put up! Miracle of miracles! It’s only the second time I’ve seen one in the yard, so it was a complete treat. Lou Ann knows what hummingbirds mean to me, and that I’ve had several very meaningful experiences with them, so I fancy that’s how she comes to me.
Since the anniversary of her death, I’ve been more raw and tender than in recent weeks. Healing and scarring are simultaneous, it would seem. Mysteriously, I feel both her absence and her presence very keenly. I’m gradually moving into a state where she is with me almost all the time. The appearance of these creatures is a big help.
The article about memory gardens, including the one I created for Lou Ann, will appear in the StarTribune on August 2. Since I’ll be out of town (and don’t get the paper anyway), I hope you’ll save me a copy.
Again, it’s not too late to tell me about Lou Ann, and I’m going to close down this site in a couple of weeks.
Love,
Elizabeth
Wednesday, July 26, 2006 9:31 PM CDT
Yesterday and today were difficult days, coming down from all the preparation and all the excitement of Sunday. There were 140 people! That many people came by the house, some from quite a distance, because it meant something to them to be here. They love Lou Ann, and they love me and Moon. It was kind of overwhelming, but I am also very aware of the extraordinary experience it was. All those people making the effort and offering a tremendous outpouring of love and support. It was very, very touching.
Pat (from Duluth) stayed a couple of days, making a nice buffer between the crush of people and the solitary life to which I return. Yesterday and today were wet ones for both of us. I got all stirred up over the past week and had to move some energy around about it. While I have healed a great deal in the past year, it is still an unfathomable loss for me as well as for Moon, in our different ways.
Moon attended a twinless twins conference which sounded very interesting and seemed to do her some good. I have a lot of support for having lost my partner so quickly and so young, but I feel like a spouseless spouse.
It still strikes me as a terrible irony that Lou Ann died at the pinnacle of her career and will be remembered for that. According to the remarks of numerous people on Sunday, however, she'll also be remembered for the love we shared as we grew over the course of our relationship. That of course is something that helps sustain me.
I'm off to the BWCA for a week (next week) with our friend Sonny. We're going into an area where there are no fires. There is a horrendous portage at the entry point, which should rule out most people and give us few competitors in the region. We plan to each bring a hammock and some books, so maybe we'll just sway in the breeze all week! "What did you do on vacation?" "Just swayed in the breeze up north." Sounds like just the thing!
I've been pulling together a document from the Caring Bridge web page and from the emails we sent and received over the past year and a half. I'm interlacing the components to have a complete chronology of Lou Ann's illness and the first year of grief and survival. While it stirs up a lot of distress that I couldn't even experience while I was slogging through it a year ago, I am also just flabbergasted by the level of caring and support that people showed to us again and again and again. As I see it in a condensed fashion, I am even more grateful than when it was happening, if that's possible.
I am so very, very fortunate! Thank you, thank you, thank you! And it's not too late to send me any memories of Lou Ann and how you experience her loss.
Love,
Elizabeth
Monday, July 24, 2006 10:52 PM CDT
We made it through the first year! Celebrated Lou Ann’s yahrzeit. It was a good day in its own way. An 80-year-old friend from the Middle East came early in the morning with his daughter on their way to the airport. They wanted to spend a bit of time with me on this day, which meant a lot to me.
Late morning, members of the "care team" gathered here for a really nice ceremony in the Jewish tradition (modified because there's no grave to unveil). We heard prayers, watered Lou Ann’s tree and buried messages to her in the dirt, and watched a video clip of Lou Ann a few years ago looking healthy and having lunch with niece Ana. We ate a wonderful meal together and the food was spectacular. Because the ceremonial part went on longer than anticipated, just as we were done people started to come for the open house! I didn't have a minute of time between to clear away our potluck meal and set out the food I'd prepared for the open house. That was stressful, but we worked it out--just a bit of scurrying and no transition breathing space.
People came throughout the afternoon from all of our communities. Pat and I counted up the people we could remember and identified almost 140 people who came! Part way through the afternoon I was so tired, having been socializing since 8 in the morning, that a friend from Meeting held my hand and gave me some of his energy. Someone else came and put her hand on my knee to add to it, and I suddenly burst into tears from their sheer kindness! I cried for several minutes, from fatigue, sadness, longing, the stress of all those loud people there (I'm a secret introvert, you know), and plain old overexposure, then was able to go on.
A bit later I realized that with so many people there, we weren't really celebrating Lou Ann's life in the way that I had wanted--by reminiscing about her. So one friend organized people in the back room to specifically talk about their memories of Lou Ann. For the next while, people came and went from that room, and simply told tales of Lou Ann or Lou Ann and me. It was very wonderful. If that hadn't happened, I would have ended up wondering why did I go to all that effort? As it was, it was very restorative, both to me and those who joined in.
Lots of people wrote in the book I had ready. Lots of people climbed the tree to the hammock and enjoyed that. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, glad to be there.
It was all in all a very fine happening. I was amazed how many people came. It was both tiring and wonderful at the same time. I'm glad we did it. But I can’t tell if I’m reeling a bit just from all the people energy, or from the one-year experience. Stay tuned, as I will.
I also find it hard to believe it's been a year already. For me, this first year has been a quick spin through the calendar. (Of course, I'm disoriented in time, so how can I tell if it's been long or short? Last Monday I finished up a meeting with some Quakers at a cafe in Minneapolis. Then I thought, hey, it's right down the block to Common Ground Meditation Center, where I sit with some regularity. I think I'll drop in and catch the end of their Sunday night sit. When I walked in, there was a class going on--which I joined briefly. So merely going down the block my mind turned Monday into Sunday! That's EB for you, Lou Ann would say.)
A friend and I, and of course Moon, went to services Friday. It was excellent. A couple from the Shir Tikva congregation had donated a baby grand piano to the synagogue, so the service was in part a celebration of various kinds of musical offerings. It was upbeat and very beautiful musically--a great coincidence that it was Lou Ann's yahrzeit service.
My back is completely torqued out since the plane ride home from Oregon. I've had two acupuncture appointments and two chiropractic adjustments, and still muscle spasms have kept me from sleeping or they wake me up. So I got up and made cookies, or washed the kitchen floor, or worked on the computer, all of which distracted me sufficiently. Recently I've been taking a powerful painkiller that Lou Ann had left over, and it's been helping! At the same time, I've been feeling fairly happy of late. So I guess whatever is going on around Lou Ann's one-year anniversary is coming out in ways more physical than emotional. Life is still pretty unpredictable, evidently. I'm glad to be feeling somewhat lighter, though the back and neck pain is no picnic.
Special thanks this week go to Pat for coming down from Duluth yet again and helping out with everything; Bridget, Ruby, and Margaret for cooking; Ingrid for baking cookies; Bridget for remembering to bring them; Marcy for the wonderful challah; Michael, Jane, Ned, Gudrun, Patrick, Don, Terry, Marilyn, Carolyn for flowers and plants; Patrick for offering food to Lou Ann’s spirit; Linda for coming all the way from Lindstrom to climb up to the hammock; Rachel for coming all the way from Two Harbors, for the great story, and for the rock to care for; Moon for planning an excellent ceremony; everyone who wrote or sent memories and cards; unnamed people who brought food, restocked the table, washed cups, and otherwise helped keep things going; everyone who reminisced in the back room; Pete and Mark for helping out with folded greens; Elena and Bill for supportive messages; Abby for the spectacular hand-made card; Joel and Faith for “El Principito;” Connie for the children’s wisdom; Ligeia for staying in close touch.
I’ll make a handful of new postings and then wind this up.
May we all be peaceful.
Love and appreciation, Elizabeth
Friday, July 21, 2006 2:39 AM CDT
Except for my adolescent years, I have always been a morning person—but not a two o’clock in the morning person! I’ve never been a night person, and I experience being up at this time as insomnia. I have friends, though—night people—who say this is simply being a night person. It’s a curious way for me to think about it.
In fact, I have had insomnia ever since coming back from Oregon. My back and neck have muscle spasms (probably from the plane ride and the torque of swinging my luggage around) with such constancy that they keep me from falling asleep, or sometimes wake me up. Rather than try to fall asleep, then, I get up and do things. The other night my pains woke me at about 3 a.m. I worked on the computer until I heard a cardinal singing. What on earth was it doing singing in the middle of the night? Of course, it was light out and it was welcoming the dawn. Tonight, unable to sleep again, I got up and made cookies.
I’ve been preparing like crazy for Lou Ann’s yahrzeit on the 23rd, cleaning the house, tending the yard, cooking. I pulled out copious piles of weeds, and gave my trees and bushes a summer haircut. For the open house I’m following the general culinary model of our annual open house where we would show our ceramic and wood items. Lou Ann and I would cook in advance. Weeks ahead she would bake miniature chocolate chip cookies and toss them in the freezer. (Then over the course of time, between us we would demolish a whole bag of them! Good thing she made a large supply.) We would also clean and get the house ready for guests, usually to the tune of Aretha Franklin at high volume. Often we would interrupt our preparations to dance around the first floor. As I’m doing the prep now I crank up Aretha, but it sure is a bittersweet experience knowing that I’ll never be able to do that dancing again.
I came home to find several items for Lou Ann in the mail. This after not receiving anything for a good six months. Ironically, one of them was a notice of a grief conference, entitled “Coping with Grief in a ‘Get Over It and Move On!’ World.” Sounded good; but I still had to get Lou Ann off their mailing list. Another was a publication she used to get regularly, which Elena had canceled for me shortly after Lou Ann passed away. When I called them about it, they revealed that “that account has been deactivated.” Then why they were sending her something now? What does deactivated mean? When the woman suggested someone I could contact, I lost my cool. I apologized for raising my voice, but said I wasn’t the one who should be doing something about this. “Get rid of it!” I said. “She’s deceased! She won’t ever want to reactivate this account.” It made no more sense to me than wanting to have Eleanor Roosevelt on their mailing list. What is so galling about this kind of thing is that it’s just like what occurred constantly when Lou Ann was sick. You think you’ve done everything necessary for something to happen, and it still doesn’t work. And it’s going on even after a year! (Some people say it will go on for years and years.)
And yet, I’m doing as well as I can be doing under the circumstances. Friends are so kind. People are sending me memories of Lou Ann, which I will cherish. It’s the small things that flesh out my picture of this person I still adore so much.
Time to try sleeping again. May we all be peaceful and free of suffering.
Love,
Elizabeth
Wednesday, July 5, 2006 12:38 AM CDT
I'm in Portland visiting with Elena, Bill and Abby. We're going to camp in Olympic National Park for a few days. Being with Abby is a huge antidote to grief. She broke big news to me by saying "I'm going to be a big sister." Simultaneously I was thrilled and felt the ache of missing. Abby has been learning some Spanish, including "abuela," the word for grandmother. When Bill asked her how many abuelas she had, Abby replied, "I have one abuela Diane, and one abuela Elizabeth. I used to have an abuela Lou Ann, but she passed away." What a child! She's three going on forty.
I had an extraordinary conversation with my seatmate on the plane coming out here. We started out talking about the book she was reading. She is a former journalist and a specialist in international security and terrorism. We talked about journalistic manipulation of words, education, whether the president was heartless. I alluded to going through a family emergency. By the end of the flight we had spoken about Lou Ann's death, the death of her brother's long-time partner followed within months by her brother's death, how we do or don't talk about such matters, how we should or shouldn't approach a grieving person, how we honor someone's passing, whether we choose to keep living. There wasn't anything slimy or air-all-on-TV about it. It was the simple unfolding of a connection of the heart that we both treasured. And then we parted not even knowing each other's names. Most extraordinary and rewarding.
I'm very aware of how close July 23rd is, and even more aware that July 13th is approaching. I don't exaggerate when I say that was probably the most traumatic day of my life. Lou Ann came within centimeters of dying of respiratory arrest at the clinic. I alluded to it only obliquely last year when it occurred, because it was so terribly distressing. By then Lou Ann weighed less than 85 pounds, too emaciated to receive more chemo, too frail to receive CPR. Because of the fluid in her lung cavity, her breathing was shallow, and a little coughing hitch set in motion an inability to get enough air. The clinic went on high alert, hooked up their oxygen system on full blow. I watched the finger oxygenation monitor and tried to be encouraging as the numbers wavered around 78-81%. It turned out I was watching the wrong numbers, as her blood oxygenation level plummeted from 70 to 60 to 50%. She was collapsing before our eyes. I told her I loved her and I thought I was saying goodbye. What a horrible way to say goodbye, and what a horrible way to die, gasping for breath. Moon was still in France and would not have been able to say goodbye.
Somehow, though, the emergency paramedics' oxygen system worked better than the clinic's system, and Lou Ann managed to pull through. By the time she was in the ambulance for the 50-yard drive to the ER, she had regained consciousness. As she reported later, she went to a place that was completely black, but "the door didn't open for me," so she returned. In the ER, a quietly efficient team of experts got her stabilized; still, it was another couple of hours before she would say, "I can finally get enough air."
Of course her prognosis, already tenuous, was very bad after that episode: no more hope of a remission. Thus began the last period of her life, when she gave up struggling and felt the enormous relief of no-struggle. More about that later.
Meanwhile, I keep doing things to honor Lou Ann's memory. The StarTribune will run an article about memory gardens this month, presumably in the Thursday garden section, and the rose garden I installed last fall will be included. Again, I made a nice connection with both the writer and the photographer, listening to their experiences of loss as I told mine. When we are willing to open our broken hearts to other people, we can often get right to our shared humanity. Maybe we need to be discerning or judicious about this, but there's something not just poignant, not necessarily sad, but somehow relaxing (that's the word that comes to mind) about dropping the usual facade.
On the 23rd Moon will conduct a brief ceremony for Lou Ann's yahrzeit, perhaps at the tree planted for her in the park, and we'll have an open house to celebrate her life. I'm assembling a boook of memories of Lou Ann, no matter how tiny or grand, so if you're moved, please send me one. Perfection is not required, not even desired.
Love,
Elizabeth
Saturday, June 24, 2006 8:06 PM CDT
It’s getting close to Lou Ann’s death anniversary, and as it approaches, my inner life is more tumultuous than in the several weeks prior. I’m distressed by the memories of those last weeks, which were so terribly intense, and nothing seemed to be helping. Sleeping is often difficult. More than once I’ve gotten up in the night and gone outside. One night as I left the house I caught an odd smell, kind of a combination of musk and chocolate, and there with a little snuffle were two deer across the street. They let me get pretty close before sauntering away.
The other morning, as I went out the side door, my eye registered a quick movement, which except for the color would have been the neighbors’ dog. Instead, it was a young deer. It stopped in my front yard and let me approach. With its prehensile lips it nibbled casually on some of the boring orange day lily blossoms, then loped across the street.
Being outdoors, and especially working in the garden, is the greatest solace. I feel Lou Ann’s presence as “we” garden together. I hung a hummingbird feeder, which I inspect every day to see if the nectar level has gone down—nothing yet, but the invitation is there. With the daylight lasting longer around the solstice, I’ve been out in the garden till 9:45 every night.
My Artists’ Way group is at the lesson about abundance. I’ve discovered that what gives me the greatest sense of abundance has nothing to do with anything material; it is to not rush. As I practice slowing down, taking the needed time for things, the feeling of adundance grows. Meanwhile, the earth here is so abundant during this season! I’m eating the best garden produce, including greens, peas, strawberries, and even beets and carrots. There is so much mint that I step on it as I pick peas, then smell that wonderful fragrance as I continue weeding. Last year our little cherry tree produced about 5 cherries, which the birds ate; this year there was a good handful. Not enough for a pie or cobbler (not that I know how to bake those), so I just ate the whole handful. I aim to eat (or share with someone else) every strawberry my handful of plants produce, not let them get overripe or go to slugs. Of course, I accidentally buried one under mulch, and stepped on another one, but my efforts are yielding the most exquisite taste experience. And June is mulberry month. Over the years I’ve explored the alleys in Minneapolis and found the sweetest, most productive trees. Mulberries bear for quite awhile. When I make my forays, my fingers, lips, mouth, and shoe bottoms are purple with them!
Some humans still confound me and others who are going through an intense grief experience. People still find it hard to bring up the loss of someone, for fear of making us feel bad. They don’t understand that it’s the absence of mentioning the person that is injurious, not the mentioning. Not mentioning our people makes us feel invisible, or that they’ve been forgotten. The other day a friend and I were talking about people thinking we should maybe be “done” with grieving after a certain period of time. Certainly the intensity comes and goes, but this loss (others confirm this in their lives) was one of the pivotal experiences of my life, at the level of giving birth to a child. When you’ve given birth, are you “done”? No, the relationship with the child and the birth process is never done. It changes, to be sure. The important thing is for it to stay dynamic, not stuck, but it’s never finished.
And so the intensity comes and goes. I remember last year with a lot of tenderness, too: reading aloud to Lou Ann, saying prayers for us and others every night as we went to bed. May we sleep well and feel rested tomorrow. May everyone going through illness feel relief from pain. May we be free from suffering.
Love, Elizabeth
Tuesday, June 13, 2006 1:48 AM CDT
It’s another night-of-the-elusive-sleep. They seem to be more common as the anniversary of Lou Ann’s final days approaches. I can think of so many things that need to happen besides sleeping! And so I walk outdoors, visit her tree in the park. The full moon is glorious, slung surprisingly low in the sky; I contemplate climbing up in the high hammock to stare at it, but come in to write instead.
Tomorrow (really today) is the last day of school. Who knows how many students will be there? They are disappearing in droves, typical for the end of the year. When school is out I’ll have even more flexibility in how I spend my time. (I should take up napping.) I’ll spend ten days in Oregon, including a trip to the Olympic Peninsula, which I realize is in Washington, with a wonderful three-year-old and her wonderful parents. I’m so happy Elena and Bill take Abby camping so often—carrying on a family legacy, and helping a youngster feel safe and comfortable outdoors. I’m always dismayed that so many city kids don’t have that experience these days.
I have been gardening and landscaping up a storm. It’s tremendously comforting. Last Saturday I spent the entire day outdoors. It had shifted back to cool weather, perfect for doing yard work. I pruned bushes, moved loads of bricks, weeded, set in some plants, transplanted others, weeded, threw some rocks around, weeded, hauled weeds, gave the distant plants and Lou Ann’s tree a wheelbarrow full of water, weeded, weeded, and weeded. I ate the first strawberries (like nothing you can buy anywhere), harvested greens and nettles, and watched the peas grow taller. The next day I was sore all over, but felt a satisfied exhaustion. A woman from the StarTribune contacted me. She’s doing a story about people who have created gardens in memory of a loved one, and we arranged for her to take a look at my place. It would be a real honor to have what I’ve done acknowledged in that way.
Even though I’m subliminally very distressed by memories of the events of a year ago as things with Lou Ann’s illness began to come to a head, at the same time I’m remembering how she handled her final days. It was the most extraordinary experience! She became more and more peaceful, more accepting, almost transparent as she gave up the struggle to overcome the cancer. So I’m caught between the horror and the wonder of that experience. Is it any wonder I’m having trouble sleeping?
Thanks so much for the recent messages! I am so very appreciative of the Caring Bridge organization for providing this free service.
Love and gratitude,
Elizabeth
Thursday, June 8, 2006 11:05 PM CDT
Tonight was El Colegio’s graduation ceremony. It was a strangely low day for me, and I finally understood that it’s because of what was happening last year. I didn’t attend graduation because it was the day of Lou Ann’s surgery. She spent hours in the recovery room while Moon and I became increasingly frantic. Finally she came onto the Intensive Care Ward, but it was touch and go as to whether she would even make it through the night. So in some way, even though it’s a different date, that awareness percolated through me all day. My old colleague Cathy recognized the connection this evening and gave me some kind affirmation.
I find that as the calendar turns toward Lou Ann’s last days, I am increasingly touched by the time right before her death. At this time last year we were still hopeful enough for her recovery that Moon and her family could comfortably go off to France for vacation. How quickly, then, things took a turn for the worse. Those memories are with me keenly, and regularly keep me from getting a good night’s sleep.
School is almost out. Students are either blowing it off or working feverishly to finish up their projects. There is a heightened sense both of excitement and of irritability. We staff just completed our evaluation process and got notices about our jobs next year. I’m relieved that I will have one! While the school would be letting go of someone very valuable if they didn’t rehire me, our budget constraints are more than severe; it could have happened for financial reasons alone. The result: next year I will be a part-time Special Ed paraprofessional, along the lines of what I am doing there now. It will be an hourly position (with benefits), loosening my connection with the decision-making roles we all play. That could be a plus and a minus. Eventually I would like to be what I call a Project Management Consultant, being available to help all students give shape to their independent projects and connect them with community resources, but there is no money now for a position of that nature. It is possible that I could work for more than one school in that capacity.
Another notice about this page: although the spam has tapered off, and I hope for good, I feel the energy for doing it winding down. During Lou Ann’s illness it was a critical communication tool, and for months after her death it was important for people to keep tabs on me and make sure I was doing OK. It has been a very wonderful tool for me to report and express myself about this year of grieving, helping me to stay connected with people through this difficult time. But it’s starting to turn into just a blog, and that doesn’t really interest me, being too one-sided. We could say it’s a grief blog—(glog?)—about my first year without Lou Ann and my struggle to forge a new life without such an important person to me, and leave it at that.
So expect to see this document wrap up around the time of Lou Ann’s memorial service anniversary, August 7. In the meantime, it would be really great to receive some final messages before it closes down.
Blessings galore, Elizabeth
Sunday, June 4, 2006 10:28 PM CDT
I escaped the near hundred-degree heat to spend Memorial Day weekend by Lake Superior, the one cool spot in Minnesota. It was so fun to go back into spring! There were daffodils still blooming, as well as tulips, lilacs, and flowering crab apples. Because they had moved north to their summer home, I heard again the white-throated sparrows. Hummingbirds and warblers came to the feeder. After gardening in the sun with our friend Rita, she and I jumped in the Sucker River for a first-of-the-season swim, complete with happy shrieks and waterfall massages.
I got an excellent bread lesson from the master baker. I understand a lot of what went wrong before, and we made a few crucial adjustments. Now the key will be science—is it replicable?
Pat and I walked down a long sand beach one afternoon. We saw dozens of monarchs foundering in the sand, some with badly broken wings. One stayed on my hand for some distance; another crept up my arm to my shoulder and rode for a while. I felt the ghost of its touch there for some time after it flopped away. We could help a few of them become airborne, but mostly we had to accept nature’s way of conducting things. On the way home I couldn’t avoid the heavy holiday traffic, but I drove the speed limit in the right lane. Let people pass me and think I’m an old lady! It was much more peaceful, and I got spectacular gas mileage.
I returned to summer in St. Paul. All my flowers had completely burst into bloom! I’m doing what Lou Ann always did, bringing cut flowers indoors for added cheer and fragrance. The plants I installed in her honor are doing wonderfully. I have hopes for the hummingbird plant to draw those exquisite birds to the yard, and the two roses I put in are acting their incredible rose part: bright, fragrant, alluring blooms that seem to greet me when I approach. For all its beauty, one of them is named Purple Pavement. Purple PAVEMENT? Gotta rename that one! How about Purple Passion, or Purple Prose?
As we approach the longest day of the year, I spend a great deal of time outdoors. Today was another first. I fell asleep in my high hammock with no danger to myself at all. When I climbed down I discovered that I had spent more than three hours up there, eating, reading, resting! (I also discovered how many bug bites I got.)
Although I am not currently tormented by particular dates to acknowledge, I remember vividly what was going on last year at this time and all the changes taking place in Lou Ann’s appearance and condition. It’s really hard to relive that time as she came closer to her death, though we didn’t realize then just how close she was. I can scarcely believe how quickly the time has gone by! On July 23rd it will already be one year since that fierce thunderstorm which marks her death date in our memory. Moon and I will acknowledge the date with something ceremonial.
I still have to take care of some things with Lou Ann’s estate. I filled out and brought back the Probate Court paperwork I was given two weeks ago, only to hear that it’s not the right paperwork. They don’t know IRS law. I could consult a lawyer for $25 and perhaps save myself the $250 filing fee, or more likely, pay the lawyer to find out that I have to pay that fee. It reminds me so much of dealing with the medical system last year. Every person you talk with has a different answer, which the next person finds wrong. It’s very exasperating. Then I recall a message I heard in Quaker Meeting when I was a teenager. I would say it now using inclusive language, but here is how it was delivered: “The measure of a man is the size of the thing that gets his goat.”
Take your time with goodbyes. May we be generous in our receiving as well as our giving.
Love, Elizabeth
Friday, May 26, 2006 7:27 PM CDT
Welcome to summer, at least in Minnesota. Whew! It’s come in a flash. Of course it reminds me of what we were going through this time last year. It’s been more than ten months since Lou Ann passed away—I can hardly believe it.
Mostly things are easing up, but every now and then there’s a downturn. There was one last Friday. I filed Lou Ann’s taxes for 2005. She qualifies for a significant refund, which will go part way toward paying her accountant for figuring that out. The trouble is, in order for me to receive it, it isn’t enough for the IRS to have me fill out the paperwork that accompanies the tax forms. Not even a will naming me her personal representative is enough. I have to have probate court appoint me her official representative (on the basis of her will), for which they want an unnatural sum. Then they can provide me—for an additional fee, of course—a letter to send to the IRS. This was such an addition of insult to injury that I cried all the way home. That same evening I received two solicitation calls asking for Lou Ann. I thought a lot about how to talk to people who call, in their innocence, without making them as well as me feel worse. It was not a good day, all in all.
I keep having bread adventures. I’m going to Duluth for the long weekend, and I’ll get a tutorial with my ingredients and equipment. In the meantime, I’ve broken my two glass baking pans by doing the same thing I’ve done every week for months, so I’m more confused than ever. Aren’t learning curves delightful?
I wonder about the legacies of Lou Ann (speaking of bread, which she was so good at making). I find I’m becoming quite clumsy recently, not my usual mode. I bump into things, drop and break things, spill things. Lou Ann wasn't clumsy, but she wasn’t surefooted. She went through several years of being quite accident prone, wrenching her knee, falling, getting in car crashes. I really worried about her, but eventually it stopped. Am I carrying on something now? I also have had really itchy eyes, and I understand that it’s been a tough season for those suffering from allergies. Trouble is, I’m not one of them. At least not till now. Lou Ann was, though. Other things happen that make me think Lou Ann has a hand in them somewhere. Things disappear and reappear, like library books, photos, tools. Things fall over without any apparent cause, like a pile of chips at the poker table that nobody touched. Makes me wonder. . . Is this how she’s staying around? Am I making it up?
