Post 9/11

I mostly shy away from political stuff, since my friends generally know where I stand.  If anyone else is reading, if they happen to agree with me, I'd be preaching to the choir, and if they don't, nothing I say is going to change anyone's mind.

Given our proximity to New York and Washington DC, the event of 9/11/01 touched many people around here more closely than the general population between the oceans, but less so than those in the three true "Ground Zero" locations.

I share the following two links because they touched me deeply.

Elizabeth Kaeton is an Episcopal priest, whose blog I have read for quite a while.  If I recall correctly, she was serving in New Jersey at that time and spent a good deal of time at the chapel at Ground Zero, helping and comforting the workers during the weeks and months after.   If you search her blog for "9/11" you will find other wise and insightful writings.

The other, linked by a commenter on another blog by a writer probably 150 degrees (minimum) from "Mother" Kaeton.   Recent photos from Libya.  Choked me up and reminded me of those days in early September 2001 when the world seemed to come together in our shared horror.

Interestingly -- or not -- I had more trouble than I expected when I searched for an image of rubble at Ground Zero.  I wanted one with no prominent religious or national symbols (no cross, no flag) and one that was not taken from a place that seemed to me to be a political, conspiracy, or hate site.  Things that make you go hmmm....   The one I used was from the website of the UK newspaper, The Guardian.  

Happy birthday, George!

Yesterday would have been his 69th birthday.   Never get over you.

Here's a wonderful montage set to George's "Give me love", a song for which 100% of royalties goes to Unicef.

Forward or backward?

At my Circle meeting last night, we heard -- almost accidentally -- about a church member who had been opposed to the Memorial Garden which has been "in the works" for a number of years now.  That anonymous person had been visited by a Circle/Council member who had been asked by Council to approach him/her to find out the reason for his/her opposition.  In their meeting, the objector expressed the belief that the congregation should be looking forward and not backwards, viewing the establishment of  Memorial Garden as looking to the past.

I found that idea quite illogical, as everyone alive now will die eventually.  Facing that fact and planning for it is, indeed, planning for the future.  Death is not reserved for the old, though it visits them more frequently.   My Christian faith helps me accept this inevitability and, with it, my reunion with the saints that have gone before me.  When I die, I plan to have my ashed interred in the Memorial Garden and am grateful for the forward-thinking congregation that is making this possible.

This morning, as I left my home for work, my driveway was blocked by another car.   I walked down the drive to request that the driver move his car so I could get mine out.  He was talking with Cheryl, the daughter of my sharing-the-driveway neighbor has shared the home with her father and her sons since separating from her husband early this year.  As I got closer to the group, Cheryl blurted out that her father had died early this morning.  He was at his cabin in the mountains and had a heart attack.  The 911 responders had reached him too late. 

Keep alert, as this week's sermon advised.  Events seemingly in the future can become part of the past at any time.   Rest in peace, John.

Good-bye to my handsome guy

My orange cat, Mustard, is gone.  In about a week, he went from pretty healthy for an old guy to dehydrated and not eating to diagnosed with diabetes to unable to move around at all AND not eating or drinking.  There was probably something else going on too, since his belly was bloated.  But I'll never know.

Mustard was a gift to D#1 for her 3rd birthday.  We'd lost a cat to cancer not long before and a friend asked if it would be ok.  She turned 21 this past July, so he was well over 18 years old.  Calling her to tell of his swift decline and loss was deeply painful for both of us, as he meant so much to her.  This photo of Mustard and the one remaining cat, Tabbitha (who really "belongs" to D#2), shows them engaged in their favorite pastime: synchronized sleeping. 

Of all the cats I've had over 4 decades, I only ever had 2 that weren't shelter cats or strays.  He was one of them.  He never knew a life where he wasn't loved and cared for.   I held him on my lap, talked to him, and petted him up until the end.  I'd like to think he still felt loved even then.

If I were a widow

Last week marked four years since my husband blindsided me with the news that he no longer wanted to be married to me.  We had been married over 19 years and, coincidentally, that day was the 20th anniversary of the day we met.  I was, in a word, shattered.  Since then, I have noticed many ways in which I would be better off  if I had been widowed that day.

