One Decade of Divorce

Monument Valley, 2007

On July 30, 2007 at 7:37 p.m., I sent out this email to my closest friends:

Dear Friends,

I hope you'll forgive the mass email approach here and bear with me.  I
learned yesterday that xxxxx is in love with someone else and plans to
remarry and start a new family.
I wish I could tell you all in person one-to-one over a good stiff drink,
but I'm afraid I'm not up to that at the moment.
What I need mostly is advice, and for those of you who are local a couple
of contacts.
1) therapist for me-not too far west
2) a divorce attorney
I know news like this can shake things up a bit for everyone, especially
old friends.
Thanks for listening.

Wish all of us luck.
I don't think I'll be able to talk on the phone in case you were thinking
of calling.


But just to be clear, my decade of divorce is not counted from the date of the decree of divorce. That happened a year later. And the division of joint assets was not in place until July 11, 2011. So there will be more anniversaries to "celebrate," but to me it's the end of the marriage that is most significant. The end of that 30-year relationship was, for me, a loss of identity and the loss of a family that I loved. This decade since the end of the marriage, I've constructed a new me--a person related to the person I was then, but also quite a bit different. I don't miss the old me. But, if I'm honest, I still miss the family. That us. That unit. I don't idealize it. It was awful some of the time, (as most families are?) but there's something lost that's irreplaceable. It's gone. Permanently.

"Really, do you want that?" I once said to a friend who was playing around with the idea of an affair. "You may never have Thanksgiving dinner with your family again." That and a million other things large and small will happen.


What I regret most is the small hurts that accumulated over the years of my marriage and not really having the skill and the strength to mend them.

I do not want to be a gatherer of small hurts.

I do not want to be a deliverer of small hurts. 

The beginning of this last decade was almost insurmountably difficult. I remember every kind thing, dear family and friends. Cups of tea, glasses of wine, home-cooked meals, your hospitality, your love, your words, your open ears, your waiting arms. I slept in so many comfy beds under so many roofs. You walked with me, drove with me for thousands of miles, held my hand on airplanes, sat with me in hotel lobbies and in parked cars, and sang to me. You told me things would be okay, and somehow, somehow you made me laugh. I have lived my life this past decade because of your help. My life has been a litany of love.

Thank you.

“Friendship is not half of the holy life, but all of it” the Buddha

No bird is an island

The quote above was the teaser in my daily email from Tricycle Magazine this morning. Wow. The idea sounded fantastic to me and sent my brain on a tangent about relationships and what it means to be a good friend.

When I finally got around to reading the article, I found that the quote did not mean quite what I thought it did. "...the Buddha’s statement refers to him, the Enlightened One, as the true spiritual friend because he guides us on the path to liberation." But the article went on to detail a spiritual friendship between two women monks, and deepened my thoughts about friendship and community (whatever community means to you--seems like the term gets tossed around a lot these days.)

"Community life does not just entail living with other people, but being a community. Living in the same place is very different from being a community. When you are in a community, your awareness goes out to the other people you live with—you see who needs encouragement, who needs guidance, and who needs a laugh."

There's been a lot in the news lately about loneliness and aging. Loneliness Can be Deadly for Elders;Friends are the Antidote is the title of an article by Paula Span published on the eve of the new year. There were similar pieces in the NYTimes in April, September, and December. The message in all of this writing kind of  validates my misinterpretation of the Buddha's quote, or at least gives weight to what I thought I read over my coffee.

I've had the good fortune to spend time with friends quite a bit this holiday season. I've enjoyed every minute. Thank you.

Pelicans and Thinking Out Loud

This could be a picture of my heart. I'm soaring so much of the time these days.

But.

This morning as my friend Ellen and I were walking we talked about the death of our parents. How her mother died suddenly, still fully herself. How my father did the same. And I told her how when I dream of him or think of him, I see him just as he was in this life. And that's the most terrible thing about my mom, I said. After she dies and I see her in my dreams, I'll see her like this--the way these past few years have, day by day, reduced her and how that's what is burned into my brain. This is not the version of her I want to remember.

Report from Pillville: How my hair stood up

I wish I still had the Christmas lights on my bed.

I am listening in the dark. My mother is quiet at the moment. If I listen a little harder I can hear the click and hiss of her oxygen machine.

Earlier this evening as my friend Ellen and I sat on the couch, my mom was talking in her sleep. Not just a mumbled word, not just a line or two, but a monologue. Excuse me, I said to Ellen. I have to check out what's going on in there. I stood to the side of her partially open door and listened.