I’ve encountered a number of old friends recently. Their response to me is so interesting! They say I look great, or look healthy, or the house and yard are wonderful. I’m touched by this enthusiasm. I also think it’s infused with a sense of relief on their part, as though they expected (or feared) that I’d have decompensated after such a devastating loss.
July 23 will mark one year since Lou Ann’s death. After that, chances are I’ll close up this website. Here’s your warning. Meanwhile, here’s a little quote from Octavia Butler, The Parable of the Talents. “Kindness eases pain, love quiets fear, and a sweet and powerful positive obsession blunts pain, diverts rage, and engages each of us in the greatest, most intense of our chosen struggles.” Maybe I’ll find that blunting and diversion in one or more of my big art projects that have been percolating: turning Lou Ann’s car into an art car honoring her ceramics, and building a life-sized model of a giraffe (one of my favorite animals) in the back yard.
Be gentle with yourself.
Love, Elizabeth
Wednesday, May 17, 2006 10:49 PM CDT
Happy May!! It’s such a glorious month, isn’t it? I enjoy watching the progress of spring: the sequence of wildflowers blooming. The white-throated sparrows are lingering here, which indicates it’s still pretty cold up north, but it’s uncanny how they know that. Warblers are still passing through, and here to stay are goldfinches, purple finches, orioles, wrens. After all the rain, the insects have appeared. I accept the annoying ones because there are also the essential pollinators, without whom we wouldn’t have much food. Bumble bees are cruising the garden. My peas are high and the greens almost ready for a salad harvest; so sweet are those “first fruits.”
The relentless calendar of observations about Lou Ann has finally tapered off, thank goodness. My, but it took its toll. Of course there are always things to observe, but they are more diffuse now. The unexpected is always happening, but what else did I expect?
I have run into many people lately who didn’t know that Lou Ann died, and it’s hard to tell them that fresh news.
At the neighborhood Progressive Dinner a couple of weeks ago we had a beautiful ceremony to plant a linden tree for Lou Ann in the park near our house. Even though it was raining pretty hard, more than a dozen people participated. I read poems by Mary Oliver about deer; they are one of Lou Ann’s favorite animals and frequently seen in the neighborhood. People said things if they wished. We wrote messages to Lou Ann on pieces of paper and put them into the hole along with the tree; they’ll become part of the nutritive elements of the tree. I like knowing that anyone can visit that spot and be nurtured by the messages as well as by the tree.
Last week Moon was part of an exhibit of work by the students of two local painting teachers who are retiring. She showed pastels from her Grief Series. When I saw them I started to cry; she really captured something of the raw emotion associated with grieving. It was very touching. I have found that one of the most healing things I can do is make art. I’m glad she has access to that as well. It really helps.
I hang out in my high-altitude hammock in the leafy canopy. Such solace it brings! I have some other hare-brained (= creative) schemes for the yard that make my friends wonder. I’m not a true daredevil, but I notice that I’m not afraid of things that used to make me nervous or scared. I think, one of the worst things that could happen has already happened; what could be worse? I no longer worry about dying. If anything, I’m afraid of fully living! That’s our ongoing adventure, isn’t it? Am I crazy, then? Yes. Certifiable? No. As Lou Ann often said to me, “E.B., you’re just not like most people.” [Thank heavens! It’s prob’ly why she chose me.]
This week two spam messages appeared on the guestbook here! It makes me think it will be time to close down the site before long. So here’s the first notice: probably soon after Lou Ann’s yahrzeit (one year since her death on July 23rd) it will have run its course.
And we carry on. The mobile of our relationships has shifted. We need to rebalance it or rebuild it. We honor the ones we’ve lost by carrying forward their love for us, and ours for them, into the rest of our lives and sharing it with others. It may take awhile, but as we are able, actively putting that energy into something re-engages us with life. Scientists say the health benefits of altruism are measurable! It keeps our lives from being meaningless.
May we each lead a meaningful life.
Love,
Elizabeth
Wednesday, April 26, 2006 9:44 PM CDT
More signs of spring: that magnificent short period of warm days and no bugs that gets levered in between winter and summer in Minnesota. Memories of early bike trips and canoe outings. Lou Ann’s plants budding. White-throated sparrows singing, here for just a handful of days on their way to the northern forest. I redid the rock cairn for Lou Ann; it listed when the ground thawed and the top of the pile slid off. Harvesting fiddlehead ferns for dinner. Riding my scooter from parking places to destinations. Pools of color on the street from fallen tree flowers. One year since Lou Ann started chemo, still with high hopes for full recovery. Cool weather vegetables are up. Edible rhubarb. Rhododendrons in bloom, more reminders of my New England years. Hanging out in my hammock aerie. Pulling the miniature maple “tree farm” out of the grass and gardens. Playing the piano again after a year of not being able to. Lou Ann’s handicapped sticker is about to expire—not that I am allowed to use it, just something to note. Coming up: the last of the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra season of concerts that Lou Ann wasn’t able to attend. The May Day Festival in Powderhorn Park. An annual trip with students to a goat farm in southern Minnesota. The St. Croix Valley Potters’ Tour. The annual progressive dinner in our neighborhood. This year our neighbors will plant a tree Lou Ann’s memory in the park across from the house, and I’ll organize a little ceremony for that. I’ll have to remember to bring Kleenex. It will be a lovely place for anyone to visit when we want to ponder the mysteries of life and death.
I anticipate that the relentlessness of things to mark may begin to let up a little now. I feel a slight lifting of burdens as the spring progresses and the tumble of recent events passes on by. While I am still completely brokenhearted—my heart broken open—I am starting to get accustomed to my life as it is. And as I review the events of the past year, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for ALL the support and attention Lou Ann and I, and then I, received during that year. The list is miles long, and there is no way I can repay it. I only hope I can convey to you something of the appreciation that I feel, and someday pass it along to others.
Love, Elizabeth
Tuesday, April 18, 2006 4:58 PM CDT
In April 1977 Lou Ann and I and another friend went on a three-day bike trip in Minnesota. It was a spring just like this one: warm days, chilly nights, gorgeous trees in flower, few insects. The landscape is so beautiful near Nerstrand, Faribault, Northfield, and there were great hills for me to show Lou Ann how to effectively shift her new ten-speed bike. We camped out under the stars, and Lou Ann and I talked into the night.
Twenty-nine years ago today, a few days after that bike trip, Lou Ann had a conversation with me that launched our love relationship. Ever since, we have observed April 18th as our anniversary. It’s been a poignant couple of weeks for me, with various unexpected emotional experiences in addition to the expected ones, so I’ve been reeling a lot of the time.
Anticipating this date, I put out a call for help and [THANK YOU, THANK YOU] received a couple of dozen beautiful messages. All the wonderful thoughts and prayers have helped me be able to answer “Excellent” to queries about how I’m doing today. Twice in recent days I’ve had the chance to tell the story of our beginnings, which has paved the way for focusing on the sweet, tender, lengthy courtship we had. I feel so privileged to have spent 28 years with this wonderful person and grateful for the life we built together.
Especially after my time in Death Valley, I’m reminded yet again of the importance of witnessing one another’s experiences. It is so beneficial to tell our stories and hear each other’s stories.
Love, Elizabeth
Friday, April 14, 2006 9:05 PM CDT
Last weekend I attended the American Craft Expo in St. Paul. Lou Ann and I often went, and knew many of the exhibitors. I was looking forward to seeing people I know. I was not prepared for encountering the number of people who did not know about Lou Ann's illness and death. They greeted me enthusiastically: "So how ARE you?" "Umm, wellll, I don't exactly know how to tell you this . . ." And then I had to watch their shock and disbelief and sadness. It was much more difficult than I anticipated, and by the end of the weekend I was distressed and exhausted. [You'll recall that I had made a KFAI pledge in Lou Ann's memory, and every time I thought of Lolly calling me at home, I burst into tears.]
More signs of spring: edible chives; spring vegetables planted; shimmering pastel colors of different trees budding; shining yellow forsythia that reminds me of my New England childhood; spring peepers; plants installed last fall in honor of Lou Ann are budding out; first thunderstorm; screens on; camping outdoors; laundry drying in the sun; the smells! Sounds of circular saws; Passover without Lou Ann.
I attended two Seders this week. One I hosted with several women from Lou Ann’s old Jewish group. It was very meaningful for me, and for the others as well. Except for Lou Ann not being there—which is of course an enormous exception—it felt like old times, which was very healing. The second night I was included in a new group, which was a bit of a challenge at first; but I was made to feel welcome, and it was a wonderful ceremony.
The timetable of events to mark in the past 13 months has been nothing short of relentless. Hardly two weeks go by without something else to observe, either part of this “year of firsts,” or a recapitulation of last year. The train cars of mourning just keep barreling over me. The more I go through these events, though, the easier they are to bear. Some others find the same: the more they can overcome their hesitation about coming to our house, for instance, the less reason there is to fear it.
Easter is right here, too. Although neither Lou Ann nor I celebrated it in a religious way, we had things we always did, and this year I’ll be representing us at a friend's gathering. And so we find ways to carry on, and affirm life.
Love, Elizabeth
Sunday, April 9, 2006 9:49 AM CDT
Signs of spring: birds passing through on their way north; creeping Charlie; woodpeckers rarttling their brains on trees and poles; rhubarb poking up; hammock reinstalled in the tree; Lou Ann not here. Last fall I dug out ALL the boring orange day lilies, and now there are vast numbers of them coming back up. Everything I do in the garden is for Lou Ann; of course this is still the focus of my life. We either did things together, or she had her areas and I had mine, and now I have hers, too. Sometimes this activity is excruciating, but often these days it’s more like a devotion. I’m hoping the scales will tip more in that direction as time goes on.
On my spring break from school I worked to trim out the closets in the bedroom. They had been roughly framed in and half done, but never had doors or a proper shelf. Hanging sheetrock and doing the mudding and taping was a strong reminder of remodeling this place in 1995.
I have scruples about using resources appropriately. We had so much leftover sheetrock, which is essentially gypsum, fiberglass, and paper, and I hated to waste it. A materials science friend told me that it’s not harmful to the environment to put it out on the ground over the winter and let it work into the soil. After all, gypsum is what breaks up clay, and do we ever have clay here! Lou Ann was skeptical, but was persuaded to give it a try. Why throw gypsum into the dumpster and then go buy gypsum at the garden store? I notified our new neighbors of what I was doing, and the back yard was littered with pieces of sheetrock, to be later hidden by snow.
In the spring, instead of nicely loosened clay soil, we had a disgusting layer of soggy sheetrock! Lou Ann put her foot down: will you just get that sh-- out of here? And so we did. Some time later we learned that it’s not such a great idea after all; I’ve forgotten the explanation, but Lou Ann was vindicated.
Lou Ann listened to KFAI every Friday afternoon. She loved Lolly Obida’s show, the Sugar Shop. Last week I made a pledge in memory of Lou Ann, who always pledged during Lolly’s show. It was reported with tenderness, but when I called I was so emotional that I didn’t really convey how much Lou Ann valued that show. So I wrote Lolly a letter about it in support of what she does there for community radio. She read some of it on the air on Friday, while I poured tears into the mud I was using in the closet. I had forgotten to say that Lou Ann, like Lolly, loved Al Green’s music most particularly, but by chance, and most poignantly for me, Lolly played one of his best songs later in the show.
As if that weren’t enough, that evening she called me at home to tell me how touched she was by what I had written! We had a lovely talk about life and death, some of her losses, and how we have received the gift of love from the people we loved who have passed on. I told her that while I had cried a lot that day, I would also be smiling as a result of her call. What a beautiful act of generosity on her part.
May you give and receive many such gifts of generosity.
Love, Elizabeth
Saturday, April 1, 2006 10:57 PM CST
On April 1, 1995, Lou Ann and I made an offer on the house I still live in. We had looked at more than 70 places before going into rehab mode. Over four months before moving in, we completely gutted and remodeled the place, converting it to something we truly enjoyed living in. Every day we worked our bodies to the bone, wondering why we were doing it. And every evening we would walk across the street to the burial mounds overlooking downtown St. Paul, watch the sunset, and have our answer.
We were warmly welcomed into the neighborhood and have made fast friends here. There is an annual neighborhood progressive dinner, and this year we will plant a tree in the park across the street to honor Lou Ann’s memory. For many of us that will be a special event and a precious place to spend time afterward.
With the help of our friend Rita from Duluth, I have been attempting to carry on Lou Ann’s practice of baking bread. It’s trickier than it sounded! I’m strictly a novice baker of anything but cornbread. My first try at a sourdough loaf was an exercise in pure frustration. I was terribly discouraged and downhearted, and it just about broke my heart not to have Lou Ann around for advice. I ended up with four items that only a mother could love. They expanded all right, but during baking, instead of rising they spread out to the sides like gigantic chocolate chip cookies. Fortunately, the taste and texture were good, but I had to slice them horizontally like pita bread. Since objects in the bread-making world have French names, we’ll have to come up with a French term that means “Frisbee.”
The next week’s effort produced something a little higher, still very tasty but lacking something in the shape department. You might call the results biscotti. Last week’s attempt was another mystery. This is an all-day process, mind you, actually beginning the day before you bake. One of the instructions says you can hold the proofed loaves in the fridge overnight. Last week I did all the steps, but had a dinner engagement which prevented me from baking right away. So I put the proofed loaves on the porch to stay cool till later in the evening. I heated them up in the oven at the very lowest temperature, then resumed following the directions. You put the loaves in to bake, spray the inside of the oven a few times to steam the bread, then bake it for 45 minutes. I got that going, then went upstairs to do some things. In 10 minutes all the smoke alarms were going off. I grabbed my earplugs, pulled the bread out, yanked out the smoke alarms, and tried to figure out what happened. The whole downstairs was full of smoke! I guess the baking process had begun when I was just warming thing up, because the bread was done, even burned on the bottom, in a fraction of the usual time. Scraping off the burned parts yielded something still edible and even tasty.
Today my bread came out a little higher. We’re moving slowly toward better results. Boy, do I still have a lot to learn, though! It gives me huge sympathy for my students and their reactions to things they’re trying to learn. On the other hand, little successes are thrilling, I would go so far as to say.
Thank you for all you’ve done for us and for me during the past year.
Love, Elizabeth
Tuesday, March 28, 2006 10:46 PM CST
It really does seem like spring here now: mud season, even though there is still a bunch of snow in certain places. I can hardly wait to put vegetable seeds in the ground. The birds are being really vocal, and I’m eager to install my aerial hammock again to watch the migratory species pass through.
It’s also tax time, never my favorite time. This year is especially painful, since Lou Ann needs to have a final tax return filed for 2005. I had long since gotten her papers together in order to close down her practice, so collecting them for her tax preparer was relatively simple. However, itemizing all her deductions has meant going through her business checkbook, her personal checkbook, and her calendar. So many memories have come back as I do this review: Oh, that’s when we bought the . . . Calendar pages have appointments crossed off and the word “hospital” written across them. Hmm, she had to cancel this, or purchase that, or go to the clinic then. Not only am I remembering the progress of her illness and how dreadful that experience was, but I’m feeling somewhat re-traumatized by all of it.
When we just have to put one foot in front of the other to get through the day or week, there’s no time to pull back and reflect on the whole experience. That’s what I’m doing now. It’s very poignant.
I am constantly struck by how people relate to me and this grief experience. I find that my expectations (of myself, of other people) need continual adjustment. When something goes on and on, we have to find new ways to really deal with it. Waiting for it to pass or ease up just doesn’t work. Even when I put the call out that I need or wish for certain things to happen, I can’t make other people do what I most want! I don’t know why I ever thought I could, but now I’m called upon more than ever to simply accept what is. Before Lou Ann died, she asked several people to be sure to “take care of EB.” While it sounded right at the time, and everyone meant well including Lou Ann, it isn’t completely fair to ask that and expect it to happen. In an odd way, relationships become more honest after someone is gone from the constellation of people. Relationships have to stand on their own merits. If one of us was included in get togethers because of the other person, that situation has perhaps now changed. It’s quite a curiosity to me.
One thing I’m doing to keep Lou Ann alive in me is to carry on some of her legacies. The other week I discovered in her pottery studio some large bowls she had made for us to use in the kitchen. They have been through the bisque (initial) firing. Now I have the chance to glaze them and fire them and use them. I don’t know enough to do it by myself, but certainly can with help. It will be a precious body of work that we will have collaborated on.
Another project I’ve taken on, also one of Lou Ann’s legacies, is bread baking. She got very good at it, and I am seriously not a baker. Next time I’ll recount some of the foibles of my steep learning curve about how to bake good sourdough bread. I’ve still got a long way to go!
Meanwhile, be gentle, and keep in touch.
Love, Elizabeth
Sunday, March 19, 2006 1:58 PM CST
Death Valley Days: Part Fifteen, and probably the last. We talked at length about the application of Rites of Passage work. Is it still relevant to talk about making meaning and marking transitions as dying, in today’s world? Our response was a resounding “Yes.” After all, much of the sense of alienation we feel and observe comes from being disconnected from nature/the land, and disconnected from awareness of our own mortality. Making a commitment to dying is making a bigger commitment to living. Smaller “deaths,” such as moves, job changes, and birthdays—if we approach them consciously—are preparation for our own literal death. We acknowledge that it’s not a linear or intellectual process, but a flow to which we can surrender if we choose.
The usefulness of these pan-cultural initiatory practices lies in their application to daily life. The South and West directions are about knowing who we are, bringing ourselves to the circle of our lives with honesty and curiosity. North and South are the realm of action; East and West are the realm of reflection. The Death Lodge practice is about seeing what we’ve done with our lives and what needs to happen to set things right with ourselves and others. We can look closely at ourselves, know our faults and what we should make amends for. The work of ceremony is to inquire what does each direction ask me to do in order to repair whatever is going on in my life? In this way we make things present Now.
After a week of being taught and held in such an affirming circle, I wanted to hold on to the experience! Let’s not go home yet, OK? I wanted to buy all their books, look up the calendar of trips coming up and sign up for another one soon. I’m pretty good at this group stuff. Maybe I could apprentice with them and go deeper into this work. Maybe I could eventually go to work for the School of Lost Borders! Then I caught myself and saw what I was doing. Of course we need to go on retreat from time to time, get rejuvenated, but this kind of grasping was completely missing the mark. My real work is to bring this experience back into my daily life.
So what’s my daily life? Remembering to breathe (with awareness, that is). Marking life’s transitions. Keeping my intent clear. Practicing self-nurturance. [I accidentally wrote this as “elf-nurturance;” maybe that’s important as well!] Perhaps most especially, affirming the inherent goodness of my students at El Colegio instead of feeling judgmental toward them. This is also life work.
As I go through my grief experience, I realize that healing is taking place at the physical level as well as the emotional level. No wonder I’m so tired all the time! A dear friend just gave me a copy of a wonderful book that was unfamiliar to me: Tear Soup—A Recipe for Healing After Loss. Here is the recipe.
Helpful ingredients to consider
· a pot full of tears
· one heart willing to be broken open
· a dash of bitters
· a bunch of good friends
· many handfuls of comfort food
· a lot of patience
· buckets of water to replace the tears
· plenty of exercise
· a variety of helpful reading material
· enough self care
· season with memories
· optional—one good therapist and/or support group
Directions: Choose the size pot that fits your loss. It’s okay to increase the size if you miscalculated. Combine ingredients. Set the temperature for a moderate heat. Cooking times will vary depending on the ingredients needed. Strong flavors will mellow over time. Stir often. Cook no longer than you need to.
Suggestions: Be creative. Trust your instincts. Cry when you want to, laugh when you can. Freeze some soup to use as a starter for next time. Keep your own soup making journal so you won’t forget.
Serves: one.
Thank you for your support.
Love, Elizabeth
Monday, March 13, 2006 11:24 PM CST
Happy Spring! I get to ski again before the season’s finished. Such an incredibly beautiful snowy day today in the Twin Cities; it was magical, as long as you didn’t have to go anywhere.
[Just a note: numerous people have asked about closing down this web page. I will eventually do that, of course, but only after considerable notice. Meanwhile, thank you so much for reading it and for leaving me messages from time to time.]
Things keep evolving through my grief process (thank goodness, really). Every time I report some aspect of it, there’s a shift. Nowadays I feel Lou Ann with me in a subtler and more constant way. Lately I’ve felt more of her presence than her absence, although that absence is still so very palpable.
Having become ready to part with them, I gave almost all of her shoes to Moon the other day. But I found I had to hang onto one particular pair because it looked so much like her little feet. So there are her little feet under the dresser, strangely comforting. With tax time upon us, once again I’m procrastinating getting tax forms ready. I have to take care of the final filing for Lou Ann, too, and I’m resisting doing that.
On the other hand, I’m getting involved in some new things, and I keep doing artwork related to Lou Ann. That is a most helpful thing to do. I’m working on making my “mourning cloak,” à la the beautiful butterfly of that name. I’m taking a long wool coat and converting the lining into something that resembles the inside of that butterfly’s wings. There’s a learning curve about dyeing and painting silk, but another great thing is that there are people to help. It’s ironic that as I start to get happier, I feel Lou Ann with me more. And of course she wants us to be happy! I keep learning about doing things in a relaxed way, not using more energy than is required, letting things flow naturally. For me, this is life work.
Death Valley Days: Part Fourteen. In case you thought it was over, there’s more to tell. It was interesting and healing to say goodbye to the land, using the five steps we learned (forgive me; I forgive you; thank you; I love you; goodbye). It made me feel more connected to Death Valley as a true place of learning and wisdom.
In the circle, we talked about the relevance of this ancient initiatory practice to the modern, predominantly urbanized world. We agreed that there are many ways it can be made relevant besides finding the parallels with hospice care.
We received our final group witnessing: we honor how the leaders, Meredith and Scott, have danced with death in their own lives. There was a seamless working together in the group and a deepening of friendship. The teachings became more articulate, no hesitation. There was spaciousness in our daily rhythms, like in-breathing and out-breathing. There was considerable co-teaching, co-creating the experience with the whole group. The threshold time was light, aware; once the preparation had been done, it contained the macrocosm and the microcosm of the in-between time.
And we are left with questions. Will we remember to mark transitions? Will we notice in ourselves the times when we’re out of balance? Will we remember to make it good with others? Will we realize that our childhood memories are filters for what we know? Will we recall how precious these fleeting moments are?
I will leave you to ponder these things as well.
Love, Elizabeth
Wednesday, March 8, 2006 9:40 PM CST
Happy International Women’s Day! I thought I’d make a posting when I’m feeling somewhat upbeat for a change: no students at school today, and fun listening to KFAI’s annual 24 hours of programming to honor March 8.
Losing Lou Ann has brought a steep learning curve about what’s inevitable and what’s not, what I expect of people, what people have to offer, what is bearable, what our concepts of life and death are, how suffering can be avoided even as we embrace pain, what is fixed and what is not. It’s actually a very amazing experience! I’m starting to imagine the possibility of being happy again.
Death Valley Days: Part Thirteen, wrapping it up, preparing to go home. Our final circle encounters were about bringing this work home. After talking about death for a week, we understood that the freedom to die is really the freedom to live. They are one and the same. It’s pretty easy to crack open the taboo about death and start talking about it. We tap into the creative source of life as we bring the topic of death forward.
Our last assignment was to say goodbye to the land, using the five steps outlined previously (please forgive me, I forgive you, thank you, I love you, goodbye). After that, we came to the circle to address what do I leave behind, and what do I take with me? We went around the circle, passing a gallon of water from one to the next as we spoke. Different people did different things with the water. Here is my response. I leave behind my first six decades of life! I leave behind much of the sorrow of my story. I leave a lot of fears—fear of claustrophobia, fear of not belonging if I’m really myself. I take with me the knowledge of the power of ceremony and the need to mark our transitions. I take a number of lovely birthday gifts that I will cherish. I take with me the witnessing I received, especially from Ron, Corinna and Lorindra that night in the tent. The physical healing given to me by Linda C. and Brigitte of my “broken wing” (shoulder). Uncertainty about what’s next, but trust that my wise self, true self, has the answers . . .
And so I pour libation on this land. Water! So rare here, yet there are so many strong signs of the influence of water. I wash myself with it. I dedicate whatever merit of the work I have done here this week to all those who are suffering from grief and loss.
Happy Spring! Don’t step in the dog poop that used to be under the snow.
Love, Elizabeth
Friday, March 3, 2006 7:43 AM CST
A year ago today, on March 3, 2005, Lou Ann was given the diagnosis of ovarian cancer. The night before I had slept at home instead of at the hospital. A nurse had come in to Lou Ann’s room very early in the morning with the disturbing news, and at 5:30 a.m Lou Ann called to tell me. My mother died of ovarian cancer, and both of our reactions were the same: how long do we have? I rushed over to the hospital, and we cried and cried together. I took the day off from school, so we were both there when the oncologist came to see her. You’ll recall that he said he was 100% certain she’d recover, since she had a lot of things going for her: age, lifestyle factors, and general good health. I don’t even need to say how unfortunately her situation unfolded. And the more bad cards she was dealt, the less positive her prognosis became, until recovery or even remission was impossible.
A few times in my life I’ve had the sense that something was set in motion that was going to play itself out to its inexorable conclusion, and nothing I could do would stop it. Early on, I had that sense with Lou Ann’s cancer. But I simply could not let myself go there. And what if I had? Would I have said, “Oh, honey, I don’t have a good feeling about this; let’s just get you into hospice”? Of course not. You have to do whatever you can until it’s clear that it won’t do any good. We had to go with the doctor’s experience and his recommendations, too. For us, it meant putting one foot in front of the other, doing what had to be done and doing the best we possibly could, until she concluded it was no longer worth the struggle.
While the past few days have been really hard, to my amazement I am having more times when suffering is optional. It’s a real challenge to not be bowled over by these marker events, but I’m slowly learning another way. I’m being forced to look at the structure of my belief system and approach life with a sense of hope, a sense of a positive future that includes this devastating loss. Most helpful are some Tibetan Buddhist practices that open the heart. When I even start to do them, I feel better. In this case, better doesn’t mean more shielded or less vulnerable, but more open and more comforted, more stable, more aligned with the flow of life and death. And of course sometimes I am knocked flat by my grief.
Back to Death Valley Days and Part Twelve. Here is some mirroring for the group from our designated group witness. We note the importance of witnessing to let us know we’re still alive. The greatest witness is the land itself; the land is the great container, silent, so we can find what’s dead in us and what’s alive in us. The people in our group have really loved the land! There’s a communion with the wholeness of life, a devotional love for it. People are a container, too. We worked together seamlessly, co-teaching and co-creating with the whole group. We understood that the macrocosm and the microcosm are mirrors of each other (as above, so below). There’s been spaciousness in our daily rhythms, like in-breathing and out-breathing. We are about to return to the workaday world and will not be together like this again. We can’t retrace our steps here, and can’t go back in time either. There’s still time to make it right with those around us if we need to. As our joint experience nears its end, what is it that we’ll remember from this week? What is it that we'll leave behind?
More later.
Love, Elizabeth
Monday, February 27, 2006 10:18 PM CST
Here’s a tiny excerpt from Octavia Butler’s The Parable of the Talents, which I’ve been listening to on tape in the car: “God is change. Hidden within change are surprise, delight, confusion, pain, discovery, loss, opportunity, and growth. As always, God exists to shape and to be shaped.” I wish I could add to that list: humor, love, expansiveness, comfort, forgiveness. But maybe those are embedded in the others, like opportunity and growth.
In any case, I’ve been anticipating another very rocky period of time. Tomorrow marks exactly one year since Lou Ann went into the hospital for tests that in a few days would lead to her diagnosis of ovarian cancer. I simply cannot fathom how much happened during that year, and how quickly it’s gone by. I have such clear memories of these next few days a year ago! Such a roller coaster, and that sense would continue right through July and beyond.
Some days I just cannot stand this new life without Lou Ann. I am so terribly lonely without our daily contact, the little rituals, cooking, eating, talking. Especially when school is so challenging, I wish I could debrief it with her and get the insights she would offer about the kids I’m working with. And I cherished hearing about the work she was doing and what she was learning about the state of being human. I’m still walking the line between feeling the joyfulness that came with our life together and feeling the deep, deep sorrow of losing her. On any given day I could teeter in either direction. I’m hoping that I will tilt toward the joy more often, but I’m guessing the next few days and weeks will be a difficult hurdle as I relive the tremendous ups and downs of the early part of her illness. [Hint: it would really be nice to hear from you.]
A friend’s dad passed away recently, so I had the lovely experience of attending a Jewish funeral and shiva service. It was a comfort to say Kaddish for him and for Lou Ann at once. A different friend asked if I weren’t afraid to be there, as though it would bring up painful reminders of what went on with Lou Ann. So here’s another hint to American culture in general: don’t stop yourself from mentioning Lou Ann to me (or to Moon)! What, you think we aren’t thinking of her unless someone brings it up? Our society is just crazy in its denial of death. It’s so ingrained in our culture, but it really doesn’t help anyone to do this. We’ve got to become able to bear the experiences that we all have, to tolerate them and just be there with them and with each other. That's all that's necessary.
More about Death Valley next time.
Please, please stay in touch.
Love, Elizabeth
Friday, February 10, 2006 8:07 PM CST
Death Valley Days: Part 11. Back in the circle, we continued to tell our stories. I shared the revelations I’ve mentioned here, and received this mirroring: the land is healing; it’s so good to take the time here in the Death Valley wilderness. I am birthing myself [not my favorite language, but it’s what I heard] and unlike my own mother, I have a circle of witnesses to hold my experience. I don’t have to be alone. There’s no rush; transformation isn’t always dramatic. I can trust my own pace and my own way. I know how to be kind to myself; I’m not going to betray my true self. Music and my curiosity are how I will get through this terribly difficult time. I’m capable of laughing and crying at the same time. I can go to the edge, but stay protected. Regarding the tarantula, there was potential for danger, but I watched it long enough not to be overcome by fear. Patience is strong in me, at least this week. Ironically, because I didn’t mention it, people knew that Lou Ann was with me all day. [If it had been just some of the time, I would have described it as an event.] It was important for me to tell her story before going out overnight. I take the long way and find high places with a wide vision. This is my journey; I’ve asked for help and support. It’s been an honor to accompany me.
As others told their stories—all so different, each so poignant in its way—I felt it was an honor to accompany them as well. Witnessing, holding the story, is all we need to do. Although American society is frightfully ignorant about this, our simple attention, just the company, is enough.
This is a good place to cycle back to the third level of this Rites of Passage experience, the hospice connection. There are five things we need to say before we die, or to bring our relationships current. [See sidebar about forgiveness, coming up.] Please forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you. I love you. Goodbye.
[We know that forgiveness is no simple matter, and we had a long discussion about it in the circle. Sometimes, work needs to happen beforehand. With respect to other people, we may need to assert that a certain act was not right, or justice was not served. And with respect to ourselves, we may need to forgive ourselves before approaching another person.]
Later, we would have an opportunity to go through these five steps with the land itself, before we left the area. But meanwhile, there’ll be more to tell.
Personal notes. It’s almost a year since Lou Ann was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and given a positive prognosis. The pendulum of my emotions is swinging back in a down direction, and times are tough. I can’t seem to cry enough (that is, I cry all the time), and often feel isolated. My music and curiosity have to carry me through these times. Not to mention my wacky sense of humor—where is it when I need it?
(And my interest in the Olympics.)
Love, Elizabeth
Saturday, February 4, 2006 6:34 PM CST
It’s been a couple of challenging weeks on this unpredictable, nonlinear path of grieving. The sixth-month mark on January 23 came as another train car: mowed down, I gulped for air and couldn’t stop crying for a few days. Sleep is elusive, fitful. My lovely little grief group has resumed. It’s funny how you can have things in common with perfect strangers and find a certain sweetness there. Meanwhile, many of Lou Ann’s closest people still have trouble being with me. Painful though it is not to be able to mourn together the shared loss of a loved person, it’s moving away from being personally hurtful and into the realm of one of those mysteries of our being human. And so I mourn Lou Ann’s loss with my close people, with new people, with strangers, or alone.
Last weekend I confirmed that I still know how to cross-country ski and can roughly keep pace with 40-year-olds. A group went to northern Minnesota and found spring skiing conditions Friday and Saturday. I had my trusty wood waxable skis, and the icy, glazed trails made for challenging work! But oh-my-goodness, the STARS! Just as bright and evident as in Death Valley, but without all the planes going overhead it was actually quieter. Out in the middle of the lake, the silence pressed in upon my ears almost as a force that molded me into my rightful size and shape in the universe. On Sunday, colder temps and new snow made for gorgeous winter skiing conditions. It was refreshing to find again the rhythm of the body skiing through the beautiful north woods.
Social encounters are still a real stretch. Lou Ann and the loss of her are still my dominant reality, making it hard to chitchat with people I don’t know. On the other hand, it’s not fair to burden them with that heaviness. In this culture people don’t know what to do with it. Since the two of us shared decades of outdoor experiences, it was very poignant to be in such a beautiful setting without her. And so I skied alone some of the time, and left behind another measure of tears. Still, I’m glad I went. These experiences stretch me into a new realm of my ongoing life, and going through the pain of them tempers me, and helps my recuperation.
And so my story about Death Valley continues with Chapter 10. One by one, we were welcomed back from our solo overnight into the community circle, and we spent the next two days listening to and holding everyone’s story of their solo experience, their symbolic death. One woman had had a stroke 4 years earlier, a near-death experience, and has been recovering some of her abilities ever since. Her poor balance did not allow her to safely venture far from base camp. She spent a lot of time crawling on the ground, looking very closely at all the rocks, understanding how each was different and yet each one had its rock-place in the world. Her experience mimicked her recovery from the stroke, having to relearn things.
Some of the themes that emerged were: playfulness; being perched on the precipice of life/death; being connected to the dome of the stars by an umbilical-like thread; honoring the childlike self; owning the experience of the body; body as temple; facing death is not easy, but it doesn’t need to be heavy; there can be a lightness to dying; there’s a hollowness that allows music to flow through us; hanging out on the threshold we can see in both directions; the importance of poetry, beauty and kindness; curiosity is such a natural part of us; tune in to what’s being asked of me instead of what do I want to do; forgiveness can be instantaneous if we’ve done the work before the work. By now we had talked so much about life and death that they had become inseparable. We talked about life/death, or death/life. Hanging out with death lets us learn how to live.
Now that I’m back into describing this experience, I won’t take so long to continue.
Be gentle with yourself.
Love, Elizabeth
Monday, January 23, 2006 9:42 PM CST
Help! It’s six months ago today that Lou Ann left us. Even though I was anticipating it, I had no idea that it would come flying out of the periphery and almost knock me flat. I have gone through the events associated with her loss—birthdays, anniversary, holidays—but this is the first distance marker from her death date that I was completely unprepared for. I had thought I was progressing along in my grief—and I am—and that the 6-month mark would be a little downhill slide. Instead, I spent the whole day in tears or near tears, which made it kind of hard to be at work. I’d been moving in the direction of more choicefulness about my responses to things, toward a state where suffering is optional. But today, suffering seemed required. I guess that just illustrates once more that grieving is not at all a linear process.
Just by chance, I had an appointment with a grief counselor this afternoon, and I’m glad I did. He told me that many people believe that the 6-month mark is the hardest, for a variety of reasons. Later over dinner, a friend told me that researchers have confirmed that January 23rd is the hardest day of the year for people. Why? That’s the time when three weeks have past since making those new year intentions, and already they’re starting to fade, so people are totally discouraged.
Death Valley Days can continue with part 9. After wrestling with myself over what kind of story to tell, how to present myself to the rest of the group, I packed up and walked the hour and a half or so back to camp. Having decided to go with whatever the authentic story was, I felt increasingly lighthearted as I made my way toward camp. I saw many more tracks, another jackrabbit, and birds. I passed through an area that had a very strong smell, which I later learned was fox. A few rare clouds gave some color to the sky as the sun got away from the mountain horizon. I had turned 60 and was happy about it, willing to go forward into that age with a certain enthusiasm.
One by one, as we returned, we were smudged off and welcomed back to the community circle. The facilitators and base camp manager, who had stayed behind to keep the circle and hold our prayers, offered us a beautiful meal. People sang several Happy Birthday songs to me and gave me a few beautiful little precious gifts. I made a cake that I shared with everybody that afternoon.
Over the next two days we would each tell our solo overnight story and have it held, mirrored and affirmed by the circle. All of the stories were as unique as each person bringing them. I’ll tell about that process in the next posting. For now, I can just hope that sleep is soon and refreshing.
Love, Elizabeth
Saturday, January 21, 2006 5:21 PM CST
In two days it will be six months. I can’t say if that’s a long time or a short time: What, already? Has it only been 6 months? The intensity of my grief has receded somewhat, not weighing quite so heavily upon me. It’s still there, for sure, just duller. It’s like a cloak—perhaps a mourning cloak—that shields me from the world in some way. Or like being under a tarp when camping outdoors in wet weather: you’re warm and dry, but the rain or gloom is right there, right outside where you are sitting. Still, after my Rites of Passage experience in Death Valley, often I can answer truthfully, “Doing well,” when people inquire how I am.
Lately I’ve been especially missing being able to hug Lou Ann, hold her close. During the last few months of her illness she couldn’t tolerate being touched in that way; she hurt too much or was too unsteady to stand up for more than a moment. For me, this missing is very physical. I feel a hollow, a gulf at the front of my body where she used to rest. The absence there is so palpable it’s almost a presence in itself. It’s curious.
I passed another milestone the other day. I took Lou Ann’s name out of the white pages and directory assistance. Of course long ago I shut down her office and removed her business phone, and at least twice I’ve started to do the same with the white pages, but I simply could not remove her name from the residential phone data bank. It was too much of an erasure. But eventually it had to happen. I became ready.
By now I have adjusted to the daily realities of my life: Lou Ann won’t walk in the door after work, or call me from the conference she’s attending; I’m the one who will or will not do the dishes or the laundry. At the same time, I’ve begun extending myself into new realms: wearing some of her clothes (“you have so many nice clothes in your closet that you don’t wear”), driving her car, hanging my jacket on her coathook, using her dresser drawers. I’m tossed between the energies of divesting and clinging, whether literally or symbolically. I’ve parted with a lot of items, given away her books on ceramics and psychoanalysis, changed some things inside the house, made a number of outdoor changes, built some structures in honor of my beloved. In other areas I can’t fathom letting go of her. Who has adult feet as little as hers and could wear her shoes? I wear her fleece vest and love the tissues she left in the pockets, adore the smell of her clothes in the closet. I can finally return to writing more of the numerous, numerous thank you notes still due (some say I have a year to complete that task, and I’ll go with that). At times I listen to Lolly and the Sugar Shop on KFAI Friday afternoons, something Lou Ann was nearly religious about doing.
As I venture into these newer areas of my life, though, I find that sometimes I can manage it and sometimes I just can’t. Especially as the six-month mark approaches, the things that bring me closer to Lou Ann feel harder to do. She is constantly in my mind. Driving her car, I’m reminded of how her knee hurt using the clutch after knee surgery. I go places we used to go. And on and on. But this is no surprise to anyone, I’m sure.
Nevertheless, as they told me in the Death Valley circle, my curious nature and interest in life prevail. My new position at El Colegio, difficult though it is, is more suitable than the roles I had previously. I’m challenged, to be sure, but am optimistic about growing into the job as time passes, and still believe it’s an excellent application of my skills and experience. Over the holiday season I gained back quite a bit of the weight I lost during Lou Ann’s illness and had not gained back even as recently as November. (I’m probabaly one of five women in the United States who can be happy about putting on weight over the holidays.) I’ve dispensed with a few of my barrage of sleep aids and my sleeping is pretty good these days, usually. I had my first comforting dream of Lou Ann, where we really enjoyed being together. That was a real treat.
OK, it’s getting too much to talk about Death Valley in this posting, but I will get to part 9 very soon, I promise. Sneak preview: I chose to tell the authentic story over the impressive one. If you would like some printed information about the Rites of Passage work, its history and application to the modern world, I have a few pages of description that I would be happy to send you if you let me know.
Blessings and love,
Elizabeth
Saturday, January 14, 2006 2:56 PM CST
I’ve lived through my first week at El Colegio as a Special Ed assistant-in-training, and lived through it well. It’s not that much different from how I used to work there—trying to locate the students, motivate them, get to know them, figure out how to reach them both personally and academically—but I don’t have to plan and conduct my own courses. So some of the stress is gone. Life is good!
I came home again to an empty house except for two well-tended kitties. It was hard to be without any company after having a nicely connected time in Portland. But the pain of Lou Ann’s loss has changed since my Death Valley Rites of Passage journey. It’s duller, more in the midground, still fairly constant but only occasionally a knife in the heart. The bureaucratic foibles that still abound following Lou Ann’s death have become mere annoyances rather than the sharp wounds they were earlier. Many people express caring concern for me in different ways; that is still especially welcome. And I can already tell that the days are getting longer!
And so we return to Death Valley Days with part eight. In the morning circle, one by one we were smudged with sage, blessed and given instructions, and sent off. I trekked into “my” valley, set my pack down and explored the whole surroundings. On top of a nearby rise I got a 360º view of the countryside, which is what I always love in the mountains. The rocks were red plates, and instead of making a thud when you hit them, they were hollow-sounding and produced particular tones.
[SIDEBAR: I may have mentioned that the first day out I “played” the spines of some barrel cactus, getting them to make pinging sounds. When I told the story in the circle—it was the day I became willing to sacrifice my future with Lou Ann—the mirroring I received told me that this kind of child-like curiosity and playfulness will serve me well as I explore my future on my own.]
I spent some time moving these rock plates around to make a lithophone, or stone xylophone, and at one point some motion caught my eye. There, making his way across the hilltop, was a large tarantula that had emerged from a nearby hole. I regretted disturbing it, thinking he was relocating because the music in the upstairs apartment was way too loud. I was both fascinated and wary. Having nothing else in particular to do, I watched him for some time. At one point he came to an instant and complete halt, not moving one bit for ten or fifteen minutes. Then he continued on his path and disappeared under a rock. I went back to my lithophone, but my awareness of that world—spiders, scorpions, lizards, snakes—was in the forefront.
In the afternoon I found I was really mad at Lou Ann for leaving me. I felt like I could kick every rock on this mountainside. I threw some rocks around, but it didn’t have enough energy to become a true temper tantrum. Later, as I explored some little canyons, I sang and sang, especially “Love Will Guide Us.”
I selected a sleeping spot that was not on an animal path and away from holes and overhanging rocks. As with the Death Lodge, I made a circle of small white stones. I found small slabs of stone in four colors and set them up at the four directions. I asked the powers of the universe to help me, protect me, and not frighten me. Here are some notes from that day’s journal: ‘I noticed there was a sunset, so I climbed the hill to the lithophone again. I heard an owl across the little valley. I was starting to be afraid, then I remembered that loving what scares us dissolves it. I played the lithophone and asked for help remembering to respond with love, keep my heart broken open, instead of clenching around fear. This will take some practice, but what kind of person do I want to be? Fearful or loving?’
By 5:30 it was dark, and I was tucked in for the night. I was very aware of what my mother was doing exactly sixty years before. She was in labor with me, scared and alone. In a way, it mirrored by own experience, facing something unknown. I had a fitful night’s sleep, since I was dive bombed by insects from time to time, and woke up on my birthday feeling disappointed and crabby. I didn’t have a breakthrough experience “meeting the Lords of Death and vanquishing them,” just a fine time in the wilderness. I fantasized that back in the group I would tell me story first, since it would be pale compared to others, and after hearing some radical tales, they wouldn’t want to hear a dim one. As the light emerged, I wrestled hard with this puzzle. Should I tell the story of meeting the tarantula and making the lithophone, inflating it in importance, or should I say that I didn’t have a breakthrough experience and was disappointed? The latter was my true reality. Should I choose being impressive or being real? This is an age-old struggle for me.
You can guess which I chose, and I’ll tell about it later. Now I gotta go watch a PBS show on Death Valley and wish Abby a Happy 3rd Birthday!
Love, Elizabeth
Monday, January 9, 2006 4:52 PM CST
End-of-year holidays in Portland were terrific. I was treated very generously, and after a short time was folded into the family routines. We had a lot of relaxed time and went on a lot of good outings, and I discovered the 60-year-old world of naps.
Abby was not feeling well for a few days, so she blew hot and cold toward me, changing on a split-second timetable. Toward the end of my visit she felt better, so we had some wonderful playing time before I left. She'll turn three on Saturday, and is still an incredible learning sponge. Adults have to really know what they're saying and why. Once we were upstairs together and Bill called out, "Abby, I need your help here for a few minutes." She called back, "I'm not available wight now." You gotta love it.
Today was my first day back at school. I am quite excited about the new role I'll have after my partial leave of absence. I'll be assistant to the Special Ed teacher, working with students who receive those services according to their Individual Education Plans. I'll work with one or a few students, often in their regular learning setting. It will play to my strengths--patience, using diverse ways to impart information and generate under-standing, and forging decent relationships with teens--and reduce the stress of planning and carrying out my own courses. I'll increase my hours somewhat, which I should be ready to handle after my Rites of Passage experience in Death Valley.
Death Valley Days: part seven. I decided to go a long way away from base camp into a subsidiary valley to the one where we camped. I also decided that self-nurturance would be my focus. In that light, I realized that fasting was not the best idea, given how much weight I lost during Lou Ann's illness and how very cold it was in Death Valley. The facilitators agreed. Paying attention to oneself was more the point than strictly following the rules.
What is self-nurturance, then? It means taking along the yoga mat for a little padding; stopping to rest when rest was needed; taking out the yoga mat instead of sitting on a hard rock; writing down my thoughts right then; doing what was inspiring to me. It took about two hours to get to "my" spot. I spent quite awhile exploring the whole area. I thought--mistakenly, I later learned--that another member of the group was in the same general region, so I had to wrestle with my self-consciousness about being seen or heard out there (remember a previous posting about this?).
One of my most important learnings came as a result. For my whole life I've been torn between being noticed and being invisible. I want to be special, singled out, noticed, but get really anxious if I'm in the limelight or if attention is focused on me for too long. It came to me that this is all about my accomplishments, and that is an approach that inherently separates me from other people. It's comparing, so somebody is better or worse.
Here we were in the desert, talking for a week about death and about authenticity. I came to understand that if I concentrate on my true self, true needs and desires, and act authentically, who can criticize that? If people do, it's clearly not about me, and not about comparing and finding something lacking. Of course this is not the first time I've thought about that, but it came home in a new and deeper way. And of course it's not the end of it--this is life work--but I feel much more empowered and confident.
Somehow I think these messages sink in more when we're in a wilderness setting. At least they do for me, and the facilitators have built a whole school around that premise.
This is getting a bit long, so I'll tell next time about my lithophone, the tarantula, and musings around my birthday.
Be well.
Love, Elizabeth/EB/Chabela/Abuela/Grandma/Mom
Monday, January 2, 2006 2:11 PM CST
Happy secular new year! I hope 2006 is a fruitful, peaceful, satisfying year for you. Abby, Elena, Bill and I spent some time at some neighbors' house. Every new year's eve they ceremonially burn things they want to leave behind (written on pieces of paper, not like old furniture), and ceremonially invite positive things for the new year into their lives. I aspire to leave behind more sorrow, doubts, and fears of the future, and hope for self-nurturance, playfulness, low-stress work at school, and authentic relationships. May you realize your aspirations and leave behind your impediments.
Death Valley Days: part six. After Decision Road (South Shield) and Death Lodge (West Shield), step three of the Mayan Allegory framework is called Purpose Circle (North Shield). We thought about our personal legacy: if we were to die tomorrow, what would we leave behind? What would people say at our funeral? How would we be remembered? Here was a chance to make that conscious, overt. We spent the afternoon alone in the desert, and came back with an epitaph, eulogy, series of instructions for our grandchildren, naming of those we love, or however we wished to express our legacy.
I was first inclined to think about what I wished to do with my life (find a cure for cancer, be a famous writer) but was steered away from those thoughts back toward the real question: no more time left, and what will you leave? I found the exercise especially challenging (turns out I would learn more about this on my solo overnight). In the circle the expressions were varied and moving. They gave me a better handle on possible ways to approach this assignment.
The other part of this assignment was to think about what we believe will happen to us after our death. Of course, we probably have a particular story from our religious upbringing, and we have perhaps altered that story as we've grown up. Chances are, we've come up with a picture of what will happen that brings us some peacfulness when we think about our own case. The facilitators called this our "comfort story:" what's our picture that will help us be able to face our own death with some equanimity?
My picture is partially informed by the experience with Lou Ann's illness. Her dream about the unspeakably beautiful sights and sounds reinforces my own ideas. [Parenthetically, or not so parenthetically, the description of what happens after death that I find most congruent with my belief was written by Leif Enger in his wonderful book, Peace Like A River. Check out the next to last chapter, have some tissues handy, and know that it won't ruin the story to read this first.)
And so, as the Death Valley tale unfolds, I have become ready to leave the community circle and head out into the wilderness for 24 hours to be tested and to gain some self-knowledge. According to the facilitators, this testing and knowledge are made more likely by being alone, uncomfortable (hungry) and exposed (no tent). I was ready!
Love, Elizabeth
Thursday, December 29, 2005 11:13 AM CST
Here's a glimpse of the world according to Abby, who is on the verge of being three years old. I said, "I miss Grandma Lou Ann. She really loved you." She replied, "Lou Ann died. She's up in the sky, going to a place where she's going to get better. Then when she gets better she'll come back and be with us again." I loved that!
Death Valley Days: part five. We were to prepare to meet our own symbolic death on our overnight solo. Our last meal was the evening before our departure. We were advised to make it right with anyone in the group with whom we had any difficulty (I did), and to decide whether we wanted to "die" alone or with people.
I did need to have words with another group member, and it was satisfactory enough for me to be ready to proceed. Even though I tend to tough things through, it was very clear that I would not want to die alone. I asked some people to sit with me after dinner and to witness my story about Lou Ann's illness. We went to one person's tent, and I told them all about it, crying a little bit. When they asked me what I needed then, I wasn't clear, but knew I wanted to be touched, so they surrounded me while I bawled and bawled.
After several minutes I was sweltering, and came up for air and shed some of my many layers of clothes. Then I knew I wanted them to ask me questions.
My companions were great! They are all practiced listeners, and they asked all sorts of questions about Lou Ann, what she liked, what we enjoyed together, and the same questions we had been asking ourselves on our quest experience: what did I think Lou Ann's legacy was? What was her experience with death? What was her "comfort story"? [This makes me realize I haven't talked about that yet, so we'll skip ahead and return to it later.]
To talk with others about something so present and important to me, and have them listen and witness the story, was a pivotal experience that gave me huge healing. It was a large, generous thing. I shed some layers of sorrow; I was cleaned out and felt restored in some central way. I was ready to head off the next morning for a day and night alone in the desert and see what I would encounter in myself and in my surroundings.
That tale will continue.
Be well as the year winds down.
Love, Elizabeth
Monday, December 26, 2005 12:36 AM CST
I hope you had a wonderful Christmas, if you celebrate it. I missed Lou Ann very much, and that feeling was both highlighted and softened by being with Elena, Bill and Abby in Portland. We had a great time together, and I was really treated by all of them. Abby is really an incredible child, and it's wonderful to be with her and see how her parents are raising her so beautifully. Hummingbirds visit the feeder frequently, and that is a comfort to me.
Death Valley Days: part four. One night I woke up with one of my classic claustrophia dreams. They always come when my legs are wrapped up, such as in a sleeping bag or in winter in the bedclothes. I dream that I can't get through a very tight place to something beyond, and if I try, I'll get stuck and won't be able to breathe. When I wake up, all I can bring to mind is all the other times I've been scared like that. What better time and place to bring this to light than on a death and dying vision quest in Death Valley?
After I told of my dream in the morning circle, one of the other participants approached me, offering to work with me. She is a psychotherapist from England who does EMDR (nerve pathway reorientation with the eyes) with trauma survivors. So she did a session with me at my tent one afternoon. It was super interesting and very empowering. While I don't yet know if my claustrophia is gone--time will tell--I have a different way to breathe into it and I no longer feel afraid of it.
This brings me to one of the vision quest's great lessons: that we are truly held by the earth and our community of fellow travelers. We are part of a nexus of support that is available to us merely for the asking.
More later. Happy Hanukah, if you celebrate it.
Love, Elizabeth
Wednesday, December 21, 2005 6:27 PM CST
Death Valley Days: part three (see previous entries for more). We were taught three overlapping systems of thought during our week in the desert. One is an earth-based tradition shared by many cultures and can be referred to as the Medicine Wheel. It contains the four directions, four shields, four colors, four stages of life, four aspects of our personhood. Another system is found all over Mesoamerica, also has four parts, and was called the Mayan Allegory by our facilitators. It comes out of ancient myths of ball players willingly sacrificing themselves so that their people can be renewed. (Parallels are found in many parts of the world—“Kill the king! Long live the king!”) These were both tied to the stages experienced by someone in hospice at the end of life.
Many of us, myself included, could relate most easily to the language of the Mayan Allegory. The first preparation stage in that system is called Decision Road, wherein we made a choice to put ourselves on the road of awareness of our own death. The second is called Death Lodge. It’s part of the spiritual cleansing process we went through in preparation for undergoing our symbolic death in the wilderness. We were assigned to go out alone, find a place to make a circle, meditate in the middle and call someone to us with whom we needed to make it right before we died.