"And now they roam the house at night. Two of them. And they're not really fond of each other." My mom was speaking in a dramatic voice like she was telling a ghost story. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck stood up. I can't even watch TV because the commercials for scary movies terrify me. Now I'm imagining Thing One and Thing Two roaming through my house, stalking one another--stalking me.

If there ever was a night to have a friend staying over, this is it. A few months back, Ellen and I both leapt from our beds and nearly collided at the top of the stairs after my mother yelled at the top of her lungs. For a moment it sounded like my mom was arguing with someone and we thought there might be an intruder in the house.

I may have to sleep with the light on. But then again, that might make it easier for Thing One and Thing Two to find me.

Report from Pillville: Living in the Future

I got up around 5:30 this morning for a little extra time to myself. I'm working on an essay. I have more painting to do to finish the laundry room. I'm still scrubbing the grout in the front hallway. You know. Stuff. Stuff I'd prefer to do alone.

It was some time after 7 (well over an hour earlier than usual) that my mom woke. Yes, I sighed a guilty ugh. I was sitting on the couch with my computer on my lap when I heard her go from her room into the bathroom. Clatter-crash-thump. I flew to the bathroom door.

She'd dropped her cane.

The booster rockets of adrenaline had already fired. It's impossible to call them back once they've left the launch pad and I orbited around mad and crazy for a while, grumbling about what a shitty way it was to start the day. Of course it would of course been a lot shittier if she'd fallen.

I've been exchanging caregiver communiqués with a new friend for the past couple of months. I wrote to him immediately. I told him I was seeing into my future and it looked just like the present. He wrote back and told me to stay the heck out of the future.

This is how I survive. Writing it all down. Writing it here. Writing it to this friend who's been taking care of his dad, reading what he writes back.

Things go bump and thump and moan and groan quite frequently here in Pillville. I'm in this house most days for 21 hours. Some days it's a little less. Some days it's all day. On Thursdays, I'm out most of the day. But even when I'm sleeping, I'm listening, waiting for the next moment that requires me to propel myself down the stairs. So guess what?  I'm always living in the future. Hell, I'm even sleeping there.

I need to rocket back to the present.

This is a Love Letter

My friend Paula, about to turn around and walk toward me.

I am intensely aware of the love and support I receive from my friends. They visit me when I'm unable to go anywhere. They bring me wine and cheese and late-night conversation and rides from the airport shuttle stop. They walk with me. Teach me yoga, and T'ai Chi Chih, open up their hearts and homes. They plan trips and invite me to come along and the whole thing turns out like a miracle. They fill my in-box with thoughts and songs and things to read and lovelovelove. They come to dinner and bring cakes and pies and flan and tequila. They make me laugh until I can't get up off my chair--and let me cry. They tell me about books I might not otherwise read and then cook elaborate dinners in which we talk about the books. They write blogs that are a daily addiction and books and essays and stories that keep me up at night. All that and more. Yes, all that and more.

I'm in the air.

We just flew over Mt. Rainier. It was completely covered with snow. You'll have to take my word for it since uploading a photo takes forever on the Internet here in this place not quite on Earth. I'm also about to have a gin and tonic. I know you'll take my word on that.

So how was the cruise, you might be wondering--if you even remember that there is such a place as Margaritaville after my long absence. Turns out that boat was a big as a mountain--which I didn't really know when I agreed to take this trip with my friend Ellen. She made all of the arrangements, and I said, yeah, yeah, sure sounds absolutely fabulous, not quite believing that I'd actually be able to go, given my obligations in Margaritaville's sister city, Pillville. But the grand plan to take my mom off hospice for two weeks and fly with  her to my brother's house worked out great. News has it that she's doing fine, although I won't know if that's the whole story until I can talk to my brother or his girlfriend (a.k.a. the saints.)

I never quite imagined myself on a cruise ship that holds a couple thousand people, and while the idea of that is, I admit, not my idea of the sort of ecological footprint I want to step into, for all I know, it's better than flying. The ship claims to recycle all paper, plastic, and glass, and they use few disposable products. Even the napkins are cloth and there are single use cloth hand towels in all the restrooms in addition to paper towels. They only change sheets and towels upon request, and the portions of food served are very modest. A big eater would have to hit the buffet before visiting the dining room, so there's probably less food waste than in the average American restaurant, diner for diner.