Because I had serious muscle spasms in one shoulder, a participant who happens to be a professional body worker gave me a treatment before I headed out to find my spot, so I got a late start and kept near base camp. As I looked for a place, I saw someone else, and I became very self-conscious about being seen or heard. [This is a lifelong issue for me, which I will comment on another time.] At length I chose a location and defined a circle of live plants, sticks, and small white stones. I held a conversation in my mind with someone, which led to lots of tears. Then it led to a strong awareness of being lovable and being loved. I cried some more [this is also a lifelong issue], then closed the circle by collecting the little white stones and pouring them over my head, “showering” myself with the love of the earth. I wanted to shout into the desert, “I AM LOVABLE!” but I was way too self-conscious. Instead, I whispered it three times.
The next morning I got up at first light and went for a walk into the hills. I scaled a bit of a precipice and could see out over the main Death Valley and some secondary valleys. I stood on the top and shouted “I AM LOVABLE!!” three times. All the way back to camp I alternated between hoping people had heard me and hoping people hadn’t heard me. (Aren’t we humans funny?) I was to learn a lot more about this on my solo overnight.
More later. Meanwhile, some tarantula symbolism: spiders weave their own lives. And tarantula information: the females, as they mate, bite the heads off the males.
I'm off to Portland for end-of-year celebrating with Elena, Bill and Abby. Yum! I'll be back on January 5. I will probably make more postings about Death Valley before that.
Happy darkest day of the year. Thanks so much for all the cards and messages.
Love, Elizabeth
Saturday, December 17, 2005 5:07 PM CST
It’s been an adjustment to be back after the Vision Quest in Death Valley. I came home to loads of birthday cards and phone messages—thank you!! I came home willing and happy to be 60 years old, whereas I wasn’t at all enthusiastic about it beforehand. Our wonderful neighbor, Paul, who had been caring for the house and cats, revealed to me that the furnace had gone out while I was away. He was alerted by the frosty air, iced over cats’ water, and lack of water coming out of the kitchen faucet. His firm intervention saved me an unimaginable mess to come home to. As it was, the worst damage was to some of the houseplants. I can live with that.
How to talk about a life-altering experience that was beyond words? I’m exploring ways to convey something of it to other people, neither boring nor overwhelming them, nor diluting the experience for me. I really would like to have conversations about it, but it’s tricky, because there are so few guest book responses to my current postings. I guess I’ll just forge ahead and share the experience in bits and pieces as I am able. And if you are inclined to have a bit of a dialogue about it, then by all means, say so.
I stepped into a new community, that of “wilderness guides.” While I used to be one, it was not in the way these people define it. A wilderness guide is someone who takes people on rite of passage (vision quest) experiences. There is a national and an international association of this type of wilderness guide, with regular gatherings and all. I was one of 14 participants, and the only one who had not been on a previous rite of passage journey and who was not a wilderness guide. All the people were uniquely wonderful, and they welcomed me. While they each had a strong story (divorce, job loss, terrible difficulty with children, heart surgery, stroke, etc.), mine was perhaps the freshest.
Every morning we sat in the circle for a few hours and had instruction in the part of the process we would be engaged in that day. Every afternoon we went off for hours alone in the desert doing the assignment. Every evening we sat in the circle again for a couple of hours, telling the story of our experiences in the afternoon. The facilitators would “mirror” each person’s story—that is, put it into the framework of that day’s learning—and give it back to us, so to speak. The circle of people was a container for our story, neither judging it nor changing it, just listening and witnessing it, affirming our basic goodness and capacity for inner wisdom. Meanwhile, one person was being the group witness, noting and periodically giving back to us what she heard of the whole group’s experience. And every night we would shiver in our sleeping bags with all our layers of clothes on.
The first assignment was to go out alone and make note of signs of death in the desert. We were also asked to come back with something we were willing to "die" to, to sacrifice in order to move forward. I talked about seeing many signs of death but being unable to tease them away from signs of life. [Indeed, by the end of the week, we weren't saying "death" any more, but "death-life" or "life-death."] I was willing to sacrifice my future with Lou Ann. That future died when she died, but I haven't been willing to really accept that till now.
During the week I had many encounters with animals, and various people were able to comment on their habits and their symbolic meanings. I saw, heard, or smelled: rock wren, raven, hummingbird, perhaps gray vireo, great horned owl, fox, coyote, jackrabbit, tarantula (this last at very close range on my solo overnight). And I saw tracks of numerous other animals that I didn’t encounter. Another time I’ll tell about the tarantula and what it may mean to have encountered it.
More later, then.
Love, Elizabeth
Monday, December 12, 2005 3:17 PM CST
I’m home from my Rites Of Passage experience in Death Valley, a year older, a little wiser, and a lot lighter. It’s going to need to percolate and make sense over time as to how to describe it, integrate it, and apply it to my daily life, but I will do all of that. Meanwhile, I will say that the people were wonderful, I experienced a lot of healing, had many encounters with animals, was layered up against the almost constant cold. A group of people talked deeply about death for a week, contrary to our society’s taboo. I’m incredibly tired of sitting in the little camp chair I borrowed. It was wonderful to sleep out under the brilliant stars. I had several visits from Lou Ann, including the ever-wonderful hummingbird. (This immediately after I expressed my disappointment that I hadn’t felt her there yet.)
I left behind the first six decades of my life, and left behind a lot of sorrow about my story. I came away understanding the importance of marking our transitions, the importance of being alone and uncomfortable in the wilderness as a tool for self-knowledge, the importance of having other people to witness our experience. Some of the other people knew a lot about the symbolism of animals, and it was very interesting to have them reveal things about my animal encounters.
I came away re-membered, that is, reassembled, or put back together, which is the true meaning of “remember.” We were all told again and again, and experienced it for ourselves as well, that inside us we have all of the wisdom that we need to know ourselves and where we are going in this life. We’ve just forgotten about it as a society, distorted that knowledge into other areas that are no substitute for this real knowledge. It reminds me of one of the AIDS quilt panels, which said, “It’s about love. Tell everybody.”
More later.
Love,
Elizabeth
Thursday, December 1, 2005 11:19 AM CST
The long Thanksgiving weekend in Connecticut was a riot of encounters with people: sisters (in-law), brothers (in-law), nieces, nephews, their current love interests, and old friends. Elena and Bill were able to come over from Long Island for the weekend, bringing Abby of course, who charmed the pants off everybody. She got to meet her great-grandpa, and three little girls were completely inseparable for days!
It was very difficult to be there without Lou Ann, as you can imagine, but it would have been difficult wherever I was. There were many tender acknowledgements of her from people of all ages. At Thanksgiving dinner, I wanted to make sure my family knew that Lou Ann loved them. Then I told Lou Ann’s “hear, hear” story, and all 18 of us raised our glasses of apple cider and invoked her with “hear, hear.”
It was an incredibly intense weekend. There were so many people that there wasn’t ever a quiet corner to go to for a little recuperation. Nevertheless, it was wonderful to reconnect with numerous family members, see how the youngsters are doing, and visit dear friends. We did jigsaw puzzles, made music together, played ping-pong, and of course talked and ate. (I’m still hoping for some weight gain during the end-of-year holidays.)
Saturday begins my Vision Quest experience in Death Valley. I’m flying into Las Vegas and meeting other participants to share the drive and the cost of a rental vehicle. I have given up on getting everything into my backpack, but after loading it to the gills with equipment and a week’s food, I was pleased to be able to carry it! I’m very excited about this journey, hoping it will lighten my heart’s load a little. The focus of it is Rites of Passage as Dying. So I will get to explore, among other things, how turning 60 (on December 9) is a small death. This is the first age that I have really resisted. I so do not feel like 60, and I don’t feel like being 60 either! It sounds so “elderly.” But the alternative—not having this birthday—is not acceptable. And we certainly have lots of very fine examples of how to be 60-something. So I hope to celebrate it in smaller bits, ’cause I sure don’t feel like having a party this year!
I’ll write about my experience after December 11. Be well. Tell people you love them, if you do, and don’t sweat the small stuff, like the holidays.
Love,
Elizabeth
Tuesday, November 22, 2005 3:57 PM CST
Hello! I’m off early Wednesday morning for Thanksgiving weekend with my relatives in Connecticut. I’m bringing a bunch of photos, and I’m sure there will be lots of tears and lots of laughter.
I’ve been taking some homeopathic remedies for various things: depression from grief; exhaustion from grief; nervous system wear and tear from grief; help with sleep. It’s amazing what that system of looking at things has to offer. Lately I’ve been feeling somewhat re-traumatized by my memories of parts of Lou Ann’s illness—most especially by the visual images associated with the day she almost died of respiratory failure. I guess that’s part of a PTSD condition, but it’s not much fun.
Almost everything I do has the bittersweet flavor of being enjoyable in itself and highlighting the fact that Lou Ann isn’t sharing it: cooking, errands, cleaning, yard work, watching TV. You name it. It’s all infused with memories of doing that with Lou Ann. People still say “it hurts” to be in our house. My hope is that with more time and more exposure, that will abate for you.
Lou Ann still hasn’t appeared to me in dreams in any significant way. I find myself having lots of dreams, and being “normal” in them, that is, reasonably buoyant and happy. When I wake up I notice a shift into my waking state of feeling bereaved. But at least I get to dream in a different state!
Music is another bittersweet experience. When Lou Ann got sick, we listened every morning to Aretha’s new CD called “So Damn Happy.” It’s really upbeat, though the lyrics are very poignant, a lot about loss. Lou Ann and I loved to dance together around the first floor of our house. During her convalescence I said that when she got better, we’d dance to that album downstairs. After awhile she wasn’t getting better, and the CD was too upbeat to be the choice for healing listening; it was replaced by harp music. But one morning when Aretha was still the wake-up choice, even though Lou Ann wasn’t even able to get out of bed, I hovered close to her with my arms around her, and we “danced” to the rhythm of that first song with the smallest tender movements. [It’s the one that came in early at her memorial service, if you were there.]
I use music to go to sleep, and again, it’s a tough choice. For a long time I couldn’t listen to the harp CDs that helped us fall asleep for so many weeks. And other music that we listened to a lot has been comforting and disturbing, both at once. All I have to do if I feel like opening up is to put on the Mendelssohn CD. It’s so incredibly beautiful, I’d probably feel like crying anyway!
I’ve mentioned before that Lou Ann was a tissues-in-the-pockets gal. I keep discovering wadded up Kleenex in her clothes, even things that were stored away. The other day I was looking in a cedar chest for a heavy wool shirt for my Death Valley camping trip. I came upon one that I couldn’t remember was mine or hers. When I looked in the pocket, sure enough it was hers—there was the piece of Kleenex! I get the biggest kick out of that. It always makes me laugh out loud.
Happy Thanksgiving, if you celebrate it.
Love, Elizabeth
Saturday, November 19, 2005 6:34 PM CST
Today I spent the day with some compatriots from the Courage To Teach group I’ve been part of for a few years. (We say “We’re in the 4th year of a two-year program.”) Every gathering we write a letter to ourself that gets mailed to us later. Usually, because of the CTT work, I write from a very deep place within, and then I’m really inspired when it comes in the mail after many weeks. This time I found myself writing a letter from Lou Ann to me. It was amazing! I’ll look forward to getting it awhile down the road.
I’ve been organizing all the messages that came in through this website and by email. Once again I am really awestruck by the outpouring of tenderness through this entire period, and I’m so appreciative: letters, cards, calls, emails, singing, books, poems, foot rubs, bodywork/healing, walks, talks, rides, visits, dusting, dishes, music CDs, articles, plants, mega-gardening, food, dinner invitations, outings, advice, stuffed animals, company, shared tears, memories, thoughts and prayers, and more. Lou Ann and I have been held in the arms of your love.
At the moment I’m hungry for “news” of Lou Ann, you might say. It’s been awhile since I’ve had a nature visitation from her (that I’ve noticed, anyway—they’re probably there constantly!). And so I’m eager to hear other people’s memories and experiences with her. She’s appeared to several people in their dreams, and I find it comforting and delightful to hear about them. I’m very glad others dream about her. Actually, she did appear to me the other week in an inconsequential dream. She was with me for a few minutes and told me that I had really bad breath! And since it was almost time to get up, she was right!
A few nights ago, I moisturized my face with a lovely sandalwood-scented lotion hand made by our friend Casey. I really felt Lou Ann’s presence next to me then, almost pressing up against my body. In our early days of getting together, that was the predominant scent we wore, so perhaps she was curious and came to see what was up! It was very sweet. Of course, now I use it every night in the hopes of more contact. In vain so far. (Grasping, clinging! Suffering!)
As you can imagine, my life is still very up and down. There are wetter days and better days. As my friend Betsy said, there’s a big hole in the world where Lou Ann was. Or, as another friend wrote, losing Lou Ann is an ongoing event. Another way I’ve experienced it is that it’s like being run over by a train, car by car by car.
Although I am always appreciative of all we shared together, I look forward to a time when my memory of time with Lou Ann brings me more joy than sorrow. Our family astrologer says that I’ll be in for some emotional ups and downs for awhile. That’s a no-brainer in terms of my experience, but I always like having the planets confirm it. It makes it easier to ride it through. (Thanks, Moon.)
Something that really helps is to do artistic things about Lou Ann (I use artistic in the broadest sense). Since I now have two vehicles, I’m thinking of turning Lou Ann’s car into an art car. It will honor her ceramic work and be focused around teapots, including her anti-war teapots. Pondering that project is fun, and putting energy on behalf of Lou Ann into creative efforts is very satisfying.
Love, Elizabeth
Friday, November 11, 2005 8:30 AM CST
PLEASE NOTE: the last Wednesday evening open door invitation will be November 16. I’ll be away for T-giving, Christmas/New Year, and the December vision quest, so I’m going to wrap it up. It’s been great to have visitors each week; thank you. Feel free to come by at other times.
It’s been a glorious fall this year! Since the leaves have lingered on the trees, I’ve been waking up to beautiful orange and red light coming in the windows, and there’s a carpet of yellow-orange fading to orange-red leaves on the ground. A lot of my time has been spent in the garden, rearranging some things and creating spaces to honor Lou Ann. After dragging more BIG rocks back from the North Shore, I completed a figurative cairn that anchors the corner of the front yard and welcomes people as they come in the drive. It’s comforting to do that kind of work.
In the last few weeks I’ve been adapting to the constant absence of Lou Ann, so that the cessation of the routine aspects of our life together is more familiar and less painful now. However, the special or unusual times that we would have been together still catch me and fling me down. The other day I had the annual conversation with our financial advisor. As I went to meet my friend Betsy to visit the open artist studios in the Northrop King Building, it struck me that the conversation was really all about Lou Ann, and I bawled all the way there. Hanging out with craftspeople and Betsy was terrific, but there were several potters we visited, and Lou Ann should have been with us. Then I bawled all the way home! So there are crying days and drier days.
I’ve mentioned that there are choice points about which feeling road to go down. Of course many times the devastation of this loss, still so recent, overtakes me. But my current investigation is this: I remember early in our relationship when I led outdoor trips, I would be gone for extended periods of time without a way to get in touch. Lou Ann and I agreed to contact each other by sending mental pictures of the sunset each day. It was a good way to feel connected to each other. So I have this experience of being separated and not being unhappy. I’m exploring how to bring that experience to my present life and see if there’s a way now to be separated from her and not feel miserable.
One thing that really helps is to be able to share this deepest loss with people who knew Lou Ann well. After a long break, it was good to be with Moon and Mindy and Ana and Della the other night. Moon and I agreed that it is very painful to be with each other, but worth it. It’s not worth losing each other because of the pain. (After all, being away from each other doesn’t make the pain go away!)
Already I feel the relief of not going to school as often. I hope to sleep enough over the next few weeks that I feel more recuperated. Although my appetite and eating are less erratic, it’s still very odd to cook for one and eat alone. The other day my friend Mary took me to the Y, and I discovered that I have not regained any of the weight I lost. I guess it will take time.
I still go up in my high-altitude hammock almost every day. Incredibly, the leaves have stayed on that tree until just day before yesterday, when they all fell off. So it’s continued to feel like a little outdoor leaf room, very comforting to be up there. Last night I climbed up and hung out in the moonlight. All my neighbors’ outdoor lights were off, so it was relatively dark but for the moonlight. At one point I sneezed, and three neighbor dogs ran to their fences to bark at this unusual occurrence!
Thanks as always for your recent messages, condolence cards, phone calls, thoughts and prayers. It’s a big help.
Love, Elizabeth
Saturday, October 29, 2005 11:40 AM CDT
Happy Halloween, Happy Day of the Dead! I’ve been suffering at school, having returned to work just a week after Lou Ann’s memorial service. Now that the protective shock of the trauma of this loss has completely worn off, it’s harder than ever to be at school with adolescents. I’ve requested a short-term partial leave. Instead of four days a week, for November/December I’ll go in one day a week. That way I should have more time to deal with the remaining/recurring details of Lou Ann’s estate, get more rest and better sleep, and prepare to go back to school in January.
Meanwhile, I have been doing a number of art projects about Lou Ann, which is a very healing thing to do. Along with a group of students making shadow boxes, I made a shadow box to honor Lou Ann at the Day of the Dead. The structure for it was the top to a turkey roasting pan—one of those speckled blue things—to represent her love of cooking. We learned how to do some interesting techniques that I like. In the garden, I have moved a bunch of plants around and made a raised bed that has two rose bushes in it. Sonny and I hauled a bunch, and I mean a bunch, of very large rocks back from the North Shore. Taking clues from our friend Rita in Duluth, I’m piling them into a figurative cairn in the front garden to watch over the rose bushes. This is very satisfying.
In December, I plan to go on a week-long Rites of Passage journey in Death Valley for people who are dying or caring for dying people. It should be a tremendous experience, finding a connection with what is called by many names, something greater than ourselves, or our most inclusive selves. I will turn 60 during the time in Death Valley, and that has its appeal.
Once again, I ask that you please leave me a message: please leave me a message!
Meanwhile, here are some words that I find inspiring, from Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
“Nothing can make up for the absence of someone whom we love, and it would be wrong to try to find a substitute: we must simply hold out and see it through. That sounds very hard at first, but at the same time it is a great consolation, for the gap, as long as it remains unfilled, preserves the bonds between us. It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap; God does not fill it, but on the contrary, it remains empty and so helps us to keep alive our former communion with each other, even at the cost of pain. The dearer and richer our memories, the more difficult the separation.
“But gratitude changes the pangs of memory into a tranquil joy. The beauties of the past are borne, not as a thorn in the flesh, but as a precious gift in themselves. We must take care not to wallow in our memories or hand ourselves over to them, just as we do not gaze all the time at a valuable present, but only at special times, and apart from these keep it simply as a hidden treasure that is ours for certain. In this way the past gives us lasting joy and strength.”
Love, Elizabeth
Friday, October 21, 2005 9:53 PM CDT
Life goes on, as it inevitably will. People are still extending themselves to me in compassionate ways (thank you), and I am adapting to a new rhythm of my days.
Fall was always a very full time for me and Lou Ann, with both our birthdays, our anniversary, various holidays, and our annual how-far-did-they-get-on-the-house-this-year open house (that's not happening this year), in addition to normal workdays, gardening, and putting up food for the winter. Therefore it is a time of many absences for me, and I feel them keenly.
At the same time that I'm adapting to Lou Ann being gone, every day involves mini-events that feel like little pins sticking into me. I used to look forward to getting the mail every day because so many people sent cards (thank you!). Now that those have tapered off, I hate taking in the mail, because it's almost all junk mail for Lou Ann, much of which I have to take care of to get her off the lists. People call and unwittingly ask for Lou Ann. Most people on the phone are sweet about honoring my request to delete her name from their database, but then out of habit they tell me to have a nice day. (Didn't you hear what I told you?)
After I had asked an organization to delete her information, I received a hand-written card last week acknowledging that Lou Ann's registration for a women's presentation had been confirmed by the sponsoring organization, and they were looking forward to seeing her there. I found that especially upsetting, and I just about went out of my mind.
I seem to feel all the stages of grief every day. The good thing about that is that my interior life is very dynamic, as opposed to stuck somewhere. I'm encouraged by that.
Julia has been here doing training with us at school, and it has been wonderful to hang out and cry together with someone who knows and loves Lou Ann. Her departure will be a jolt.
More later. Please keep in touch.
Love, Elizabeth
Friday, October 14, 2005 9:10 AM CDT
New Year—Rosh Hashanah, the Days of Awe, Yom Kippur—is over. Another first. Will the balance of feeling stricken ever tip toward a feeling of lightness, I wonder? Buddhism instructs us that our suffering comes from what our mind does with our experience, not the experience itself. Not suffering comes from loosening our identification with something fixed, the story line of our life, and paying attention to the fluid nature of this world and ourselves. Well, I have a long way to go on that one! The sorrow I feel is too devastating right now.
I’ve been drawing a lot of strength from the words of Eckhart Tolle. It’s funny how we can hear the same teachings again and again, but when someone phrases them slightly differently, they’re suddenly accessible. Here’s a sample, from his book “Stillness Speaks:”
—Whenever any kind of deep loss occurs in your life, something inside you dies. You feel a diminished sense of who you are. When a form that you had unconsciously identified with as part of yourself leaves you or dissolves, that can be extremely painful. It leaves a hole, so to speak, in the fabric of your existence. When this happens, don’t deny or ignore the pain or the sadness that you feel. Accept that it is there. Beware of your mind’s tendency to construct a story around that loss. Then become aware of what lies behind those emotions as well as behind the mind-made story: that hole, that empty space. Can you accept that strange sense of emptiness? If you do, you may be surprised to find peace emanating from it. Whenever death occurs, whenever a life form dissolves, God, the formless and unmanifested, shines through the opening left by the dissolving form.
—Some people become deeply peaceful and almost luminous just before they die, as if something is shining through the dissolving form. They become almost transparent in the last few weeks or months of their lives. As they look at you, you may see a light shining through their eyes. There is no psychological suffering left. They have surrendered and so the person, the mind-made egoic “me,” has already dissolved. They have found the deep inner peace that is the realization of the deathless within themselves.
That paragraph describes Lou Ann perfectly. In her last couple of weeks, she would look at people with complete, unconditional love in her eyes, almost too much to bear at times. It was a deep privilege to witness it, to be part of a very good and beautiful death. Her courage in facing her illness and then her death was a model for the rest of us. My aspiration is to find something similar before I’m on my deathbed. Meanwhile, I am trying to face the loss of Lou Ann and our future together. There are more and more cracks in the story line, more moments when I loosen my grip on sorrow and am so grateful for the life Lou Ann and I had together, the person that she was, how we influenced each other in our growth, the trajectory of our time together.
The other night during meditation I noticed that I was feeling moments of gratitude to Lou Ann for her death—for dying, in fact—because that experience is catapulting me into big growth leaps. (In fact, our friend Judith, who leads meditation groups, said that she wished someone in every group could be in the midst of some death-related experience, since it really wakes us up.) It's hard to even write that down. I resisted it immediately. Of course it’s not to say that I’m glad she died, or I’m not angry that she died, or I don’t wish her back every second. The price of this growth and learning feels over-the-top too high, almost unbearable. But since it’s already been paid, there is no more choice about it. No more choice but to go on, choosing how.
Once again, please leave me a message.
Love, Elizabeth
Monday, October 3, 2005 9:41 AM CDT
Two weddings in one week is a lot of celebrating! Last Monday I attended the beautiful (and for me, unfamiliar) wedding of the son of one of Lou Ann’s cousins, held at St. Paul’s Landmark Center. It was in the Lubovich tradition of Judaism, which is very close to Hasidism. It was pure ritual, very meaningful. There was lots of food, lots of dancing. The men and women were completely separated except for a few ceremonial contacts. During dinner, though, the curtain between the men’s and women’s areas fell down, and half the people responded with “oh, look!” and the others with “don’t look!”
Lou Ann’s extended family completely welcomed me into their fold, which was very gratifying. But after a lot of people contact I always suddenly hit the wall of having had enough. The minute I left at 10 p.m., the tears began, and I cried all the way back to the car.
The other wedding was a beautiful (and for me, familiar) Quaker wedding of a young couple from Twin Cities Meeting, held outdoors in Lanesboro, Minnesota. Both the setting and the weather could not have been more perfect. It, too, included ceremonial elements. There was dinner and dancing there as well. And again, all of a sudden during dinner I couldn’t tolerate any more contact. My friend Paul and I went out for an evening walk and talk and cry. He told me what someone said to a bereaved person when she said she’s doing nothing but grieving: “Don’t miss a minute of it!” Difficult but sage advice.
The weddings were very poignant for me. Of course I was so aware, as I am daily, of the absence of Lou Ann. The brides and grooms were so, so happy, and I remembered being happy like that in my life. Most often I’d light up and feel happy like that when Lou Ann came into the room where I was. There are some moments when I’m happy now, but there is an overlay (or underlayment) of deep sorrow. It’s challenging to be okay with not missing a minute of that.
And so the adventure of forming a new life continues. I hang out (so to speak) in my hammock in the tree. I go to the park every night and talk to Lou Ann, asking for help not just living without her but also with learning how to be happy again living without her. My sleeping is better. My eating is better, and I hope to gain back the weight I lost in the last 6 months. School is still surreal, but my colleagues have been wonderful. We all planted a pagoda dogwood tree behind El Colegio and had a little ceremony honoring Lou Ann’s memory. That area will become a memorial place, honoring Lou Ann and the siblings of two students. We’ll install a sitting bench near the dogwood and make it a contemplative spot for anyone to enjoy.
The Wednesday evening open doors will continue (any time after 5:30), but NOT on October 12, which is Kol Nidre, the beginning of Yom Kippur.
Continued thanks for your caring. Please leave me a message.
Love, Elizabeth
Sunday, September 25, 2005 8:25 PM CDT
Lou Ann did not grow up on European classical music, as I did. She was a popular music gal. She had her stack of favorite CDs that she listened to up in the bedroom, where she spent most of her time during her illness. Once when she came downstairs to rest on the couch, I asked if I could put on one of my favorite pieces of music, and she agreed. It was Mendelssohn’s Octet for Strings (his Violin Concerto was on the same disc). I was surprised and delighted when she came down the next day and said, “Would you put on that Mendelssohn again?” We listened to the CD on a regular basis, especially in the hospital. She requested that it be played at her memorial service, and we heard it while people gathered.
I now have season tickets to the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra, which we both really loved. Friday night was the second concert, and my friend Betsy was able to join me. One of the featured pieces was the Octet for Strings. I cried all the way through it, of course, but it was also wonderful to hear it played live with Joshua Bell. It will be linked with Lou Ann forever in my mind.
The poker group met the other week for the first time without Lou Ann. It was a bittersweet experience. Good to be together and help each other carry on, have fun, toast her and remember her fondly, yet aren't we so aware of who's not there?
It’s been barely two months since Lou Ann died. I climb up to the hammock nearly every day. It’s like a little leaf room up there, which gives me some small solace. Of course there is still the yawning hole in my heart, and I visit with Lou Ann in the park practically every night, often crying my heart out. Our cats usually find me there. Then I ask for strength from the old oak across the street. I’m still making the transition from Lou Ann being gone to Lou Ann being everywhere. Lots of times “everywhere” feels like nowhere. I miss her fiercely.
Life is very, very far from normal, but things are starting to settle out ever so slightly. I’ve been suffering from sleep disturbance for week upon week. Right now I’m trying to get out of a bad insomnia loop, taking steps on several fronts at once. When a good sleep pattern gets stabilized, I’ll peel things off one by one and hope it holds. School is still surreal and challenging, but it does provide a distraction. I still am very interested in hearing other people's stories about Lou Ann. It helps me to flesh out my picture of who she was.
There’s an interesting reshuffling of the people in my life, and I’m curious to see what develops over time. Many people are reaching out to me in ways that I appreciate so very much, bringing me food, including me in their plans, inviting me places, and so forth. Thank you, thank you!
I will continue the Wednesday open door at our place through the end of the year. Anyone is welcome after 5:30.
Love,
Elizabeth
Thursday, September 15, 2005 8:50 PM CDT
What an intense week! Thursday was the big cook-off for Sunday (special thanks to Betsy). Friday, our anniversary, I went with a friend to the first concert in our SPCO series. Although it was great to go with the friend (special thanks to Cathy), it was painful to go without Lou Ann, of course.
Saturday was day 49 since her death. Two Zen priests (special thanks to Judith and Marilyn) came to our house and conducted a beautiful Buddhist ceremony to mark that day, along with a few friends (special thanks to Judy, Nance, Betsy, Don). It was an opportunity to help Lou Ann move forward in her transition away from this earthly life, and to help me free myself of my attachments to her (baby steps, baby steps!) a tiny bit (special thanks to all sentient beings). There was bowing, chanting, gongs and bells, and a chance to talk about Lou Ann, and I told how her passing has affected my meditation practice (such as it is). Then we went out to the flower garden; we sang, scattered dried flower petals from her memorial service, and I ingested a pinch of her ashes and burned a copy of the memorial service program. We closed by singing “Love Will Guide Us,” which was a favorite during Lou Ann’s illness and was sung at her service. [Ingesting her ashes was a trip. I got a tea bowl Lou Ann had made, her little baby spoon that’s engraved with her name, and some Orangina. However, the spoon wouldn’t fit into the mouth of the vessel, so I had to grab a pinch with chopsticks. Marilyn was sure Lou Ann was laughing at all the production! We told Lou Ann that we still on earth have to go through these silly things for our sake.]
Sunday was the big feast (special thanks to Betsy and Pat). It felt like many gatherings at our home over the years, with our friends having a good time with each other. For me, though, while that part was wonderful, it was hugely stressful to not have Lou Ann there. So by now, as if I were not before, I am so far beyond exhausted that I’m having trouble sleeping at night. The intensity of the long weekend was just too much.
And so I’m making this extremely painful transition to a new life. I cannot say that it is terrible, just terribly difficult. I have moments of gratefulness amidst the many other kinds of moments (special thanks to Lou Ann). There are moments of solace as I learn the lessons of being a comfort to myself as well as drawing comfort from others. I enjoy being in the aerial hammock (great time as the thunderstorm approached the other night—when it got to a downpour, I came down).
The Wednesday evening open door policy at my place is working very nicely. People are welcome any time after 5:30, with or without food. Come visit. It helps us all.
Love, Elizabeth
Friday, September 9, 2005 3:51 PM CDT
It’s our anniversary today: twenty-six years since we had our commitment ceremony. Like all couples, Lou Ann and I made promises to each other. In our case, we worked on them independently and first heard them as they were spoken during the ceremony. Although we each used our own words, the promises we made were the same ones. It was a very fresh experience. Over the years, we would look back at our life together and note the changes, desires for change, improvements, and need for improvement. I really missed doing that today.
For Lou Ann’s birthday last week I baked a cake and followed the recipe faithfully, as Lou Ann urged me to do for 25 years. “Try it the way it says the first time, at least, then you’ll know how to vary it if you want, but don’t alter it the first time.” You may not know how hard that is for me! (It turned out beautifully.) I made dinner with three friends, and we laughed a lot, which was so healing.
Last night Betsy and I spent the whole evening making bouillabaisse (a French seafood stew) to honor Lou Ann on Sunday. We started with a three-foot fish carcass to make the broth. It was a messy, messy, wonderful time, and EVERYTHING was covered with little particles of fish! It’s going to be quite heavenly. We listened to Aretha Franklin, looked at photos, and remembered Lou Ann.
I have hung a hammock in a tree in our yard. What’s unusual about that? It’s 20 feet up in the air. The other day I was installing some planks to rest on for safety, when a large raptor landed on a branch below me. It must have sensed me, for it took off immediately for some other trees. I didn’t get a good look at it, but it could have been a peregrine falcon. Exciting in any case. Late last night I climbed up into the tree and swung there in the dark, crying. It was comforting in a strange way.
After beginning the day feeling so morose that I took the day off school, I never thought I would say, “Oh, happy day!” Here’s what happened. Patrick stopped by for lunch and a nice long chat. Then we went to look at my hammock (he’d been the one go-for-it person when I proposed the idea). In the side yard, we were looking at the bushes I had bought to commemorate Lou Ann’s life, courtesy of a thoughtful person. Just then a tiny hummingbird came and hovered near the bushes, sampling the flowers on a basil plant, of all things. Another beautiful little visitation! Hummingbirds have special meaning both for me and for Patrick, so we were breathless with delight. So I say, “Oh, happy day!” and again, could the world be any more astonishing?
Once more, I am grateful for those who keep extending yourselves to me in this time of mourning, and I ask for your continued messages.
Love, Elizabeth
Wednesday, August 31, 2005 10:28 PM CDT
September 1 is Lou Ann’s birthday (and Moon’s, too, of course). She would have been just 57 years old. Sadly, she talked during her illness about having ten “extra years,” ten more years than her mother got to live. I was planning on both of us living to old age, but that was not to be.
And so I’m embarking on an entirely new life now, one that is completely unfamiliar to me. I’m learning that grief is not linear. Someone said to me it’s not even circular—it’s random! According to my experience, that sounds about right. (Of course that always surprises me.)
For the moment, while this experience is so very fresh and intense, I’m pretty much a mess. It’s hard to concentrate. School is completely surreal. I miss Lou Ann terribly, especially not feeling her closeness so immediately. I sometimes forget whole chunks of our life together. I am trying to make the transition from her being gone to her being everywhere. There are moments of relative ease, when I can take a baby step back and look at the experience, and once in a while I can make a choice between feeling the abject misery of the loss and feeling grateful for all that we had together.
I’m also all over the map about company. It changes moment to moment whether I’m interested in company or not, and whether anyone will do or only specific people. There have been two Wednesday open-door evenings, and they have been very enjoyable and helpful.
A friend and I went to Duluth last weekend to be pampered by Rita and Diane and other friends. It was a real treat! We looked at pictures of Lou Ann’s life, then listened to the recording of her memorial service. While it was wonderful to be able to listen to things I wasn’t able to pay attention to during the service itself, it was very difficult to hear it. The pain in the whole church/synagogue was palpable. The eulogies reminded me of so many other things I had forgotten. It was hard to sleep that night.
Nevertheless, we had a momentous experience Sunday as we packed the car to leave. Pat’s bike was leaning on the ground, and a lovely butterfly landed on the handlebars. You know how butterflies like to flit about? This one stayed in one spot for a remarkably long time: five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes. We said “It’s Lou Ann!” and had a great time studying all its little tiny features. When its wings were closed, it was a perfect mimic of a tree fungus with brown areas edged by a wiggly tan line. But when the wings were opened, they were a stunning deep red-maroon color, with a wiggly yellow edge and iridescent blue spots. The tongue unfurled and explored Pat’s bike; it had a tiny orange tip to it (Don said today, “It’s from the Orangina!”). You don’t often get to study the details of such a wondrous creature for that long. I don't believe it was actually Lou Ann. After all, what if the dog had snarfed it down? But clearly it was a message for us from her: I'm doing OK, and you all are, too.
But perhaps the most remarkable thing was that when Pat keyed it out, the name was Mourner’s Cloak. Could the world be more astonishing?
So Happy Birthday to our dear Lou Ann (and to Moon).
Please keep leaving me messages. I fear that I represent not only myself, which is perfectly fine, but also the absence of Lou Ann, which is so painful. I hope you don’t stay away because of that.
Love, Elizabeth
Friday, August 26, 2005 12:23 AM CDT
I can hardly believe it's been more than a month since Lou Ann died. It still doesn't even seem possible that she's not here and won't be ever again! For the past couple of weeks I haven't felt her close, which is really hard for me. Like many others, I miss her fiercely. But I'm starting to lose the desperate quality of the longing for her. I'm comforted by the many cards I still receive, and by offers to cook for me and work in the yard with me.
Of course this is the worst experience of my life. At the same time, it is the deepest spiritual experience of my life. My future with Lou Ann died when she did. That is a huge adjustment, physically, mentally and emotionally. It is also a really deep investigation into who I will become, reagrdless of who I've been in the past.
What seems to help most is the perspective from the Tibetan Buddhists. In my cosmology, I think we humans don't know more than a few molecules about what really goes on in the unseen realms, but the Tibetans have more experience with that than many others, and they look to their experience rather than make rules. They (and similar wise people like Eckhart Tolle) say that if we can interrupt the story line just a bit and notice the space around the story, we'll suffer less. I find that when I cry and cry, the crying is so intense that there's no room for a story line about it, just the physical feeling of it. Paradoxically, that begins to open up a little spaciousness in my heart, which is the key to suffering less. It's also how I can connect with others in the same boat.
I've instituted an open door policy at our house on Wednesday evenings after 5:30, to try to recapture the sense of community that we had around Lou Ann's last days and the week following. People can come as they wish, eat or not, sit around the table and talk about Lou Ann and anything else. It began this week. I knew I couldn't make it home by 5:30, so I left the house unlocked and a note on the door to come in and make yourself at home. So I had the thrilling experience of coming home to find people in the house! It was a good feeling, and I look forward to those times.
Please keep leaving me messages here. I like reading them very much. And as always, thanks for everything you've done.
Love, Elizabeth
Saturday, August 20, 2005 10:12 PM CDT
Hello. Another week has gone by. I cry every day. (Crying is good.) I feel Lou Ann close from time to time, which is a comfort. Last night I asked her to help me learn to live without her, and I hope she will.
That is my task, to move into a totally new life. This is the deepest practice I've ever experienced: how to be full of grief and yet not close down around it. I have to learn how to grocery shop, cook and eat for one. Lou Ann and I both loved to cook and eat, and we shared meals and talk nearly every day. The other night I made myself a nice dinner, then cried over the plate because Lou Ann would have really loved it and because this is the life I have now, making a nice dinner and eating it alone. But a lot of other people are in this same situation, and I can learn from them.
This afternoon I went with two friends to see an exhibit of Buddhist relics from 2600 years ago. I received a blessing from a monk who held an object over my head that supposedly contained remnants of the Buddha himself. I can still feel the residual effect of that touch on my crown.
I’ve been taking care of the details of closing out Lou Ann’s professional life. Even though her estate is quite simple, man, are there a lot of unanticipated things to take care of! With each one I think I can take care of it with one simple phone call, but not yet! There are still piles and piles of papers to go through. It’s tedious but kind of sweet at the same time.
Being at school and around students will be a challenge, but I want to stay open-hearted around them. They all have experienced deep hurt and loss, so I hope we can connect around that. We're in the planning stage for September right now. It's pretty surreal. I'm exhausted all the time.
Tonight I was reading over all the emails and guestbook entries we've received over the last few months. What an outpouring of love and caring! Please don't let it trickle away now. It's OK to stay in touch, even though it's hard to know what to say. I still don't really get the finality of Lou Ann's death. It's OK to refer to both of us as though she were still here--she is, for me.
We got so much help from so many people during Lou Ann's illness. That part of my life is now done, and I still need a lot of help moving into this next part. Gotta go talk to Lou Ann now. Leave me a message.
Love, Elizabeth
Saturday, August 20, 2005 9:51 PM CDT
Hello. Another week has gone by. I cry every day. (Crying is good.) I feel Lou Ann close from time to time, which is a comfort. Last night I asked her to help me learn to live without her, and I hope she will.
That is my task, to move into a totally new life. This is the deepest practice I've ever experienced: how to be full of grief and yet not close down around it. Our society doesn't honor blubberers very much, does it? I have to learn how to grocery shop, cook and eat for one. Lou Ann and I both loved to cook and eat, and we shared meals and talk nearly every day. The other night I made myself a nice dinner, then cried over the plate because Lou Ann would have really loved it and because this is the life I have now, making a nice dinner and eating it alone. But a lot of other people are in this same situation, and I can learn from them.
Being at school and around students will be a challenge, but I want to stay open-hearted around them. They all have experienced deep hurt and loss, so I hope we can connect around that. We're in the planning stage for September right now. It's pretty surreal. I'm exhausted all the time.
Tonight I was reading over all the emails and guestbook entries we've received over the last few months. What an outpouring of love and caring! Please don't let it trickle away now. It's OK to stay in touch, even though it's hard to know what to say. I still don't really get the finality of Lou Ann's death. It's OK to refer to both of us as though she were still here--she is, for me.
We got so much help from so many people during Lou Ann's illness. That part of my life is now done, and I still need a lot of help moving into this next part.
Love, Elizabeth
Sunday, August 14, 2005 10:18 AM CDT
I’m discovering how life goes on in the midst of being completely broken-hearted. I think I’m still in a state of shock about losing Lou Ann. Abby would say things like “Lou Ann passed away,” yet another time she would say “Lou Ann will come, too,” or something of that nature. We adults would think, she doesn’t really understand death and how final it is, that she won’t see Lou Ann again. The curious thing is that I don’t understand that either! I keep thinking Lou Ann will come home, or call, and I can’t really yet understand the finality of it, not really.
So now I am going to whine just a bit. During the last several weeks people were always at the house, and while that was chaotic and sometimes draining, it was also wonderfully convivial. The door was open and people would just walk in. Folks who didn’t know each other would connect, and we’d have deep or funny conversations with whoever happened to be there. Several people have indicated to me that they miss that, and I have to say I miss it, too. Now the house is too empty, except for all the piles of paper I’m sorting!
It is hard to know what to say or do during a time like this. It’s true that there really are no words that can take away the anguish of this loss. That’s OK. I just have to go through it, explore it, plumb it, try to develop a strength more pliable than rigid. But please don’t stay away because you think I’ve had enough company, or because you don’t know what to say. Phone calls help, cards and emails help, invitations help, time together helps. Dropping in helps. Talking about Lou Ann really helps. She was a smart, funny, wonderful person, and lots of people miss her terribly. Sitting around the table talking about her is a very healing thing to do.
Here are a couple of little anecdotes about her. Lou Ann and I rotated doing the laundry. She wanted the laundry finished the day it was started—which I didn’t discover for a few years—so she always had to “help” it along. At length we decided that I would do all the laundry, but because Lou Ann always meddled with it, we in fact shared doing the laundry. Finally, she couldn’t eat chocolate for the past several years. Every once in a while I would get an item of really, really good chocolate. I’d eat some, then come close to her face and breathe the smell of chocolate onto her and give her a little chocolate kiss. She would say “Oh, that’s heavenly,” and get a lot of pleasure out of it right up to her death.
So, continued thanks and appreciation to you, and please, don’t be a stranger.
Love, Elizabeth
P.S. By the way, Heron had a lovely experience in the Canadian border lakes area that let her know Lou Ann's doing just fine. How comforting.
Tuesday, August 9, 2005 9:57 PM CDT
Hi, it’s Elizabeth. Today is the first day of the rest of my life; that is, my life without Lou Ann. The memorial service is over, Elena, Bill and Abby left for home, and I cried my eyes out all the way back from the airport. By saying this I am not whining. There is what I call a terrible freedom to my life now, and it is a freedom I do not want. Nor do I want to fall back to my previous self. Rather, I wish to plumb the depths of grief in the manner of David Whyte (poem to follow) and see who I will become.
The memorial service was a beautiful as can be. It was exactly as Lou Ann had requested and probably pleased her immensely. Hundreds of people came, and most of us were still in a state of shock that she wasn’t there. It was very, very moving. Many people shared great memories and kind thoughts. I didn’t know whether I would be able to speak or to sing, but I am very glad that I managed to do both, and it helped me. There was one snafu—how could there not be, and maybe it was Lou Ann’s doing—but it added some wonderful spice to the service. I had arranged to have a song by Aretha Franklin be the closing music, but it suddenly came on too soon! I guess it was her version of the mourners’ Kaddish! At length we got the soundman to fade it out. Aretha had to wait, said the rabbi, and the service continued. (Let me know if you want a copy of the program.)
Special appreciation to Ray, Joe, Gene and Nancy for consoling me about the loss of a mate. To Pat for wanting me to plant a commemorative bush for Lou Ann (at her request I’m going to have to learn to raise roses); Karen for offering a tree; El Colegio staff for wanting to plant a tree for Lou Ann at school; Mel and Dorothy for a letter of such tenderness and support; Ministry and Counsel for constant support during shiva and the reception; Mark for the recordings of the service; Velma for paving the way at the church; Paul, Susan, Connie, Mary Ann for greeting; Rabbi Offner for being flexible enough to accommodate Lou Ann’s wish for an “eclectic service;” Barb, Elena, and Maggie for helping with the photo display and much more; Moon, Patrick and Janet for eulogies; Heron, Jessie, Mary, Kathryn, Annie, Judy for singing; Judith and Patrick for chi; Kath and Susan for following up with the distressing hospice care; Judith for the fabulous flowers; David for donating the printing of the programs; Mary Rose for respite care offer; Rita and Diane for northern care; Elena and Bill for so much during the week here, and for raising such a spectacular child (“Gahmah, you go home and cry and then you get on a plane and come to Portland next time; we ready for you”). Thanks to everyone who attended the service and helped make it joyful. Thanks to those who keep reaching out to me, whether I am prepared to respond or not. You can bet that with all the company departed I’ll be more able to accept your offers and will welcome them. Your cards, calls, emails continue to be a lifeline for me. I am grateful, grateful, grateful.
I’m going to try to load two new pictures.
Now here’s the poem:
The Well of Grief
Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief
turning downward through its black water
to the place we cannot breathe
will never know the source from which we drink,
the secret water, cold and clear,
nor find in the darkness glimmering
the small round coins
thrown by those who wished for something else.
Monday, August 1, 2005 6:57 PM CDT
Hi this is Moon,
I imagine very few people check the site anymore since Lou Ann is gone, but I want to share my dream from last night, the first one of her to come to me.
We were in the Mayo Clinic and her doctor was saying that he was unwilling to let her leave until he fully understood her case, and proceeded to check her into the hospital. I went home for the night. The next morning when I arrived she had already had surgery andthe doctor assurred me that all the cancer was gone. Lou Ann was sitting up in her hospital bed chatting with the nurses and laughing. While I was in the room she started feeling nauseated, and as that happenned, a team of specialists walked in, reassuring her that they would get to the bottom of her symptoms and take care of her. I woke up feeling like she was getting all the help she needed wherever she is now.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005 2:42 PM CDT
On Monday the rabbi conducted a very beautiful shiva service for Lou Ann at Moon and Mindy’s home. About 70 people—standing room only—prayed, cried, laughed, ate and commiserated together.
Monday morning Lou Ann’s body was cremated. This was the one event in her illness that went smoothly, without any complications! Pat and Sonny and I spent the morning in Sonny’s gorgeous landscaped garden in Minneapolis. It was a fitting place because of its inspired beauty, and because Lou Ann had enjoyed many hours there over the years. We lit a flame for her and toasted her with Orangina (now a dietary staple for me, I can promise you). I remembered that when we dressed Lou Ann’s body in a characteristic outfit of hers, we tucked a couple of tissues in her pockets, since that was characteristic of her as well. In the afternoon we retrieved her ashes, came back to the garden, and slowly poured the ashes into a ceramic vessel Lou Ann had made. It was a sweet, tender, peaceful ceremony.
The little hitches continue. The oxygen fellow came to fetch the compressor and portable tanks from the front porch. They took the compressor but left the tanks, since there is a legal limit as to how many tanks one truck can safely haul at one time. A small thing, but it means I can’t quite cross it off my list.
At last the hospital bed has been removed, something I was eager for, not so much as to erase what has been happening recently as to be able to get the bedroom put back together in a more familiar way. But of course, now that it’s done, there is the most profound emptiness in the room instead!
No surprise, I miss her terribly! Everywhere I go there is the yawning abyss of “not Lou Ann.” Sometimes I have to gulp for breath with that awareness. I’m still needing to learn the lessons of this experience: I have learned to accept people’s generosity to complete a necessary transaction, and I have long since learned that I can’t do everything myself. Who can? But most recently, I’m reminded of how lovely it is to not have to do everything by myself. How nice it is to have company for a difficult conversation, or to meet with so-and-so, or to pick up the ashes. I bawl a lot, and I draw on your goodwill, memories, love. That support and camaraderie and shared memory is what makes this loss anywhere near bearable.
Just a reminder: visiting continues at our home Thursday through Saturday, 10 a.m.-9 p.m. The address is 1013 Thorn St., St. Paul 55106. And the memorial service for Lou Ann will be held at 2 p.m. on Sunday, August 7, at First Universalist Church, 3400 Dupont Av. S., Minneapolis 55408. Hope to see you there.
Love always,
Elizabeth
Sunday, July 24, 2005 0:33 AM CDT
I’m really bummed my previous attempt at posting didn’t take, so I’ll try again.
The moment had to come at some point. We sat in vigil all night by turns, and Lou Ann spent the morning breathing with effort, sometimes calling out from the strain. Relatives and friends who have seen us through this illness surrounded her in her bed. Suddenly there were a few periods of apnea, then she quietly left us at about 1 p.m.
No amount of preparation is sufficient for an event like this. You can completely expect it, and you’re still run over by a train.
This morning there was a tremendous storm across the Twin Cities. What a great way for Lou Ann to go. We lost power, which meant the oxygen compressor went into its own distress, which it expressed by another identical-sounding series of beeping. Got the portable tank hooked up right away. Eventually the phones and power came back on.
We sat around for awhile crying and being stunned by the passing. Heron tried to get Lou Ann’s eyes and mouth to stay closed, to scant avail. Whereupon Pete, her dad, said “She always was stubborn,” and we had another chance to laugh.
The snafus and moronic humor continued even after Lou Ann’s passing. A call to the hospice was supposed to have initiated a series of communication links that would end with the Cremation Society calling to ask when they should come for Lou Ann. Instead, because the paperwork was “in the mail,” paramedics from the county coroner, then the police, had to come, sirens and all, to make sure (by law) there was no foul play.
By 5 p.m. I still hadn’t heard from the Cremation Society even after another call to hospice. The nurse on call kept saying, I’m sorry, I’m sorry; you shouldn’t have to go through this, I’m going to talk with my director immediately. Finally I had to tell her, “Frankly, I am not interested in more apologies. I want you to connect me with the Cremation Society.”
We oiled Lou Ann’s body with lavender lotion and dressed her in one of her tuypical work-in-the yard outfits. At length I called the Cremation Society myself and left a message. Within five minutes the boys in the hearse called to say they were a block away! They’d gotten the order that “the family was ready for them to come,” even though no notice to that effect had come from me. As if that weren’t enough, they had me listed as Lou Ann’s daughter. I am very curious about this conversation the nurse might have with her director. I’d like to be a part of that one. [Actually, it’s just a place to put my anger at Lou Ann’s dying.]
Now for the moronic humor. Our friends carried Lou Ann down the stairs on a makeshift stretcher, with me bawling behind trying not to fall down the stairs. It was a sweet impromptu ceremony. When Lou Ann was being arranged on the stretcher in a wrap and covered with a lovely red cloth, one of the men’s cell phones went off with the most ridiculous little tune. Even though we were all weeping, it was so incongruous that we all burst out laughing. One more little thing: in the hospital Lou Ann’s face sheet listed her occupation as Psycho Therapist. This is pertinent because she was given Haldol, which in small doses controls nausea, but is frequently used as an anti-psychotic drug! The staff got a big kick out of that.
The gentlemen gave me a bunch of information, and I them. IF all goes according to plan (she says hopefully), the paperwork will be completed and Lou Ann will be cremated on Monday.
Now for particulars from here: There will be a shiva ceremony at 7 p.m. on Monday, July 25 at Moon and Mindy’s house, 1729 Jefferson Ave., St. Paul, 55105. Shiva July 26-27, 10 a.m.-9 p.m. Continued visitation July 28-29-30 at my house, 1013 Thorn St., St. Paul 55106. All are welcome.
A memorial service will be held on Sunday, August 7 at 2 p.m. at the First Universalist Church, 3400 Dupont Ave. S., Minneapolis 55408. All are welcome. An added benefit of this location is that it was the synagogue Lou Ann and Moon attended in their youth.
If making a donation pleases you, it can be sent to Shir Tikvah Congregation, 5000 Girard Ave. So., Minneapolis, MN 55419, or to Midwest Society of Contemporary Psychoanalysis (MSCP), Parkdale Plaza Building, Suite 428, 1660 South Hwy 100, St. Louis Park, MN 55416.
Thanks for absolutely everything! Love, Elizabeth
Saturday, July 23, 2005 7:39 AM CDT
It is pretty amazing what can happen in just 24 hours, isn’t it? Here’s the chronicle: night before last, Lou Ann asked for some French liqueur, and Heron thought it would be fun to have a three-way toast. She and I had a tiny cup of the liqueur, and Lou Ann had hers watered down and administered by a sponge-on-a-stick. We said, “We’ve had a wonderful life together, haven’t we? We’ve had so many good times together.” Heron and I raised our cups, Lou Ann raised her sponge swab; we clinked them together, and Lou Ann said, in her teeny, thin, barely audible voice, “Hear, hear.” It was incredibly sweet.