Now that I've given my best to justify the boat as big as a mountain, let's just say it was wonderful in every way. Beautiful little cabin, superb and friendly service (holy shit, I do sincerely hope all of these people are being paid a living wage) Delicious and healthy fresh food to please all tastes and ethnicities. (I wish I'd taken the galley tour on the first day that explains how they do what they do.) There were trivia matches, dance lessons (these were free), a well-appointed yoga studio with good teachers (not as good as the ones I have at home, but still...) There was a spa (too expensive for me.) There was an acupuncturist (not free). There were lectures by a naturalist, many entertainments with Boradway quality performers (all free), and for a pretty penny, there were excursions one could book at various ports. The two we did were worth the money--a steam engine train on a narrow gauge track up a mountain--more like on the edge of a mountain, really. I got terrified for a bit when the train couldn't make it up a particular hill, had to back up, then still couldn't make it and the tracks had to be sanded and even then the wheels slipped and the train geek sitting behind me mentioned that a more skilled engineer would have know how to build up a better head of steam and managed it without spinning the wheels. But I powered through by writing a note to a friend on my iPhone for sending later. Knowing I had his ear, even in a delayed fashion, got me through it. The other excursion was ocean kayaking which had its drama too, but I was actually okay with that. Both excursions were a dose of extreme natural beauty that left both of us awestruck.

So, there you have it. There may be an annual cruise wherein I depart Pillville in order to take to the water. I may even choose to go to Alaska again. I've fallen in love.

Alaska: A Walk in the Woods and A Drive through Mountains

Walking Away

Looking Up

Looking Forward

The Miraculous

We had a little dinner party last night. Old friends who moved away to Virginia are back for a visit. Also here was another set of friends from L.A. who came out on a Monday despite their demanding jobs. And my oldest L.A. friends who are now traveling around the country in their travel trailer in between his chemotherapy. And a friend from Ojai drove here directly from visiting her parents in Las Vegas. 

Two in attendance have lung cancer. One had her hand in a brace from some sort of injury. One forgot to take his diabetes meds. Two of us are grieving the loss of the men we loved (not even counting my mom in this--at 90; she's grieving practically everyone.) Everything was glorious. No one turned the water into wine. No one jumped off the boat dock and walked on water. Yet I had this feeling all night that I was in the presence of the miraculous. At the end of the evening as I escorted people out the door, my rose bushes gleamed under the street lights, and every single one of us seemed filled with the same white light. 

An hour or so later my friends from Virginia and I sat on the couch in my living room talking and looking out at the night. "Oh, oh," my friend Sandy said, "I just saw a shooting star." I wanted to tell her to wish on it. To wish for this very same night a year from now. But I said nothing. If I opened my mouth I knew I'd burst into tears or laughter or maybe even hot white flames. I held all those feelings in, hoping.

Enchilada pie, broccoli salad, green salad with garlic sautéed shitake mushrooms, assorted fruit

Flan!!!!! There were actually two kinds of flan. One made with brown sugar, one with maple syrup.

Thursday Evening Beach Report

My friend Ellen, visiting from L.A.

We watched the sun set behind Santa Cruz Island

The willers watched it too.

And for some reason, this photo of Dan appeared with the other photos that I selected from my iPhoto for this post. I uploaded this picture of him about six weeks ago when we were putting together a slide show for his memorial. I didn't choose it for this post, but here it is. 

What I've learned so far on Maui

Besides the fact that it's stunningly beautiful...

...coconuts can fall on your head. 

There are flocks of chickens everywhere presided over by fancy roosters.

And there are fabulous birds. Java sparrows. Myna birds. White cattle egrets that are almost as tame as pets. Gray francolins. And this guy--a red-crested cardinal. 

It's harder to snorkel in the surf than it is off a boat that's anchored somewhere calm. 

It's hot.

I hate sunscreen. But when threatened with sunburn, I willingly slather it on like it's my new religion.

Did I mention it's hot?

My friend Paula's family and other friends are just as awesome as she is.

Luck, Omens, Portents, Plans, and Predictions

Sunset view: Lanai on the left. Molokai to the right.

At some point during one of Dan's hospitalizations, I found a piece of white beach glass shaped like a crescent moon. It meant he would get well, I told myself. I think it was later that day the doctor said he was going to recommend Dan for hospice. The piece of glass sat on my steps for days afterwards. It occurred to me more than once that I should hammer it into dust.

I'm in Maui right now, and tomorrow morning I'm going to look for beach glass. What will it mean if I find some? That I've found some beach glass, I guess. Or not. I don't feel very attached these days to my old system of auguring future events. But I do feel lucky.