As I settled for the night, I couldn’t hear Lou Ann’s breathing, it was so quiet. I worried about not knowing when she passed, and wasn’t sure whether to go to sleep or stay awake. I arranged myself right next to the hospital bed in her reclining chair. Once when she was up in the night, she said, “I’m afraid I might be going.” When I asked, “Is that OK with you?” she replied, “Not if I’m alone.” So I had my answer!
Before dawn more smoke alarms went off again. What’s going on? Do they really all need batteries at once, or is someone trying to get ahold of Lou Ann? I finally yanked all the detectors in the house out of their sockets, removed the batteries, and tossed them in the basement. As if that weren’t enough, later in the morning a similar sound was beeping continuously. Why is it that all the electronic devices have the same horrible frequency? This turned out to be the oxygen compressor. I transferred Lou Ann to the portable tanks and got in touch with the supplier. Eventually, it turned out to be a kink in the line that had stopped the flow, but how disconcerting in the meantime! Lou Ann might not live another 24 hours, and we have to do a whole new oxygen thing? Yoiks.
A very sweet antidote was a surprise from Terese, who brought over a monarch butterfly chrysalis! It will undergo its transformation just when Lou Ann is undergoing hers. All afternoon a butterfly circled the house; we imagined it’s waiting to take Lou Ann on her journey.
I must mention a lovely dream Lou Ann had a few weeks ago. She on her way to her next place. Moon and I had asked her to contact us after she dies, so she was showing us where she would be going. There was a transition zone where one could go forward and look ahead and still come back to this world, but if you crossed over there was no return. Everything was filled with white light, people she loved (including her mom), and unspeakably beautiful music. She showed me and Moon what it was like, and we went back and forth, getting a taste of what she would experience. After that dream, how could we be afraid of dying?
But Lou Ann is still hanging on. There is round-the-clock vigil at her bedside. Last night she said several times, “I should go home,” and those present agreed. She is staying pretty comfortable, but she is so ready to go: she can hear the music, see the people, feel the next place, but hasn’t quite let go yet. We hope it will be soon. I started to get scared yesterday when it looked like her passing was immediate, but I have since tapped into my gratitude about all that we have had together, and I’m much more peaceful.
Check this site for information about the memorial service. We anticipate it being on Sunday, August 7 at 2 pm, at the Unitarian Society, 3400 Dupont Ave. S., Minneapolis.
Love and gratitude, Elizabeth
Thursday, July 21, 2005 3:08 PM CDT
So, we’re in the period Maggie O’Connor calls the waiting time. Lou Ann wants to leave; she’s ready, and her body is still supporting her. Of course, she’s doing her little bit to help that along—the staying, that is. Lou Ann opted for virtually no contact at all for a couple of days, and I think she recuperated a little from the stream of visitors and was open to small interactions. It is just unbelievable what’s been happening that last two days. I almost feel in the middle of a Faulkner novel.
Once when I came into the room, there was our little cat Mimi curled up on the hospital bed in the crook of Lou Ann’s arm, both of them sleeping. It was a precious sight, since the cats have been too intrusive lately for Lou Ann to enjoy them.
As Lou Ann takes smaller amounts of water, we’ve been looking for those little sponges-on-a-stick that we forgot to get at the hospital. When we tried one out for Lou Ann to get a little water, her response was, “Now that’s what I call a last resort.”
Yesterday afternoon Moon came into the kitchen saying that Lou Ann wants a root beer float! A WHAT? So she had some little sips of root beer. “Ooohh, that’s heavenly.” Later on, I asked her, “What’s that dark liquid in your glass?” “Root beer! Can I have some more?” Some time later she was talking with Jessie about Orangina; then she asked Pat to get her some and gave her explicit directions to Byerly’s. “And when you get there, just ask someone where the expensive sodas are.”
What next? She asked Jessie and Pat for Green Eggs and Ham! Really! Then, “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” When I heard that I brought her up three wasabi-coated peanuts that looked green and egg-shaped. I said, “Honey, we don’t have any ham, and you don’t eat it anyway, but here are some green eggs.” When she started to reach for them, I said “don’t you dare; this would blow you out of the water.” So we’ve been having some fun. But I was a little concerned. Even taking water is prolonging her life, so what about root beer, Orangina (and green eggs and ham)? What might be next? What if she asks for alcohol? Solid food? It’s one thing to grant someone their dying wish, but another to jeopardize her condition. I consulted with Maggie. She said small amounts with space between would be OK, and even a micro amount of solid food is OK, and it won’t appreciably affect how long she lives.
And guess what? The next thing Lou Ann requested was that special flower liqueur that Moon and Mindy had just brought back from France. I diluted it with water and used the sponge to give her a sip. Her face showed how much she liked it. We couldn’t get Orangina yesterday, which was fine with Lou Ann, but this morning that was the first thing she mentioned. Someone coming from the other side of town would bring some. After some time had passed, Lou Ann had a pained look on her face. I asked her what was the matter? “I want some Orangina.”
So it just keeps being this amazing trip to be with Lou Ann during these last days. Mostly she sleeps or dozes. There’s not much more talking. Downstairs there is always food, visiting, laughter, stories, tears. Upstairs, we keep vigil with Lou Ann in the bedroom, meditating, reading books of poetry, resting, or just watching her. It’s very peaceful, a real transformative experience. Since this death is inevitable, I can’t think of how it could be more beautiful.
Thanks for being a part of it with us, to whatever degree.
Love, Elizabeth
Wednesday, July 20, 2005 9:54 AM CDT
People have certainly rallied around since Lou Ann came home! Everlasting appreciation to Elena and Bill for bringing Abby (“Your name not EB, it’s Gahmah!”), and to Jessie, Heron, Pat, Judith, Patrick, Nance, Janet, Moon and Mindy for your constant presence at our home. To all of you for sitting with Lou Ann, for keeping the phone answered, dishes done, mail sorted, food prepared, kitchen orderly, garden watered, laundry done, trash emptied, errands run, and me somewhat close to sane, if that is possible, and for feeding me (“eat the f-ing sandwich”). Special thanks go to Annie, Judy, Jean, Jessie, Heron for singing to me in the park.
There were three window air conditioners going during those sweltering days. It was so refreshing to be able to open up the windows after the recent storm and let sweet breezes come through. Last night’s rain was another balm, and opening the windows helps us not feel so cooped up.
Lou Ann has been very peaceful. She has very little pain, almost never coughs, and though it’s an effort to breathe, there is no labor to it. She is only taking sips of water and ice chips. She really, really wants to proceed to the next place, which she sees clearly. Her body is hanging on. She’s made the connection between taking in even tiny amounts of water and prolonging her life, but she feels caught: on the one hand, she doesn’t want any undue suffering (from lingering here), and on the other hand she doesn’t want any undue suffering (from drying out). I know she’ll find the balance that ultimately works for her.
Yesterday Lou Ann indicated that she no longer wants contact from “this world.” She finds that any contact really holds her here, and she so much wants to leave. “It’s a dilemma for me,” she said, “because I know people want to see me, but I just want to be quiet and rest.” So I was the ham-fisted bouncer at the door. Someone has to sit in the room with her, of course, but she doesn’t want to be touched or spoken to even by me (my sad face goes here) unless she initiates something. She could hear that people were talking downstairs, but not what they were saying.
She has slept very quietly the last two or three nights, still uses a bedpan, asks for ice chips, knows what medicines she wants. We’ve cleaned her and her bedding every morning, so she’s staying pretty comfortable. Your cards and emails have been read to her, and she’s heard them. Please feel free to continue to call, leave emails, and inquire about visiting (though not with Lou Ann).
When Lou Ann dies, her body will be cremated. Then there will be about 6 days of sitting shiva (in the Jewish tradition), first at Moon’s house and later at our house. Watch this site for the particulars.
Here’s just a note about some of the weird little happenings with this illness. I just have to find some moronic humor in it sometimes. A few weeks ago, Lou Ann got her new chemo at the clinic, and even though we didn’t have an appointment with the doc, he stopped by to see us. On the way home, Lou Ann was commenting on this, and said, “Bless his . . . .” and of course I assumed she would continue with “ . . . heart.” Instead, she said, “Bless his pointy little head.” It was so completely unexpected that I just about drove off the road from laughing so hard, and it still makes me laugh to think of it.
The other night one of our smoke alarms went off momentarily in the middle of the night, signaling its battery was low. I went downstairs to collect a new battery and my ear protectors, which could not have taken more than 4 or 5 minutes. I came back upstairs to hear Lou Ann calling out “Elizabeth!” which is not ever the first moniker she uses with me. She needed to use the bedpan. I felt so bad that it happened at exactly that moment, and she had to call several times before I heard her. Lastly, wouldn’t you know that the other night in the hospital she developed another blood clot, in her hand this time.
There’s just no end to the unanticipated events. I can only hope that one day I will be accustomed to it, because it is the true nature of this world we live in.
Love,
Elizabeth
Tuesday, July 19, 2005 10:13 AM CDT
Well, I simply cannot believe that it was just last Thursday afternoon that Lou Ann decided to change course! So much has unfolded with lightning speed.
We were in the hospital a few days, visiting with dear friends, singing, talking with Lou Ann, witnessing the freedom and rightness of her decision to let her life come to closure. She came home Saturday afternoon. We lingered in the front yard with her, in the open air under the trees, knowing this would be her last time outdoors. It was a happy/sad time.
Since then, Lou Ann has for the most part been resting peacefully. As the days go by, she sleeps better and better at night, coughs almost not at all, and has almost no pain. Her mind is totally lucid. Whenever someone visits, she opens her eyes and beams love to them. While her personality is still very present, all the irrelevant elements are gone. She focuses completely on the other person, lovingly and uncritically interested.
It’s been an incredibly tender and poignant time. We are able to talk with her about her experience at this time, to reminisce, and even joke with her. She’s just bare, the essence of a human self, open, accessible. This morning I was snuggled in the hospital bed next to her quietly for some time. Finally she said I would have to leave. When I got up, she said, “Oh, my poor shoulder,” and I said, “My poor neck,” each knowing that the moments together were worth the discomfort.
She is completely ready to go forward, and has clearly begun that journey. All the necessary things of this world—legal matters, family visits—have been taken care of, and we are all urging her forward, releasing her to her next place. She is surprised she’s still here, that her body still works this well. I’m surprised that she could get thinner than she was a few days ago, but she did.
I will keep posting notes about what happens as things develop. If what we anticipate comes to pass, there will be a memorial service for Lou Ann in early August. But as with this whole illness, not much has gone as expected, so stay tuned.
Thanks to Paul and Pat for covering the home front; Mel and Dorothy for Mary Oliver poems; Patrick and Heron for delicious energy work; Elena and Bill for making a short-notice redeye trip; Nance and Judy for airport taxiing; Paul for legal work; Judy for singing; Heron and Jessie for sharing Raisa the dog with Lou Ann; and many more gifts to us.
As always, with gratitude and love,
Elizabeth
Saturday, July 16, 2005 6:31 PM CDT
Hello again. Things have really unfolded at a tremendous rate in the past few days. On Thursday evening, after hearing from her doctor that her prognosis was terrible, Lou Ann decided to forgo any further treatment for her cancer and to allow her life to come to an end. There is no way her body can overcome her cancer, and she doesn’t want to extend her life by a small amount when so much continued suffering is involved. She hasn’t been eating for several days, and hasn’t wanted to eat for many weeks.
As stunning and anguishing as this development may seem, it is clear to everyone around her that it is completely the right decision. The only cards she's been dealt in this game have been bad; she didn't get any breaks. She has struggled long enough. The minute she made the decision, she felt a huge sense of relief, and that has only increased. So we’ve moved into palliative (hospice) care to control her symptoms and keep her comfortable. She’s set up with a hospital bed and hospice home care, and will die at home, probably within a matter of days. Even now, Moon and her family are coming home from their trip to France, and Elena, Bill and Abby are here from Portland.
I can’t believe it’s been only since Thursday that this has been going on, but I and a circle of close friends have had the most amazing conversations with Lou Ann. She gets clearer and clearer as the irrelevances of this world fall away. She looks at people with only the purest love in her eyes, and it’s been beautiful to share those looks with her and witness them with others. She is radiant. She and I have shared the most amazing precious moments together, as our closeness increases and our love for each other deepens. I will be devastated by the loss of her, but these precious times will make it a little easier to bear.
She has a number of discomforts, but most of her symptoms are very well controlled with a number of medications, and she says she isn’t in any pain.
Now: this is a time for you to draw upon your deepest empathy for Lou Ann and understand that visiting must be very limited. Please recognize that this is nothing personal. As people near the end of their lives—-and Lou Ann is very close—-they draw inward, and pulls for interaction are very fatiguing. If you would like to get in touch with Lou Ann, please write her an email at lewis109@tc.umn.edu. We’ll make certain that it is read to her. Feel free to call and leave a phone message as well. Don’t completely dismiss the idea of a visit, but be prepared to not be able to. I feel sad to have to say all this, but Lou Ann’s well being is paramount. I know you understand, and I thank you for it.
Having said all that, there will still be an ongoing need for support for me as I go through this loss and change, and I invite you to extend yourself to me. Even though my worst moment was thinking I was saying goodbye to Lou Ann when she was on the verge of respiratory failure, this transition time is terribly difficult. It’s just that it’s also very beautiful.
Special thanks in recent weeks go to Maggie for poems, palliative care advice, and visits; Pat for consistent visits; Nance for wanting to read to Lou Ann and ending up reading from the dictionary; Marylez for more of the world’s best eggs; Mary and Nance for helping me climb the tree across the street and for listening; Cathy, Susan, Jack and Mary for worshipping with me on Sunday; Susan for the St. John’s Bible outing; Peg, Jan, Mary Rose, Thrace, Judy, and Nile for contributions to my bodywork fund; Judy, Nile, Jymme, Beth, Zena, Patrick and Don for great bodywork; Elena for Meryl Streep’s reading of The Velveteen Rabbit; Heron and Jessie for forgoing their vacation to be with us; Judith for being my person ally; Paul for legal advice; Wendy and Judy for wonderful soup and blueberry muffins that got me through unexpected hours of chemo; Juan for wonderful soup; Susan for bread pudding that Lou Ann would eat; Amy, Brigid, Ann, Steve, Malva, Judith, Pete, Anne, Janet, Jessie, Louise, Jill for bringing dinners; Judith for the Blessed Buddha image and prayers; Jeanne for an impromptu evening walk; Elizabeth for a fabulous picnic on the porch; you for cards, letters, emails, phone calls; just to mention a few.
You all are the answer to our prayers, and your support has been invaluable.
Love and light,
Elizabeth
Wednesday, July 13, 2005 10:53 PM CDT
Hello. Prepare yourself for a scary report. LouAnn's difficulty eating has been a very big concern and has not been getting better. She's lost a bit more weight (now 83 pounds) and has become weaker and more fatigued. We were at the clinic this afternoon consulting with a specialist about the serious deterioration of her condition and she didn't mince words: "you are seriously malnourished; we can't ethically give you more chemo until that is addressed. I strongly recommend a feeding tube. But you have to decide whether you want treatment that can prolong your life or go into hospice. They had a quality of life conversation, and Lou Ann opted for life. (It was all I could do to not butt in, and I bet I was holding my breath.)
So, they installed an IV, started fluids, and prepared to get her over to the hospital. All of a sudden Lou Ann had one of her coughing spells and couldn't catch her breath. She got very anxious; red, clammy skin, profuse sweating. Even with full-strength oxygen and a mask, her functions were declining before our eyes. The clinic went into full alert - paramedics came, got her directly to the ER, and managed to get her stabilized. We came way too close to losing her! [Ask me more about this if you want. Later]
So now begins a new rehabilitation stage. She'll be at Fairview Southdale for a couple of days. She'll have fluid tapped from her lung cavity and get a feeding tube installed. As always, I have no idea what will happen. I'll keep adding postings, though.
And as always, thanks SO MUCH for your caring thoughts.
Love, Elizabeth
Friday, July 8, 2005 11:06 AM CDT
Now it’s been a week without chemo, but not without setbacks. Lou Ann still has no appetite and still truly needs to eat and gain weight. Her cough gets going and lasts literally for hours. It coincides with movement toward sleeping; somehow when she’s ready to sleep or doze off, the cough gets going. Of course that prevents her from sleeping. She’s very fatigued from the chemo and from coughing, not to mention from not eating. These are vicious cycles that are very hard to interrupt.
Ironically, her blood counts are still good. Problematically, though, her metabolic results aren’t quite so good. She’s low on potassium, which is like your computer having trouble with its operating system. Fortunately, there are many foods that are high in potassium. Unfortunately, it’s really hard to force yourself to eat when you don't want to, and impossible to someone else to eat when they don’t want to! Another vicious circle: getting her electrolytes balanced will improve her appetite and help her feel better.
For the first time, we had a tussle about whose needs would get met first. Because of Lou Ann’s cough, I have scarcely slept for a few days, and I’m not getting over my bad cold. If I don’t recover and get decent sleep, I’ll be in no shape to continue to care for Lou Ann. Our dear friend Pat was visiting, and she even offered to sleep in the room with Lou Ann so that I could sleep elsewhere, but Lou Ann said she wouldn’t “allow it.” We compromised by sleeping head to toe, with the fan on for white noise, and me wearing earplugs. It helped. But last night she was making so much noise that I simply had to go into the other room. This time she allowed it, and I feel hugely better.
Nevertheless, the slow progress, if it can be called that, is discouraging to both of us. I am constantly aware of how Lou Ann’s life still hangs in the balance, and we’re not certain which way it will go. All your prayers are a big ingredient for both of us. They quite literally keep us held together. Thank you so much for them, and all the other small ministrations you offer.
Many people have remarked that what they can do is hardly anything. I assure you, even small things go a long way, and they certainly add up!
Love, Elizabeth
Monday, July 4, 2005 7:13 PM CDT
Life is sure full of ups and downs, isn’t it? Lou Ann had a pretty good week of chemo. She has finally managed to stay on top of her nausea and her pain. Unfortunately, eating is still a chore. She no longer likes everything she used to find really tasty, and she doesn’t have an appetite. Also, there are many foods that don’t properly stay with her. Especially fats, which she needs so much! But the shock of her tiny weight was sufficient to turn her into a dedicated eater whether she likes it or not.
She still coughs a bunch, which debilitates her and at night keeps me awake. But I see her getting stronger in ways she doesn’t always see. She’s less frail-seeming, definitely stronger, steadier. She does more for herself. Both yesterday and today I borrowed a wheelchair from a nearby senior center, and we went out rockin.’ It’s been gloriously beautiful here, and it did Lou Ann a world of good to get out and ride around in a couple of neighborhoods (including our own).
We spend a certain amount of time reading aloud, which is really excellent. That is, I read to Lou Ann. We recently finished Crooked Little Heart, which we both think is Anne Lamott’s best book. Now we’re in the midst of Barbara Kingsolver’s Prodigal Summer, which we both loved; it’s wonderful to read these books out loud.
More thanks again to visitors, callers, cooks, Merry Pranksters, and all of you who are holding us so tenderly.
Love, Elizabeth
P.S. Take a look at some new pictures if you like.
Saturday, July 2, 2005 4:01 PM CDT
It’s Saturday, and Lou Ann has completed a week of new chemo treatments. Every three weeks she’ll get four days of a drug that she’s not resistant to. We go in to the clinic, and if everything goes smoothly, we’re there for only an hour an a half. [Of course, it isn't always smooth. Monday we arrived for a 9:30 appointment to be told they had us down for 1 p.m. We got in, though. We had brought our own oxygen tank for Lou Ann to use during the appointment. One nurse said, "Oh, don't bring your own. Just use ours." The next day we did just that, but when EB asked to get Lou Ann hooked up to oxygen, another nurse said, "We don't have any. You really should bring your own with you." EB was so stunned by that she just stared at the person. "But I was just going by what you told me!" Am I ever going to learn to roll with things as they happen?]
While the side effects are kicking in, early returns are good. She has some nausea today, but feels hopeful that this protocol will address the cancer. Lou Ann has gained a couple of pounds. Yesterday was her best day in a long while: she ate a meal sitting at the kitchen table for the first time in months. She spent time in every room in the house plus was outside on the deck. Unfortunately, it kind of took it out of her, leaving her a bit depleted. She coughs a lot, and sometimes it takes awhile for that to settle down.
Elizabeth has put on a couple of pounds as well. She was able to have two outings this weekend: dinner out with a dear friend last night, and a visit to the Art Institute to see the illuminated bible of St. John’s Abbey. Both of those were incredible treats for numerous reasons! She’s feeling better, though the cough still lingers, and she still needs more sleep to fully recuperate.
We keep getting closer through this experience, and are having some wonderful and poignant conversations and times together. Awareness of death is a constant thread, and we’re trying to be less and less scared by that. We keep learning more lessons, like asking for help, receiving help, being clear, and opening our hearts.
Special thanks to people who have come by to visit and done little things to help: dishes, dusting, weeding, reading aloud. And constant thanks to you for holding us in your heart.
Love, Elizabeth and Lou Ann
Monday, June 27, 2005 9:19 PM CDT
Hi! There’s good news and still some danger ahead. We had an all-day outing to the clinic today, and met with the oncologist about treatment from here on. The good news: the results from the tissue lab are in, and we know what drugs to which Lou Ann’s cancer is not resistant. She is healing up beautifully from the surgery. Her blood counts— hemoglobin, platelets, white cells—are really good! She began another chemotherapy regime this very afternoon.
The dangers: the main effects of this drug (and perhaps most) are fatigue, nausea, and loss of appetite. This in the face of Lou Ann’s serious weight loss. [The scale registered 85.9, which I first thought was kilos, then thought was in considerable error. But no. She weighs just under 86 pounds!] She cannot afford to not eat, or not get every benefit of the food she eats. Also, this drug can lead to a drop in white blood cells. They’ll monitor her temperature and blood counts closely.
Her protocol will be to have chemo four days in a row, then a dose of something that prevents a drop in her white cell count. Three weeks after day one, she’ll do it all again. We have two rounds of this on the calendar, then we’ll see how she’s doing. (I don’t know how they’ll see, besides blood work, but we’ll see how they’ll see.)
As for me, an underlying worry is always present. But I’m recovering nicely from my bout with whatever it was—cold, fever, laryngitis, bronchitis. The hardest part for both me and Lou Ann was how relatively unavailable I’ve been for a few days. Special thanks to you visitors during that time.
So, as always, we deeply appreciate your thoughts, prayers, cards, messages, visits, and many large and small ministrations. Keep holding us for a while longer, till we’re through the next set of rapids.
Love, Elizabeth
Saturday, June 25, 2005 9:26 AM CDT
Well, a big fear of mine materialized: I got a cold and sore throat. So I set about doing everything possible to address it and keep it away from Lou Ann. Changed the sheets and pillowcases, changed and separated the bath towels, slept head to toe with Lou Ann instead of head to head, swabbed with alcohol the phones, remotes, and other hard surfaces, wash my hands every ten minutes, and no more sloppy kisses! Plus I’m addressing my condition head-on: Vitamin C, Chinese herbs, raw garlic (Lou Ann has to imagine we’re sleeping in the kitchen, where garlic smells good), alkalizing teas, no sugar, and getting chiropractic and acupuncture treatments today. It was a great relief to me that the home health care nurse said that was way more than is necessary to keep Lou Ann out of danger. It’s been a great reminder about what it’s like to feel ill.
As for Lou Ann, she is still plagued by nausea and coughing. That makes it hard for her to eat, and she hasn’t gained any weight since surgery. She’ll have bloodwork done on Monday, get some IV fluids, and check in with the oncologist about resuming chemotherapy, perhaps as soon as early next week.
So we’re nowhere near out of the woods yet, and there’s no way to foresee an outcome. We just fervently wish for her recovery and are fervently optimistic that it is possible. Do join us in that wish! We continue to need your prayers and support desperately. Thank you so much for them all this while. And feel free to write or call.
Love, Elizabeth
Monday, June 20, 2005 8:33 PM CDT
Hello,
The world of illness is so ironic, isn’t it? There are many sounds associated with being very sick, and who would have thought that one of my favorite sonic experiences so far was to be in the kitchen and hear the toilet flushing upstairs? It meant that Lou Ann made her way on her own from the bedroom to the bathroom. I cheered inside! She also walked downstairs today, lingered awhile on the couch, and then went back upstairs under her own power.
Of course, it isn’t all roses. Far from it. Now that Lou Ann is stronger, she’s more restless and uncomfortable, feels more despairing about being in her current body and how long it will take to heal it. For my part, now that she’s better I no longer think she could possibly die during any given week. That frees me up to have other feelings about Lou Ann being sick. Today for the first time, I was utterly stymied by how fettered I am by her illness. I felt keenly the desire to deal with something besides cancer. Lou Ann is so dependent these days (of necessity) that she wants to always know where I am, and if I don’t check in on her every 20 minutes or so, she gets anxious. This is a challenge for a time-impaired person, and I try very hard to track the time.
Irony of ironies, today I had to go off and do some quick errands for us: the pharmacy, grocery store, photo store. Somehow Lou Ann thought that I had already gone and returned, so when I signaled my departure it didn’t register with her. Ten minutes later her cell phone rang, and I answered it. “Where are you?” “At Proex.” “At PROEX? What are you doing there? I thought you were at home. I’ve been hollering for you!” The poor thing! I felt so bad for her, so sorry that I had accidentally caused her such distress on a day when she was feeling needy. And I thought, oh, how the universe conspires to mirror our states of mind . . .
And so, dear people, you help very much to keep us sane in this fairly insane situation we’re in. Keep it up. We’re counting on you, and you’re coming through. Thank you, thank you.
Love, Elizabeth
Sunday, June 19, 2005 5:03 PM CDT
Elizabeth again. I'm going to be my Sagittarian self and wax a little philosophical. There is an intimacy about illness that is both tender and terrible. I have done things to, for, and with Lou Ann that most people cannot even imagine having to do, and that couples shouldn't have to endure. Lou Ann and I both experience this as a process of becoming closer, even though we look forward to the particulars ending. Mostly I believe people shouldn't have to be so terribly dependent nor so terribly responsible for another. And yet, there it is. It is the vibrant reality of our world, the world of serious illness. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her without hesitation.
I ponder how in the hospital Lou Ann is cared for by legions of strangers, rotating shifts of strangers, some of whom see her several times, many of whom see her only once. We are completely dependent for Lou Ann's life on their knowledge, their experience, their goodwill. The care, while essential, is largely intrusive, coming at all hours of the day and night, with or without warning, and involves infringing on the elemental privacy of Lou Ann's body.
Back home, many people now know how to navigate our kitchen, our bathroom, our bedroom; they know our laundry habits, food habits, cleaning habits. The help we have is staggering in its abundance and generosity. It's impossible to orchestrate it all, and so we simply have to yield to it, just as Lou Ann must yield to the hospital help.
And would we want it otherwise, to not have the help, the attention of strangers, the kind intrusions? No! Because we can't get along without you!
Thank goodness we're educated, smart, white, speak English, know this culture, can talk to people in positions of authority, and so forth. Surely those for whom that is not true must suffer way more than we.
And thank you all, who are doing so very much for us. No one thinks they are doing enough, not matter what you are doing. That's just the way of things. We're alone together.
Lou Ann got downstairs again today, and saw how niece Della and I had painted a flower garden on the wall of the front porch, and smiled.
Love, Elizabeth
Saturday, June 18, 2005 9:24 PM CDT
Hello, everyone. Just a quick note to say that Lou Ann is steadily--though still slowly--getting better. Today she walked down the hall to the bathroom and back three different times! She's doing exercises in bed and in her chair, and she no longer gasps for breath after the slightest activity. One sign that her condition is improving is that she's feeling restless and agitated, not satisfied with staying in the bed or chair. While uncomfortable for her, I think it's a good sign.
Later.
Much love, Elizabeth
Thursday, June 16, 2005 8:40 PM CDT
Hello.
Big news today is that Lou Ann got outside for about 45 minutes on this absolutely beautiful afternoon. She walked downstairs by herself and got hooked up to her portable oxygen setup. Our friend Pat was visiting from Duluth, and we all sat under the arbor and watched the garden grow and ate fresh-picked pea pods. Afterwards, Lou Ann wanted to climb back upstairs--a first--but Pat and I needed to carry her part of the way. What a trooper (isn't there a better dedscription than that, I wonder?)! We were all proud.
More tomorrow.
Love, as always, Elizabeth
Wednesday, June 15, 2005 8:53 PM CDT
Hooray! Lou Ann got her staples out today and didn’t have to travel to her clinic to get it done. The home health care nurse removed them with a cool little device that bent them outward and lifted them out. Now her incision can flatten out and really improve.
Lou Ann feels better every day, can walk a little farther or faster, goes down the hall to clean up by herself, and gets a little stronger every day. The home health care system is in place; the oxygen has done her a world of good.
So things are looking up. That sure is a relief after they were looking down for so very long! And I was able to put my arms around her for the first time in some weeks.
We feel the impact of your prayers, and they are very precious. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Love, Elizabeth
Monday, June 13, 2005 4:27 PM CDT
Greetings, everyone--
I had a good dream last night, which was especially heartening after weeks of not dreaming. I expect this is because of all the drugs. In the dream, I'm standing in front of a large mirror and vanity in someone's bathroom. I'm brushing my hair, which has grown back to its usual length and style. I notice as I brush my hair that I've gained back 10 or 15 of the pounds I've lost. I break into a smile, and say to someone, perhaps Elizabeth, "Damn, I look good."
I'll let the dream speak for itself. Apparently my unconscious can picture me healed.
Love, Lou Ann
Sunday, June 12, 2005 8:25 PM CDT
Okay! Lou Ann had a good night's sleep, sleeping through the night for the first time in a couple of months. It meant that I did, too; it was excellent for both of us. Lou Ann did some walking today, ate a lot of healthy food, did some breathing exercises, and a lot more sleeping. The oxygen did her a lot of good, and her spirits are up. She was actually talking about planning her birthday celebration (September).
If things continue in this vein, she'll be ready for chemo in two or three weeks. Isn't that a horrible thought? But they have now accurately diagnosed the type of ovarian cancer (mucinous--sp?), so will be able to treat it more accurately.
In the meantime, your support has been invaluable. Even though we still have to limit calls and visits, we appreciate that support immeasurably. Gotta go to bed! More tomorrow.
Love, Elizabeth
Saturday, June 11, 2005 1:36 PM CDT
Well, Lou Ann is home and it is wonderful for her to be back here! I know you are (almost) as glad as I am that she came through her surgery as well as she did, and I’m guessing you’d like to have the news confirmed in person if possible. Already, though, there has been a flurry of activity yesterday and today that leaves both of us weary. The home health care nurse came again this morning, and she was able to navigate the system so that Lou Ann could get some oxygen. It came quickly, and already Lou Ann feels better. Access to oxygen will help many aspects of her condition and speed her recovery.
Her primary task right now is to rest, and let the healing powers do their magic. While visiting still needs to be on a very limited basis, you can still help immensely by sending prayers and good energy this way. Please check the website for reports of Lou Ann’s status; someone will post them daily. Call our house if you would like to visit by phone or in person, and please be understanding if it isn’t the right time when you call. We’re all in this together, but Lou Ann has her particular road to follow. Much as we would like to take away (some of) her illness, all we can do is accompany her.
She’s lost a lot of muscle strength, but she can stand and walk steadily with a walker. She can do some exercises in the bed or her chair. We got some bath accoutrements for her, and she had a real bath yesterday morning! She has some breathing limitation because of the cancer infiltrates, but her lungs are clear (= no pneumonia), and the oxygen and a little breathing apparatus help a lot. (That’s like one of those things at the State Fair where you bang the hammer and see how high the ball rises—she can see what her lung capacity is and aim higher.) Her skin is plush and her color is pretty good. Rest is good!
And so we carry on, drawing strength from the unseen forces, which include your positive thoughts. I’ll post more tomorrow. Gotta go take a nap now!
Love, Elizabeth
Friday, June 10, 2005 5:08 PM CDT
Hello, everyone—
Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz certainly had it right when she said there’s no place like home. After 8 days in the hospital in a private room with practically no privacy, it’s so wonderful to be in my own house without people barging in. I am still weak, and have been afraid to count the exact number of staples in my incision, but I think it’s somewhere around 45. They need to stay in a few more days, but I so look forward to having them removed and being able to move a little more easily.
A small factoid: I have recently discovered that one of the real reasons that we have hair around our ears is to keep our ears from being plastered against our skulls, especially when we sleep.
Today we were visited by a home health care nurse and a physical therapist, so various ongoing efforts to make me stronger are now underway. I look forward to getting stronger and being able to write my own postings rather than dictate them to EB. In the meantime, dictating a few notes is a way to let you know how I am.
I want to close with continued gratitude for the endless outpouring of love and support that comes to me in so many ways from so many of you.
Love,
Lou Ann
Thursday, June 9, 2005 11:39 AM CDT
At long last, Lou Ann is going home today!!!!!!!!!!!!
I think we're ready to provide optimal care for her, and she is of course eager to be back there, sleep in her own bed, eat food cooked in her own house, see her own garden. She can get up and down stairs, and she'll use a walker to keep her steady on the flats. She's been getting stronger every day, and looks really good. Every time I visit she is hooked up to fewer appliances. Now they're all disconnected and she can depart.
While this is hugely good news, there is still a long road ahead. She's recovering very nicely from the surgery, and now she has to continue recovering from cancer. I sense she's just beyond the halfway mark and gotten through the most dangerous part of this journey.
Visits from now on can be at our house. Call, though, if you want to come see us. Lou Ann's still pretty weak and needs to stagger visiting so she doesn't end up staggering from the visits!
A bit ago I promised a little humor about someone having cancer. During one of Lou Ann's stays at Fairview Southdale, I stayed overnight several times. One morning I walked past the nurses' station with my little overnight bag, heading off to school. I said to them as a group, "Thanks for all you've done." One nurse who didn't know me inquired, "Are you the patient?" I said no, but I appreciated all they were doing for the patient. I laughed about giving her a little startle, imagining what might be going through her head. ["They told me I could go home today." And so the patient just walked out the door.]
As always, we are profoundly grateful for all the help and support that keeps coming our way, often without our even asking. We could not get by without you.
Love, Elizabeth
Thursday, June 9, 2005 11:44 AM CDT
Lou Ann is scheduled to go home sometime today. She was very happy to be leaving the hospital. All the tubes are out of her and all the medication is oral now, so that's huge. She's also able to walk around a little with the help of a walker. Thanks to all for prayers and good wishes, songs and food. All meals can be delivered to the house now, and Lou Ann is interested in getting started with acupuncture again this weekend and massage next weekend after the staples are out. Moon
Wednesday, June 8, 2005 10:58 AM CDT
Lou Ann is doing better today, feeling a little bit stronger after a couple of downhearted days. This illness really challenges my beliefs about the world and how it operates. For example, the last posting listed all the positive developments. And right afterward, there was a little backsliding! It's difficult to keep optimistic in the face of all the difficulties, but that is my task. The doctor says she can recover from this cancer, but not if she doesn't want to. So we all do our best to balance optimism with the reality of this very difficult situation.
Lou Ann has felt so poorly that visits are taxing, but that is starting to change. It's still a good idea to call at home about wanting to visit, and I'll get back to you.
I don't need to say how much she (and I) still need your prayers, and our gratitude for them can never be fully expressed.
Love, Elizabeth
Monday, June 6, 2005 9:41 PM CDT
Lou Ann is making really good progress after her stay in the ICU. She spent a couple of quiet days on the regular cancer ward continuing to recuperate. Lots of the things to which she was hooked up are now out. Her breathing, blood pressure, kidney function and digestion are quite normal. Her blood levels are good, no infections, and her incision dressing is off. She was able to get out of bed and take a step or two. This is all wonderful news!
She still needs to get her strength back, pump the calories and protein, and work out that blood clot in her arm. She's on Heparin, and we'll see about staying on blood thinners after she leaves the hospital, since Coumadin is not the medicine for her. [And we're not even going to mention resuming chemo quite yet.]
She also has quite a cough. It starts out a dry hack and over a few hours develops into a rattly roar as she finally expels nasty junk. Then the cycle starts all over. This is a reaction to being entubated during surgery, and they're watching it closely to see that it doesn't become pneumonia. So far so good, but it's a challenge since it's hard to catch a good breath.
Last night this unnerved her enough that she really wanted me to stay there overnight. I can't say I slept there, but I did remain there, and got about 3 1/2 hours of sleep. Today none of the toilets worked in the entire hospital all day as they worked to repair the main water supply. Thankfully, that got settled this evening. Ah, the ups and downs of hospital life . . .
We have so much challenge and difficulty that we have to spend some time on the humorous little things. I'll share some more of them soon.
Meanwhile, your support is so precious! What would we possibly do without it?
Love, Elizabeth
Sunday, June 5, 2005 8:03 AM CDT
Lou Ann is now out of Intensive Care and on the cancer ward. Though this is hugely good news, she is still, as several nurses have put it, "a very sick cookie." Her body functions are stable enough for her to be out of ICU, but the road ahead is long, and it seems that she can't go any distance along that road without a setback.
The current setback is another blood clot, this time in her arm. It means she has a "clotting disorder," which will need to be resolved, of course. But the oncologist is not particularly concerned about the ability to resolve that, and since we've had numerous experiences where he's been right on in his assessment, we don't need to be concerned about his lack of alarm.
Lou Ann's primary task right now is to rest, to let her own healing powers do their work (with the help of all the rest of us, and the vast unseen forces that help us all and on whom we have been calling). Thus, although she is able to receive visitors, they should be few for the moment. Please call home if you want to call or visit, and I'll pick up the message and get back to you.
It won't be long before she'll be strong enough to see more people. Meanwhile, we are buoyed up by your love and caring, for which we are endlessly grateful!
Love and blessings,
Elizabeth
Saturday, June 4, 2005 1:19 PM CDT
A quick update: LouAnn will stay in the ICU a bit longer, at least today and tomorrow. So please wait for another posting to find out exactly when she'll be in a regular room and ready for visitors. Thanks,
Moon
Friday, June 3, 2005 10:44 PM CDT
It's Elizabeth again. How much can change in a day, whether for better or worse! Last night the nurse was not willing to make any prediction, only that Lou Ann was doing OK for now, under the circumstances. I was so worried that I might get a call in the wee hours asking for a horrible decision to be made or conveying terrible news.
But she made it through the night, and today Lou Ann really turned around: her color is good, her blood pressure is normal, her skin looks "fluffy," she's still breathing well. It looks like tomorrow she can go to a regular room in the cancer ward, and then can receive visitors and phone calls (be sparing at the beginning, please).
We had some more wonderful "healing improve" singing this afternoon, and everyone enjoyed it, staff and other patients alike. There's more scheduled for tomorrow. Singing is good!
We all appreciate so much what you're doing to help carry us along. Sure looks like it's paying off, and we'll never forget it. There's still a long road ahead, of course, but we can finally relax in a state of not-so-cautious optimism for the time being.
Love, Elizabeth
Friday, June 3, 2005 6:41 AM CDT
Good morning, it's Elizabeth. Because staying overnight at the hospital would not have kept me anywhere near Lou Ann, I got a short but good sleep at home. Her nurse told me this morning that Lou Ann made it through the night. Didn't sleep much, of course, but she's in stable (though still critical) condition. Her blood pressure went up slightly, and she's breathing well on her own. However, her hemoglobin dropped slightly, so she'll receive blood this morning.
Lou Ann's sense of humor returned immediately after her ventilating tube was removed. She put up with that far longer than she wished, or than anyone expected her to need it. Not being able to talk, she kept signaling for them to remove the tube, but kept having to wait till lab results indicated she was out of danger. She signaled for something to write with, asked "what time is it?" When Moon and I said it was 8:20, she wrote "PM?" and when we said yes, her eyes went wide--boink, boink--and she wondered where all the time had gone! When reminded that she would be in the ICU, she said, "I'm getting intensively good care here."
Yesterday morning there were several women with her in her little pre-op cubicle. We all sang for at least an hour as the various preparations for surgery were made. What a wonderful send-off to surgery for her!!
As you know, the surgery was long and successful. The tumors will be sent to a lab in California to test for drug resistance. That won't reveal what drugs will work as much as what won't work, so it will at least narrow the field of chemo options as her treatment continues. The surgeon was able to remove two enormous tumors (!) and could see that the chemo had "burned off" some cancer sites on her diaphragm; the remaining cancer bits are only the size of grains of sand, well below the size that is classified as "optimal." So that's all good news.
Still, Lou Ann's condition is very grave. We're taking it day by day. Again, we'll make frequent postings to keep you up to date. She needs all our prayers even more than ever. Thank you so much for sending them and for caring about her so very deeply.
Love, Elizabeth
Thursday, June 2, 2005 10:13 PM CDT
Hi, it's Moon. Lou Ann is intensive care at Abbott, having finally left the recovery room at 7pm. They had a lot of difficulty stabilizing her blood pressure, but as of 9 pm tonite she was off the ventilator, breathing well, on self-administered pain medication and fairly stable. She talked about feeling like she had turned a corner, and finally "caught a break" when she heard about the optimum debulking. Elizabeth was making plans to stay the night, and I expect good news when I call tomorrow. Love and thanks to all for your continued good wishes and prayers.
Thursday, June 2, 2005 10:13 PM CDT
Hi, it's Moon. Lou Ann is intensive care at Abbott, having finally left the recovery room at 7pm. They had a lot of difficulty stabilizing her blood pressure, but as of 9 pm tonite she was off the ventilator, breathing well, on self-administered pain medication and fairly stable. She talked about feeling like she had turned a corner, and finally "caught a break" when she heard about the optimum debulking. Elizabeth was making plans to stay the night, and I expect good news when I call tomorrow. Love and thanks to all for your continued good wishes and prayers.
Thursday, June 2, 2005 4:34 PM CDT
The surgery was successful! Dr. Boente said it was an optimal debulking. The surgery took 3.5 hours and was over at about 3:15 pm today at Abbott Northwestern Hospital. LouAnn is currently being transferred to the Intensive Care Unit, where she'll spend one or two days. This is because she was so depleted before the surgery, and in the ICU she'll be watched closely and will be well taken care of. The ICU limits visits to family only, so please wait to visit LouAnn until we post an announcement that she's in a regular room and can receive visitors - that should be in a couple of days. She needs your prayers now more than ever. The website will be updated as soon as we can, so that you can check it for new information.
Love to you all, Moon and EB
Tuesday, May 31, 2005 10:13 AM CDT
Hi, it's Moon with a quick update. Lou Ann's surgery date has been moved to Thursday, June 2nd. Over the long weekend she went to have fluid drained again, and there was very little fluid because the tumor on her right side had grown so much. Elizabeth was able to contact Dr. Boente this morning and they arranged this earlier surgery, since it's become much more urgent. The surgery will be at Abbott Northwestern where Dr. Boente also works. Today she is getting a pre-op physical, tomorrow she will be involved in other preparations for the procedure, then on Thursday morning they will have to check into Abbott at 5 am. Someone will update this site with the results of the surgery as soon as we can. I am enormously relieved that surgery is so soon.
Thursday, May 26, 2005 7:41 PM CDT
Greetings from Lou Ann.
It’s been another rollercoaster week. A blood clot was discovered in my other leg. Sunday my leg had been swelling and the main deep vein throbbed when I put weight on it. The on-call doctor said to have it checked out on Monday. Sure enough, an ultrasound relvealed a blood clot. Luckily, I didn’t have to be hospitalized; the doctor increased my blood thinner shots to twice a day, a much simpler solution than being in the hospital on Heparin.
Yesterday I had a second procedure to drain fluid from my abdomen. I had it done about a week ago, but this time a more skilled technician was able to get out almost all the fluid. For the first time in weeks, I had ribs! The procedure was painful and exhausting, but I’m so grateful for the relief I received. Today I seemed to have a body that’s more familiar.
I learned another valuable lesson today. I started reading “Grace and Grit,” about Ken Wilber’s wife’s battle with breast cancer. After an hour, I had to put it down because I was getting too upset. I realized that if a person were well, this book would be just a story to them, but now that I have cancer it’s much harder to keep my story separate, and it’s way too easy to get disheartened.
I want to thank Pat for coming down from Duluth twice to spend days with me, and I thank the improv girls for their wonderful serenade last night, to say nothing of being carried up the stairs.
Happy Memorial Day, everyone.
Love,
Lou Ann
Sunday, May 22, 2005 5:12 PM CDT
Hi. It’s Elizabeth again.
What a glorious spring day today! Lou Ann was persuaded to lounge outside for a very beautiful half hour, and she found it worth the effort it took. This was very good news.
Last week Lou Ann had two procedures to address some of her ongoing issues. They tapped off excess fluid from her abdomen, which amounted to more than 4½ liters! After the other one, a CT scan of her head, she was told to drink more than usual liquids for the next day. Sadly, those extra fluids seemed to land back in her legs and belly a day later. But foot reflexology to drain the lymph worked, and she’s been better and brighter since then.
Getting these procedures is quite a strain. Travel is difficult for Lou Ann, and usually she has to wait a long time. She loses the rhythm of staying ahead of her pain and nausea, and the next few days are worse till she recuperates.
Preparing for surgery is the big task ahead. She needs calories and she needs protein—good efforts all around, but it’s hard for someone who’s not interested in eating and can’t eat much anyway. She’s weak and often in a lot of pain, and still has bouts of nausea every day. So we’ll limp through the next three weeks, optimistic that surgery will bring improvements on several fronts.
People ask how I’m doing, and how’s Lou Ann? I realize that a direct reply has been missing from these postings. But how to answer? It’s still a real rollercoaster. We are each by turns sad, mad, overwhelmed, happy, lost, despairing, tickled, and nearly everything else you might imagine. My most truthful answer is usually, “I don’t know,” “Everything at once,” or “Different every hour.” And how’s Lou Ann? I don’t know; I haven’t seen her in an hour and a half.
Fortunately, we’ve not both been downhearted and despairing at the same time. When one of us is lighthearted and happy, it’s usually enough to buoy up the other one, not so much as to become irritating. We draw a lot of strength from each other, from wishing others well, from you, and from what I regard as the truest nature of the world and its inhabitants: beauty and generosity.
Special thanks go to Moon and Mindy and Mary for organizing contributions for Lou Ann to receive massages for about 6 months (!); Pat for bringing a care package from Duluth and staying overnight, and for arranging to do that again; Casey for homemade lotions and soaps; Betsy for treats, flowers, and power gardening; Heron and Jessie for fabulous food, body work, singing, and spending J’s birthday with us in the hospital; Nance for intercession at the library; Janet for more wonderful food and gardening; Judith for getting the picture framed; Mary Rose for Merry Prankster coordination and other prayer support; Judy for organizing singing; Paul for taking Lou Ann to the hospital; Jeanne for organizing singing. And much, much more. We do get overwhelmed by phone calls some days—email is good, or contact Moon and Mindy—but don’t let that stop you.
Love,
Elizabeth
Thursday, May 19, 2005 6:33 AM CDT
Hi, everybody,
Check out the previous messages from Moon and Lou Ann if you haven’t. It’s been another rough couple of weeks. I’m learning to roll with the unexpected, which is hard since the surprises are mostly negative! I’ll concentrate on some of the better things:
Lou Ann now has a PICC line, a central catheter through which can enter most of her IV meds and can exit most of the blood draws. What a relief from all the attempts to use her veins! She’s on a short-action blood thinner, which she gets by injection every day that will allow her to have surgery without weaning off Coumadin. It’s ferociously expensive, but so far is covered by her insurance. I found a small reclining chair, so Lou Ann has another resting place as an option.
We get through this with endless help from others. What’s been especially helpful is being sung to, listening to CDs made by others of soothing music, reading out loud another book by Louise Erdrich (Tales of Burning Love) and the recent poems of Mary Oliver, and praying together for everyone we know of who needs help, including ourselves. Lou Ann is so precious, and she’s facing her illness with scarcely a complaint about all her suffering, losses, and indignities.
I’m learning such lessons! Being required to be bigger than I am is a constant theme. Accepting people’s generosity; it’s necessary to accept it to complete the transaction; otherwise it can’t be completed. Accepting even the unnecessary or nearly unwelcome offers as filled with good intention. Not only people, but the planet is so generous with what it offers. I was able, thanks to Moon, to participate in a school staff overnight retreat this week, and I slept outdoors Monday night. Although it rained half the night, I stayed snug and dry in just a sleeping bag and tarp. When I caught myself becoming impatient about not falling asleep (I had to keep checking for ticks and to make sure I stayed dry), I remembered that I was lying on the ground and tuned in to the earth. What happened was that I felt waves of happiness. Not just “It’s nice to be out of the city,” but an infusion of happiness coming directly from the earth.
This round’s gratitude includes: Judith and Olly for Sunita’s beautiful harp music that is our nightly balm; Judy, Jean, Ann, and Annie for improvisational singing and for accidentally calling themselves the “healing improve” group; Beth, Jymme, Zena, Don for various kinds of bodywork; Julia for more kitty humor; the Merry Pranksters for their spirited care; another anonymous gifter who left the “southern treats” at school for me (I did some terrific things with them—thanks—and I can imagine what fun it was to have pulled that off; Patrick for generosity with chi gong; Amy, Paul, Mindy for CDs; Dave for hauling away the rocks; Nance and Mary for watching the bird video together; Rita and Diane for the visit, food, flowers; Judith for all sorts of good food; Moon for staying overnight and cooking great food and more; Mindy for research and advocacy and more; Jane and Gail for Gilda and SNL videos; Bill for silicone, electricity, and installing the new chair; Judy, Wendy, Rich, Sharon, Dorothy and others for repeated cards; the Wednesday meditation circle for caring concern; Viviana and Fabiola for the largest get well card in the world, and for getting everyone in school to sign it; my colleagues for your continued flexibility and caring; you for your calls, emails, cards, flowers, and love.
Elizabeth
Thursday, May 19, 2005 6:32 AM CDT
Hello, everyone.
We had the long-awaited meeting with the doctor this morning to determine the course of my treatment. I had been feeling very strongly for the last two or three weeks that surgery was the next step on the road to helping me feel better. Luckily, my doctor got there too in his own thinking about my condition.
So no chemo this Friday. I am on his surgery calendar for June 13, when he’ll do what’s called a de-bulking: a complete hysterectomy and cleaning up as much cancer as possible. After that, tissue samples can be sent to the lab, and we’ll have even more information about what’s the best chemo treatment following surgery. I’m encouraged and optimistic after the meeting this morning.
Lately, I’ve not been feeling very well. Tomorrow I’ll have a procedure where they’ll drain fluid from my abdomen, which I’m hoping will bring some relief. I’m trying to take each day as a time and rest and build my strength up.
Thanks again for your continued support and love and well wishes.
Love,
Lou Ann
Monday, May 16, 2005 7:55 PM CDT
It's been a while since the last update, and Lou Ann has been home from the hospital since Wednesday last week. E.B. is out of town on a staff retreat, so this is Moon bringing you the update from Lou Ann and E.B.'s home. Lou Ann came home from the hospital with a protocol in place for her medications and even though there's been an adjustment from IV to oral, the nausea and pain seem to be under control, at least under better control. There has been a great deal of swelling going on, both in her abdomen, and her legs, and that causes a lot of discomfort. The swollen abdomen also causes shortness of breath, and the little cough still lingers. Lou Ann spends a lot of time listening to music, and just resting and or drifting, although we've chatted quite a lot as well. There are still a great number of unknowns that will hopefully resolve this Wednesday when we meet with Dr. Boente. Lou Ann is leaning toward wanting surgery as soon as possible and the doctor seems to be in favor of continuing with as many chemo's as possible. Her CA125 continues to fall with some regularity. I hope getting all the facts and opinions will help with making things more concrete. I know the discomfort she has inhibits any sense of healing, and so the sooner she has a plan the better.
I want to thank everyone who has contacted me with offers to help. I will eventually get to you. Until later, Moon
Friday, May 6, 2005 5:23 PM CDT
Hi. Lou Ann has been in the hospital for the past two days. We spent most of last night awake for her to get blood transfusions, blood drawn and vitals taken every half hour, or so it seemed, until the wee hours. Last evening there were eight people singing in the room, which was glorious. My memories are both poignant and humorous. There were various items of hospital room “furniture,” a bed for me, and several contraptions having to do with Lou Ann’s three simultaneous IVs. While the singing was happening, two nurses worked feverishly to connect first two separate and then one triple-decker IV stand and get her blood and fluids going. The place was packed, and I like to think the singing helped their work go smoother. In any case, we both just loved it. It made me cry and laugh.
Today she had a vein filter put in to keep any clot material from getting from her legs to her lungs. Monday she’ll have a port installed so that whoever has all the codes can put liquids into or take them out of her body more easily. Her arm veins are almost literally just about used up. She’s been very accepting of all the poking going on, but it’s taken a toll. But even with tubes and bandages all over the place, she is, as she says, feelings more like herself. [I know this as well, because she’s been giving me orders. :-) ]
It’s been a very difficult time recently, not knowing just how Lou Ann was going to both get nourished and stay pain-free. We read out loud Louise Erdrich’s latest book, Four Souls, which is so touchingly beautiful.