Here's how lucky. Some weeks after Dan died, it was clear I needed a break from caring for my mom and made arrangements for her to stay with my brother and his girlfriend for a couple of months. Not long after a friend invited me to her 50th birthday party on Maui. Since my mom would be at my brother's I could say yes. A week or so later, a second friend invited me to her birthday party on Kauai. Those dates did not conflict with the Maui dates. In fact there were a few days in between during which I could visit a dear friend of Dan's on Hilo. (I think I've blogged about all this before--but I guess I just want to repeat it.) Lucky, right? People tell me I deserve it. But doesn't everyone deserve luck? And there are always people who deserve a nice serving of luck, and they don't even get a crumb.

So here I am. In Maui. It's been a litany of beauty so far. Lapis colored water, puffy clouds. A lavender farm and a goat farm in what they call "up country." Galleries and shops with the wares of local artists, a farmer's market with exotic produce. Not to mention the friends. Friends seems to me like luck too. I didn't work or strive in any way to meet any of them. Stuff happens. Sometimes it's really good.

view from the lavender farm

ice cream bean from the farmer's market

3 kinds of goat cheese for dinner

lavender farm Buddha

Labyrinth

There's only one way in and out of a labyrinth. Like life, I guess you could say. Unlike a maze, you can't get lost going this way and that, looking for a way out. There isn't any ambiguity. But as you follow the path around and around, there's a lot of switching directions, and just when you think you're close to the exit, you end of somewhere else entirely, and there's still quite a bit of walking to do.

I've been at a T'ai Chi Chih retreat in New Mexico, and it felt completely luxurious to give myself over to the practice for a few days. I ignored my email and forgot about Facebook. And I walked the labyrinth shown above every day.

I also walked to the Rio Grande with my friend L, and that made me remember the trip cross country the summer of 2012 when my daughter M and I drove my mom out here to live with me. We wrote down all the names of the rivers we crossed. We crossed the Platte River over and over again which made it seem a bit like a labyrinth.

And in walking the labyrinth at the retreat center, I thought of the labyrinth in the meditation garden at one of the hospitals where Dan stayed before he died. I walked through it over and over one evening. I think I had an inkling then of where things were leading for Dan. I just thought it would take a lot longer to get there.

It's brutally hot here in southern California. The drought is intensifying, and very little lush green was visible from the sky. Flying into Burbank the mountains looked brown and sharp like the spines of desiccated pre-historic animals.

My next destination as I wander around taking a break from caring for my mom will not be at all brown and spiny. Stay tuned. I will ramble on again from there.

By-the-Wind Sailors and Fair Weather Friends

Blown to our shores by a shift in the winds, the beaches are now covered with a mass die-off of these pretty creatures.

I think of the phrase fair weather friends when I see them for some reason. I am lucky to have friends who are sticking by me through the foulest of "weather." I could not be more blessed in this regard.

How to Grieve

Hunt for beach glass with a friend and let her give you all that she finds including the first piece of PINK you've ever seen.

Let her coax you into long evening walks.

Sit on the patio with your friend and drink wine.

Pet her dog.

When friends call and ask if you'd like company, say yes. Let them bring you cupcakes, chocolate, vegetables, wine, the fixings for chili or soup, concoctions they've made, and books. Let them talk to you, take you to lunch, or to taste wine. Let them nap while you also nap. Let them cook for you or with you or you cook for them. Let them run errands with you. Watch movies that they recommend. Let them talk about love. Let them talk about grief. Or anything at all. Let them look you in the eyes when you're afraid your eyes might fill with tears and flood everything. Love them for not being afraid. 

Dan's ashes arrived on Friday afternoon. Priority mail. A package that required a signature. A package that bore a label that said "Cremated Remains." The mail carrier held the box against her body while she  handed me the clipboard so I could sign. When she handed me the box, our eyes met. I think she knew what she was handing me. I carried the box upstairs, nearly cancelled my lunch date, but it was too late. The door bell rang and it was time to go. I didn't talk about the ashes. 

My friend Paula had just arrived from Phoenix when I returned home after lunch. I didn't tell her about the ashes. 

That night after we said good-night, I opened the box. Inside was a simple black container nestled into packing paper. The container had heavy white tissue paper rubber-banded around it. Inside the container was a bag, stenciled in bold black letters with Dan's name and a number. The number was also embossed onto a gold tag that was attached to a twist tie that firmly sealed the bag. Inside the bag was what remained of a body I adored. Unfathomable. That the bag was so heavy. Yet fit in a box small enough to hold, say, a bottle of Grand Marnier. Everything unfathomable. 