Here are some more thanks—we can never get them all mentioned nor express our appreciation enough. Thanks to Peg and Mary Kay for the wonderful book on illness, which we are now reading aloud; Carla for the quilted potholder; Don and Pat for essential oil care; Mary for cleaning; Moon and Mindy for continued attention; Paul and Pat for more kitty care; Patrick for healing; Judy for the bodywork treat; Nance for the bird video—I know it’s due; Nan for books and internet research—it must have cost a pretty penny to send from Canada; the singers for assembling on a moment’s notice; Sharon for dinner; Nance and Cathy for listening; a mysterious person for sending me flowers at school anonymously; Moon for arranging to donate designated blood. We are literally carried along by your caring.
Read Lou Ann’s posting before this if you haven’t.
Love, Elizabeth
Friday, May 6, 2005 5:21 PM CDT
Hello.
I’m back in the hospital after a most difficult week of feeling absolutely depleted and without energy. After getting fluids at the chemo clinic and a visit to the gastroenterologist, I still had so many problems that we decided the hospital was the best place for me to be. Unfortunately, despite the blood thinners, I have another blood clot in my left leg. I needed blood transfusions and had to get my nausea under control. Happily, today I’m feeling much more like myself again.
I’ll have a couple of procedures over the next couple of days, and get a port put in. Hopefully I won’t have to stay in the hospital much longer.
Thanks for all your continued love and support. Special thanks to all those who sang to me last night in my hospital room!
Love,
Lou Ann
Wednesday, May 4, 2005 7:58 PM CDT
Hello, everyone—
It’s been a very challenging couple of weeks. Lou Ann has been unable to keep from being nauseated and throwing up every day. She had her third chemo treatment last Friday, and it didn’t really seem to help.
The good news, very good news, is that her CA125 keeps going down and her blood work still is within the normal range. So something about the treatment is being effective.
She still has terrible pain in her swollen leg. That keeps her from being able to walk. She’s short of breath and has no energy.
We spent the day at the chemo clinic Monday getting her more fluids and trying new anti-nausea meds. They don’t seem to be working.
This morning we spent a few hours at a gastrointestinal clinic to rule in or out a stomach ulcer. No news there, but they still don’t know what to do about the nausea. She’s got two new meds to try, and we’ll see if they do anything.
On the way back home, I had a small transformational experience. Driving through town, I noticed all the variety of greens and other tree colors in the glorious spring palette. I looked at everything with a dispassionate, curious eye: oh, look at how those houses were built; see what those people did with their yard; what interesting buildings those are. My usual judgmental mind was suspended for a while. Things looked very clear, interesting, and touchingly beautiful.
Of course I wanted to hang onto that experience, but by this evening it had faded! My Buddhist practice talks about not identifying with the story line of our life, but rather giving what’s happening now our full attention. At this time, our lives are very focused, which has what my friend Mary calls a “loveliness” to it, but my goodness, the story line is strong!
Last weekend we got in touch with the on-call doctor, who said some nasty things no patient or family member should have to hear. He forgot that oncology begins with “on-call.” But we finally got some oral Zofran, which seemed to help for about a day. The folks at the pharmacy know me by name now.
Lou Ann is suffering so much; it’s hard to watch, but I am with it completely willingly. I had the good fortune last weekend to hear lectures by Parker Palmer (“The Courage To Teach,” for those who recognize that). He talked about what can be learned at the bedside of a dying person—not that that is relevant here, mind you—namely, that we can’t fix the situation but can simply witness it. We should neither be invasive (offering our own agendas, trying to fix the person, etc.) nor evasive (don’t look away from the person or think that they aren’t beautiful just as they are). It’s a powerful reminder.
Unfortunately, we’re off to the hospital for another couple of days. Lou Ann isn’t getting any nourishment because she almost never feels like eating. We truly hope to get that resolved.
Meanwhile, your thoughts and prayers, inquiries, phone calls, cards and pictures are most welcome. When in doubt, get in touch. Thanks to Moon and Mindy for Boost, a lounge chair, visits, advocacy with the insurance company, inquiries about medications, chemo company, transportation, sleep aids, and arranging food; Maggie for more poems and a bedside visit; Malva for dinner; Pam for dinner; Barb for weekly lunch; Cathy for lunch; Matthew for lunch; Judy for pesto and taking away dirt; Wendy and Judy for washing and putting away all those dishes—we’re having great fun finding where you put things; Susan for waiting a long time and cleaning the stove; Mark and Mary for letting me be neurotic about driving to May Day; Della for going to the May Day parade; you for continuing staying in touch by whatever means, ethereal or otherwise.
So our lives are very up-and-down, and that's just how it is.
Gotta go!
Love, Elizabeth
Saturday, April 23, 2005 8:50 PM CDT
Well, it’s Passover. We made it to the seder at Lou Ann’s sister’s house for a short ceremony. The food and company were delicious, and Lou Ann managed to eat a bit and participate in the celebration even if from the couch.
I keep thinking that I no longer burst into tears about the fact that Lou Ann has cancer, and I keep being taken by surprise. Seeing Lou Ann among relatives and looking so tired and beleaguered was hard for some family members, especially those who had lost others to cancer, and I cried later on their behalf.
It’s amazing what we can get used to, though, when we have to. Lou Ann is still nauseated every day. Everything we’ve tried seems to work for a short while and then doesn’t. It’s so unpredictable. This morning she seemed fine early on, but after I left for a morning workshop, her nausea overtook her. I was so excited that she was having a good morning for once, only to learn later that it was one of the worst. Such sadness!
Your cards, poems, pictures, phone calls, e-mails, flowers, prayers, and good wishes still keep pouring in. Thanks to Judy for more of the tastiest food, Jan for the gorgeous quilt, Judith for the ginger cookie recipe to die for, Judy for the pesto offer, Judith for coming over on a moment's notice, Paul and Pat for being fooled by my joke, the first Merry Pranksters and their efforts, Barbara for the cancer poems and ceremony, you for your continued healing thoughts.
We have so much to be thankful for . . . It’s always true, and this situation makes it so clear . . .
Love,
Elizabeth
Wednesday, April 20, 2005 9:16 PM CDT
Hi Everyone,
It's Weds. morning, the 20th of April, and I'm feeling pretty good today after some adventures with dehydration and vomiting. Early Monday EB took me into the clinic where they administered some IV anti-nausea drugs and got my electrolytes balanced. I'd really been struggling with nausea and vomiting, and was so glad that there was an alternative to taking pills that don't work to get me back on track. It's so amazing how easy it is to get dehydrated even when I sip water and tea all day long. The second chemo was much less of a shock to my body and I'm happy to say that I did not have MANY of the tiresome side effects that plagued my after the first treatment. However, energy is still very cherished when it's around and fatigue is around a whole lot more than I would wish. The fatigue, however, seems to open me up to a kind of content contemplation, where it feels fine to do nothing, and to just be with my wandering thoughts and bodily states. I try to meditate and do healing visualizations, but often just go with whatever the flow is...dozing...thinking... contemplating.
Last night I tried Marinol (medical marijuana) for the first time. It was an interesting experience. Although I had heard that they "took all the fun out," I did have some experiences that really reminded me of smoking pot in the 70's... no euphoria, but changes in my vision and I felt SOOO relaxed. It also seemed to help my appetite and the nausea, so perhaps we've found a pill that will help. I feel like such a pill factory these days. I used to take such pride in being in my 50's and not on any medications. Oh well.
I continue to be so grateful for all the support EB and I are receiving from all of you in differing and wonderful ways. Thanks for being such loving friends.
Love,
Lou Ann
Monday, April 18, 2005 8:22 PM CDT
Hello! Today Lou Ann and I celebrate our 28th anniversary! It’s quite something, we think, worth celebrating under any circumstances.
Here’s how the day went. Wake up, throw up, like every other day but one. Can’t stand it any more, call the doctor. By chance her oncologist is the on-call doc! We’ve tried many anti-nausea regimes and they’re not working. He says, “Bring her in and we’ll do IV fluids.” And since we’ve been through a number of “OK, now we know” experiences, I verify that we can just show up when the clinic opens and be served. Yes! It worked!
I couldn’t believe that Lou Ann would be dehydrated, since she drinks water every waking minute, but sure enough, once she got more fluids in her, she began to perk up just like a wilting flower when you water it. Throwing up depletes one more than we realize. It was excellent for her to spend the rest of the day feeling quite a bit better.
Try as we might, we can’t close all the fragmented care loopholes. After my small diatribe at last chemo, we came away with written orders for bloodwork at her other clinic on the weeks she doesn’t have chemo. Even armed with those, and having called ahead to confirm a blood draw, when Lou Ann arrived they said, “We don’t do labs for that doctor.” We hear it confirmed by many others: the patients need to do their own advocacy. We are learning to roll with the unexpected and the unpredictable, and if it isn’t a steep learning curve I will want to rise above my principles.
But we carry on. Lou Ann has little hair left; it reminds me of granddaughter Abby until she turned 2. At first I was startled by the change in her appearance, and now I love being even better acquainted with the shape of her head, her face, her ears. And we are both so completely supported by many, many people around us, near and far. That is true for all of us, though, isn’t it? It’s just too bad that it takes a life-threatening illness to make us more cognizant of that reality. I hope I can keep my awareness of it when Lou Ann has recovered from surgery later this summer.
Meanwhile, here is some more gratitude: to Joni for showing the way as a professional; Patti for a haircut that will only last a short while; Barb for long-distance visits; Mary for power dusting and dog walks; Mark for fruit soup, the Norwegian equivalent of heal-all chicken soup, for having every needed tool in the truck and knowing how to use them; Beth for body work; Amy for a self-styled music CD; Maggie for poems and our very own copy of “Alexander’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day;” El Colegio colleagues for bearing with my changeable schedule; Scott for subbing on a moment’s notice; Judy for the tastiest food; Amy and Brigid for the tastiest food (bland is good); Judith for the tastiest food; Abby for artwork with stickers; Courage To Teach pals for “necessary nutrition;” Sergio and Matthew for picking up my beer tab; Judith for staying overnight; Moon and Mindy for continued support; you for cards, photos, flowers, phone calls, for listening; it’s spring; Lou Ann didn’t get sick in the winter; my library books weren’t overdue; cancer isn’t contagious.
May we all be free from suffering. Please keep in touch.
Love,
Elizabeth
Monday, April 11, 2005 8:13 PM CDT
It’s Elizabeth with tales of the last few days’ ups and downs. I feel like a skydiver! Every single experience lands us in the world of “OK, now we know.” Now we know (after waiting more than 2 hours to see the oncologist) to call ahead and see how behind he’s running. Now we know to make an appointment early in the day, since he spends as much time as necessary with each patient. Now we know not to go to the pharmacy on the way home, because the order won’t be processed yet. Now we know to go to the ER in a different hospital from the first one, because the new one is affiliated with the clinic.
Last Friday was Lou Ann’s second chemo. I hadn’t slept enough the night before, so I nearly turned into a raving lunatic when the receptionist said, “There are no orders for chemo for Lou Ann today.” They got her in eventually, though, and in my modulated way I talked with several people about the inexcusably fragmented care we’re getting. I hope we were able to close most of the loopholes.
Friday evening Lou Ann was starting to feel more like her old self. We snuggled and talked like old times. Saturday all day I was madder than a hornet about nearly everything, a clear signal that I hadn’t slept enough recently. Everything was just getting to me.
But the day was so beautiful! Spring really arrived here then; it was sunny and breezy, and the birds were abundant and vocal. Lou Ann was really feeling great: happy and energetic, interested in eating. We spent hours in the garden tending the yard and uncovering all the flowers, planting peas. Lou Ann even did a little cooking and washed some dishes, which made her feel more like an active household member. It was lovely to see her like that. We talked about how disappointing it would be when she felt lousy again, since she’d had a taste of feeling good. But meanwhile, what a nice reprieve for her!
The disappointment came Sunday morning with a crash. Fortunately, I was out of my funk. Unfortunately, Lou Ann was feeling terrible. “Is it OK if I moan and groan some more?” “You go, girl, all you want.” After awhile, as I held her she said, “I hope I don’t get to be too much of a burden.” I looked at her and said, “I hope so too,” and we both burst out laughing, dissipating the worry. (It’s not been too much of a burden yet, and I don’t believe it will be.) All day I felt happy and accepting, able to be with Lou Ann in her misery. It’s such an interesting experience, being right here in the thick of things, trying to understand the abundant, mysterious and generous nature of this world.
Meanwhile, there is so much to be grateful for, and I want to acknowledge some of the specific people. Just some. Rita and Diane for the first flowers. Paul for help with wills and health care directives. Angelo for the first handmade get well card. Mary for chemo food and theater. Sharon for chemo company, food and “being Mary.” Annie for the parking permit. Elena and Bill for regular email pictures from Oregon. Abby for artwork to “make Gah-mah feel better.” Pat for Lake Superior photos. Julia for Bad kitty book and hand-drawn healing path. Pat and Paul for rides, endless cat care, photos. Nance for power gardening. Mary for the best eggs on the planet. Chris for doing the website. Rita for homemade bread and jelly. John for music and a new look at hospital patients. Sylvia for arranging a concert tour and doing all those dishes. Della for going to the concert with me. Jan and Lynne for hosting Sylvia and Ayano. The chemo nurses, cheerful and kind under duress; they are hamstrung just as we are by our health care delivery system, from which we should all mercifully be delivered. Zena for acupuncture. Don for many kinds of care. Marilyn for Jizo. Patrick for chi gong and Kwan Yin. Judith for ginger cookies baked out of season. Judy for the best chicken soup ever. Sandra for Colombian arepas. Juan for arepas and grandmother’s chicken noodle soup. Judith for Sandy Boucher’s book. Jymme for bodywork and Pema Chodron’s book. Judith for advice to double my daily meditation time, overlooking the math (2 x 0=0). Jeanne for caringly selected movies. Wendy for exchanging cars. Judy for healing music. Mary Lee for hats and scarves. Mary for healing books from New Jersey. Greg for phoning all the way from China. Nan for phoning all the way from Nova Scotia. Ava-Dale for the funniest description of the history of the world. Moon and Mindy for daily support. You for your cards, photos and phone calls. And most of all, of course, Lou Ann for staying with us and not giving up hope.
We'll have more photos posted very soon.
Love,
Elizabeth
Friday, April 8, 2005 8:21 AM CDT
Hi Everyone,
Well, tomorrow is treatment #2 - of six, most likely. I approach it with such mixed feelings of hope and dread. I've already lost most of my hair - which has been quite difficult. And I've struggled with many of the famous "side effects." Nonetheless, this is the medicine that's going to save my life. I am putting so much hope into this healing poison that I almost look forward to getting on with it.
As I said, it's been a tough couple weeks with side effects, and looking in the mirror and seeing so many changes has been difficult... losing my hair, losing more weight, and looking strained and pained much of the time. It's quite an adjustment to see such a different Lou Ann looking back at me.
But I had a lovely experience this morning that came unbidden. I got showered and dressed for work and when I went out to my car, I noticed how sweet the air smelled. Spring is definitely in that sweetness. Then I got to the office, organized myself, and took a couple of minutes to look out my window at the small park nearby. In those moments, I had the strongest sense that I am not my body. I know this intellectually, but I felt it as a sense of I'm still all here--everything that makes me who I am is here, even though I'm changing in ways that are frightening. I'm not losing any of the real me. That was very reassuring to feel - instead of just know.
It gives me an additional sense of strength to face what tomorrow and the coming days will bring. As does the ongoing support that continues to roll our way. I wish I could thank each and every one of you personally for what you are doing for me and for EB, but this will have to suffice. I will write again and let you know how this next chemo goes.
Love,
Lou Ann
Saturday, April 2, 2005 3:03 PM CST
Hi Everyone,
I thought I would take this opportunity to write to you on a gorgeous, sunny, Spring-like Saturday with some good news after yesterday's app't with my oncologist. My CA125 - the main measure in my blood of cancer levels has dropped very significantly since my first chemo. When I left the hospital, it had climbed daily until it was at something like 345. Yesterday it was at 127. We all think that this is fabulous news. Unfortunately, it doesn't mean that I feel good or that the tumors are noticeably smaller, but that will surely follow. The Dr. was also very pleased with my hemoglobin, platlets, white blood count etc. I had been a bit dismayed when I got the numbers the day before, but everything was still within normal limits and he thought that was excellent. So, it's still hard, not knowing how I'll feel and dealing with all this uncertainty, but that was a great outcome of the first chemo. It's so hard to think of putting myself thru chemo again next Friday - knowing now how sick I'll feel, but when that's the difference between living and dying it's really a no-brainer.
My hair has started to come out - copiously. They describe this as "thinning". Scary, huh? I'm going to get it cut very short asap, and look into hats and this new little contraption. You can now buy a scarf to wrap around your head that has human hair bangs, and wisps of hair in back. That way, with a hat, you don't look entirely bald. That's the approach I think I'll go for, since everyone says wigs are so uncomfortable. Especially with summer coming, and how hot my head gets, I cannot imagine wearing a wig.
EB and I went out and got a TV with a built-in VCR and DVD player for the bedroom, along with a little boom box. Now I'm all set to have music (necessary for life) and visual entertainment in the one room that we air-condition come summer. It feels good to be getting things in place. My energy is so very limited, compared to what I'm used to, and I hear it decreases as chemo progresses. So, we will soon be calling on some of you and your generous offers to help with food and shopping, cleaning, spring chores etc. My sister is organizing all that, and I'll be passing along email addresses etc. Thanks again for your on-going support that arrives day after day via cards, email, prayers and various other gifts. I've been thinking alot lately about my mother - who died of cancer almost 40 years ago. While she had a lot of support from family, neighbors and friends, I think people didn't really talk about death and illness back then the way we all feel free to do now. I'm so grateful that since I have to go thru this ordeal, I have people like you that don't shy away from the painful parts - emotional and physical - of cancer so I can feel truely held.
Love,
Lou Ann
Tuesday, March 29, 2005 8:24 PM CST
OK, friends--
It's been a tough week in Lake Wobegon. Lou Ann is racking up the list of unwanted effects from the chemo and other drugs, and it all seems to be painful or very uncomfortable!
We so appreciate people's cards, attention and love. That keeps us going, so thank you, thank you.
You could hardly find a steadier companion than me in an emergency situation. I'm not squeamish, don't freak out about hospitals, blood, or procedures--have I said this before? sorry if so. But that's nothing anyone can keep up for long. I need help pacing myself for the long haul. I'm not very good at that.
If you have ideas about the littlest things I can do to keep myself sustained, I'd appreciate hearing about them. There might not be room in the day for them all, but my own list is pretty paltry. In particular, please make suggestions about films and books that make you laugh out loud, since that is so healing. (No Pee Wee Herman, though.) I'll see about getting someone to follow up on them.
We pray for many people every night, including that you don't worry too much.
Keep in touch.
Love,
EB
Wednesday, March 23, 2005 9:13 PM CST
Hi. Here's a note from the perspective of a few days after chemo treatment one. Lou Ann has had a couple of unhappy days at the "chemical plant." We really hope these so-called side effects clear up before long. Every day brings something unexpected. As Pema Chodron says, we're "nailed to the present." That's rather apt.
A friend lent me Pema's book called "When Things Fall Apart," saying that I could open it anywhere and it would be helpful. When I did that, there was the chapter called The Six Kinds of Loneliness! I've been lonely a lot in my life, and I thought I knew something about it, but six kinds of loneliness? I had no idea! Fortunately, the great thing about Buddhist teachings is that every situation has a way to work with it. So I am exploring new avenues of working with oneliness (I accidentally typed "oneliness"--I like that--I'll leave it--maybe I'm working on that, too).
It's important to stay nailed to the present. I've been going through my own big struggle here, and it manifests sometimes as being a real diphead: not being able to find places I know well; heading the wrong way down a one-way street. My highest priority is to stay here and stay well so that Lou Ann has a healthy person to take care of her! So far so good.
I'm learning about receiving people's generosity. Sometimes things are offered that are just too much, or not quite right, or not at quite the right time. I'm practicing accepting the offers as expressions of caring, so that I can just filter them as needed and accept the intention behind them. It's an excellent practice for me.
Meanwhile, thank you SO MUCH for the outpouring of love and caring, cards, phone calls. We are getting by with a whole lot of help from our friends. We pray together every morning and every evening, not just for us but for all those in similar conditions, and for you not to worry much. It helps us stay sane and connected.
Love,
EB
Sunday, March 20, 2005 8:25 PM CST
Hi Everyone,
I thought I'd write a quick note - it being the weekend and all - and let you know that I went for my first chemo yesterday. I was very frightened about it. The day before I attended a class on chemo at my Dr.'s office that was basically a long recital of side effects that we could expect through this process. NASTY!!! One the one hand, I feel I've lost control of my body to this cancer that is growing inside of me, and in order to kill it and get well, I lose control again to all these possible side effects. Anyway, there's clearly only one road to go- which is to fight the cancer. I had a long day in the chemo room- administering the medicine was delayed for unknown reasons- and I got off to a late start. One the other hand, the friends who drove me to the Dr's office hung around and talked with me for a couple hours, helped me take my mind off of what was happening. I had visitors thru the day, and EB was there to take me home at 5:10 when the final bag of IV fluid was empty. For those of you who don't live here, yesterday was one of those snowy March days where it just snows and snows. So, we crawled home thru snowy traffic and decided to stop to pick up some prescriptions so I'd have them this morning. The office had called them into a different pharmacy, so it was more driving and we finally arrived home at 7:10. What a long day!
Today, I am wrestling with some nausea on and off, and am very flushed. I guess menopause officially begins for me today. I was looking forward to really being done with all that - but not like this.
One last thing. I had a time without visitors yesterday and I was doing some visualization and meditation. Then, completely unbidden, came this image of me sitting in my chemo chair and each person that had gone out of their way to wish me well with this first treatment was standing in a circle around me. It goes without saying, that we needed a bigger room - there were so many of you. I felt held and loved. Then I rose above the scene and looked down and I saw that out of our crown chakras flowed this beautiful, pure white light. It circled and funneled together reaching up toward the Universal Source of all Healing. Thank you !!!
Love,
Lou Ann
Saturday, March 19, 2005 8:30 AM CST
Lou Ann got through her first chemo yesterday during the all-day snowstorm. It took 7 hours, plus 2 hours to get home! There were some small snafus, but she's already feeling better. This will change, of course, but we're both enjoying it while it will last. Every day it feels good to be alive and have her alive.
I will confess to a little meltdown of my own last night--I've been under huge stress just as she has, though in a different way--so please do keep thinking of us both, as you are. It's palpable! We feel your love and cherish it.
Our next task is to tidy up the house a bit. Since I have been spending almost no time at home (school or hospital), it's gotten a little out of hand and it will feel really good to get things looking a little more orderly. In the hospital Lou Ann found herself listening to Aretha Franklin almost constantly, and that's what she uses to help clean the house, so it should be easy.
Maybe we'll take a drive to see the bald eagles around Red Wing this weekend. Gotta do something fun and naturely while Lou Ann still feels good enough.
And so we carry on. Keep in touch in any way you like. It keeps us sane (or nearly so).
Love,
EB
Wednesday, March 16, 2005 6:43 PM CST
Hi Everyone,
I want to start off by saying I have been so very touched by the outpouring of concern, love and support I've felt over these last awful two weeks. THANK YOU!! I'm home from the hospital as of yesterday- Tuesday - around noon. Just walking out the hospital door and feeling the sun on my face and breathing real air made me cry. It was so hard to be cooped up and waiting...waiting...waiting. But, the conclusive dx. arrived on Monday afternoon and it is what they thought all along- ovarian cancer. I have my first chemo on Friday as an out -patient. I understand that the chemo these days is so very effective that I can expect to feel the tumors start to shrink within a couple of days. That will be a huge relief to me since I have actually been aware that one of the tumors that seems to be at the front of my abdomen has been growing noticeably every day.
I went back to work today - only saw four clients - but it was so great to be back at work, doing work I love, and having a lot less time to try not to worry about every little sensation in my body. I loved sleeping in my own bed last night, with EB in arm's reach, and getting a good dose of kitty love this morning. Mimi is such an affectionate cuddler. After taking a shower and washing my hair - and actually using the blow dryer and curling iron I got rid of my "bed head" from the hospital and felt like a new woman. I'm still dealing with a fair number of uncomfortable symptoms, but I think that will be part of being alive for the next number of months. On the plane of growth and spiritual opportunities, I find myself growing daily. Mostly this has to do with the outpouring of love from all of you and my own work to just let it in.... as well as letting in the reality that I'm not in control of what is happening in my body right now. That doesn't mean I don't have times of being angry or frightened or very, very down, but I'm trying to work with what I've been given.
I'm going to sign off now, but either EB or I will keep you posted.
Love,
Lou Ann
Tuesday, March 15, 2005 1:25 PM CST
it's so good to be home!!!
Tuesday, March 15, 2005 11:03 AM CST
Lou Ann is home from the hospital today. On Friday March 18th she will receive her first chemotherapy treatment as an outpatient. From that point the medicine will start to reduce the tumors and the doctors says she will feel some relief. I believe that there will be six chemotherapy treatments in all, one every three weeks. The first few days are associated with a lot of fatigue, but then she can expect to feel better and even return to work. Once the chemo is over, on July 1st, then a hysterectomy will follow. Please continue to hold Lou Ann and Elizabeth in your hearts and prayers.
Monday, March 14, 2005 12:40 AM CST
Hello to friends and relatives
Lou Ann is in the hospital at Fairview Southdale in Minneapolis in Room 828. This morning her doctor promised her that he would try and get her home by Wednesday, Friday at the latest (3-18) For those of you that are just visiting this site for the first time, the diagnoses is Ovarian Cancer, I think it is stage 3. Apparently there are tumors on each ovary and these are pressing against her digestive organs and maybe even her lungs, so she has a persistent cough and nausea. She is in the hospital now on Heparin to shrink a blood clot that developed in her left leg, and that seems to be going very well. The penumonia that sent her to the doctor in the first place is clearing up nicely, but the antibiotics seem to have caused an intenstinal infection, which now they are working to heal. She is a good deal of discomfort, but her spirits seem good. We are asking everyone to hold her recovery in their prayers, to imagine tumors shrinking, and to send love.
If you want to help with some future grocery shopping, meal preparation, errand running etc, you can email me at
moon@astrologybymoonrabbit.com. Thanks
Monday, March 7, 2005 10:00 AM CST
This page has just been created. Please check back for additional updates.
Click here to go back to the main page.
----End of History----
| Donate | How To Help | Partnerships | Contact Us | Help | Terms of Use | Privacy Policy | |
|
Copyright © 1997 - 2004 CaringBridge, a nonprofit organization, All rights reserved. |