Saturday, I still didn't tell Paula about the ashes. But I told her today. It's a difficult thing to tell. 

I'm not sure if I can say it aloud again. So I'm saying it here.

This Morning

It's morning. I come downstairs and do what I always do. Coffee. Pull up the window shades. And this particular morning I talk with my friend L who is flying back to Hawaii. How long have you two known each other, the nurse asks. L and I laugh. Three days, she says. But she's known Dan for 50 years, I say.

I tell Dan I'm taking L down the street to catch a shuttle that will take her to LAX. Tell him I'll be right back. Kiss his head. There's activity under his eyelids, and he tries to say something.

When I return I sweep the floor, stopping by his bed, which is in my living room, to kiss him or lay my hand on his head. I tell him I'm back. That his daughter is upstairs. That his family will be here soon. Friends too, maybe, I say.  I unload the dishwasher as quietly as I can. Drink coffee. Take out the trash. Throw in a load of laundry. These are the things that need doing even when there's someone you love lying in your living room actively dying. A hospice phrase. Actively dying. Right now, it seems like Dan and I are dividing that phrase in two.

I talk to him. Read him some of Jack Gilbert's poems. Then I turn my attention to the piles of things on my kitchen island. I take cookies out of their bags and arrange them onto plates. The candy that L brought from Hawaii into bowls. The strawberries that K brought into a bigger bowl. Bright red into green. Beautiful opposites. I peel all the stickers off the bananas so they look prettier. Are these the things a person should do when someone you love is actively dying just across the room? The nurse suggests a basket so all of the morphines and other medicines can be tucked inside instead of strewn across the counter. I pull one out. Perfect, she says. Thank you, I tell her.

Then I settle onto the couch. Open my laptop. I am actively living.

What I Cooked

At the end of a week during which my mom seemed especially tired, and a week during which every conversation with the man who loves me contained the words cancer, or chemo, or radiation, this is what I cooked:

Artichokes. Pasta with pistachio/spinach/basil pesto. Heirloom tomatoes with basil and fresh mozzarella.

My friend Paula arrived with a lots of wine and chocolate.

And she brought her dog.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go eat some more chocolate.

Return from Catalina

For 48 hours, I didn't talk on the phone or email or blog.

I ate a lot of fish,

 talked for hours with a friend, 

walked through a botanical garden.

I also taught a writing workshop. It would be lovely to do more of that.

Looking Behind Me

I whittled away the day at Baltimore Washington Medical Center where my brother had a total hip replacement on Wednesday. Today my mother joined him there as an outpatient for a pulmonary function test. I spent a couple hours shuttling between the two of them, remembering two years ago when I wore a path down the hallways while my mother was a patient there after a lung re-section that excised a cancerous tumor. BWMC was my mother's second hospital that July. By the time she was admitted she could barely swallow; she had trouble keeping food down and was in constant pain.

Today I recognized the hallway where I once stood at the window looking out across the parking lot at the trees while I talked on the phone with some cubicle-ite at Aetna Insurance. I was begging for confirmation that my new insurance policy would be activated before I was dropped from my ex-husband's policy. I had already had my chiropractor and dermatologist provide the minutiae Aetna had requested. "You already know everything about me," I explained. "I've been covered by Aetna for the last twenty years.  All I'm trying to do is change from my husband's Aetna policy to my own Aetna policy." The new policy department could not access the records department, they told me. The conversation didn't end successfully , but before I made it to the elevator to go back up to my mom, my phone rang again. It was my friend Suzanne.

I sobbed into the phone. "Go back to your mom," she said. Then she told me she'd call my ex- husband and ask him to keep me on his insurance policy for a few more weeks--which she did, and he agreed.

Now two summers later, I'm amazed and grateful that I still have my mother--and as I think back on the four years since my marriage ended, I'm so thankful for all the things that my friends have done to help me.

Thank You, Everyone.......

I am grateful for my friends--those in the my real word and those from cyberspace.

I've been discouraged. Dragged down by the undertow of 60-some pages of fictitious forensic accounting.

Thank you for the dinner and conversation. For the phone calls. For the lunch. For sweeping me off to a margarita as big as my head. For your blog comments. For your understanding and patience and love. For holding me--literally or figuratively, all through the night.

It's you I owe--not Mr. Ex.