• Most important of all:  I would know that, while I was alone, my husband loved and cared for me until the end.
• It would be all over, instead of just beginning, and the healing could have started immediately.  
• No secrecy would be required – keeping the “news” from all but a couple of people and, especially, from our daughters initially – in the vain hope that he would “change his mind.”  
• My daughters would have known that their father cared for them – unconditionally – and put their needs before his.  Which, in all honesty, he did, until that unknown day when he chose to leave the family rather than to make an attempt to preserve it.
• We could all speak openly and happily about the man who was such an important and precious part of our lives, both with others and with each other. 
• My children would not have to worry and work at figuring out how (or if) to have a relationship with their father, nor be concerned that doing so would somehow hurt me.
• Widows are supported and cared for, from the time of the husband’s death.  Left-behind wives are invisible.
• I wouldn’t have to be concerned that I was being judged by those who believe that “it takes two to make a marriage and two to break one.”   That is utterly and completely false.  A relationship or marriage absolutely can be broken irretrievably by one person alone.
• There would be “A” date to “mark”, sad as it would be.  Instead, I have: the date he told me, the date I found out painful things, the date I asked him to leave, the date our “legal separation” began (our 20th wedding anniversary, not coincidentally), the date he moved out.  None of them are known to anyone except me.   I’m still waiting for “the date” of the final divorce decree. 
• My church would be a place of safety.  Instead it became a place of pain, as he continued to attend alone, acting as if nothing had changed.  More often than not, I’d end up taking refuge in the bathroom, sobbing.  Eventually, as I began to feel alone even there, I began to skip worship rather than risk seeing him.    I often wish someone had asked him why he continued to show up, when he’d overtly rejected his vows.  But, of course, no one is supposed to “take sides”…   (Yes, I know.  We are all sinners and should all be welcome in God’s house.  But it seems to me that it would not be too much to ask to have the “church” – or someone in it – question when a person decides unilaterally to reject a faithful spouse and end the existence of a family.)
• My financial situation would be improved.  His life insurance would have paid off the house and put money aside for both daughters’ educations.  Instead, I drained my savings paying for half of one's college expenses and getting the other through her last year of high school, while trying to hold onto our home as long as I could.  I did have “child support” but it by no means approximated what he had brought into the home.   When I could no longer continue, the house was sold and my daughters and I moved.   While retirement always seemed like a mirage, it is now a financial impossibility. 
• I would not have to worry, to this day, that I would meet him unexpectedly, fearing my own uncontrollable gut reaction.   Nor would I have to see a person I shared my life with for two decades, and had two children with, nod his head in my direction, acknowledging me as if we were vague acquaintances.
• My ability to trust in another person would not have been destroyed.  

Some might say,  “Death is final; where there is life, there’s hope.”   For most of us surprised and shocked spouses, there is no hope.  Once, there were fervent prayers and desperate wishes, but we sensed that there was no real hope.  And, after a time, we realize that too much damage has been done ever to be with that person again.

[Please note that I mean no disrespect to real widows and do not wish any harm to my ex-to-be.  This is a compare-and-contrast piece that has been stirring inside for a long time and re-surfaced with the “anniversary”.]

Farewell, my lovely

On Sunday, January 9th, 2011, we lost a loving and beloved member of the family, our precious cat, Charcoal.  Though she was a part of our family for over 15 years, we can never know her exact age.  She was a stray who wandered into our Ohio backyard in the summer of 1995, when my daughters were 5 and 3 years old.   This tiny black feline -- who weighed no more than 6 pounds at any time in her life -- brought love into the lives of our family and friends in inverse proportion to her size.

We called Charcoal "the cat who thinks she is a dog", a dog who never met a person she didn't love at first sight.  She would greet strangers and friends alike at the door, rubbing against them, pleading with her eyes to be petted (at least) or, ideally, picked up and cuddled.  When she was held, she would creep up to lie on the person's shoulder and purr into his/her ear.  Her purr was industrial-strength and could be heard across the room.  I cannot count the people who told me over the years, "If you ever want to get rid of that cat, just let me know."  My response was always the same, "Get in line, but don't wait for a call, since she's not going anyplace."   Several friends used to joke about smuggling her out under their coats, given her diminutive size.  So we laughingly instituted firm security policies upon their exit.

When workmen came to the house, she not only greeted them but was there to help.  Sounds didn't scare her, so, amazingly, she sat and watched while the chimney cleaner used his loud vacuum, or the plumber worked in the bathroom.  Sometimes, I had to confine her in another room to keep her from either being in the way or getting accidentally hurt, as she was determined to be in the middle of the action, and near the people.

The decade and a half we had together brought, predictably, both joy and sadness.  When my daughters were small, they would put her in their plastic toy shopping cart, throw a blanket on top of her, and race around the house with her as a passenger.  Always well-tempered and loving, she never objected and, when she had her fill of riding, she'd just hop out of the cart and find a place away from the action.  Always smaller-than-average, but healthy, her worst medical crisis was caused, ironically, by getting routine checkups.  When she was about 10, she developed VAS (vaccine-associated sarcoma) in her neck after an incompetent vet gave her rabies injection there.  Extensive surgery was required and for several years following, we were on the lookout for a recurrence.  Fortunately, she remained cancer-free for the rest of her life. 

Charcoal always slept with me.  For many years, she was the 3rd presence in the queen-sized bed, and then, when my husband moved out, she kept me company.   It was always a mystery to me how firmly such a little thing  could confine me to a given position!   She would pin me down by nestling above the covers in whatever small space was present between my legs, effectively preventing me from shifting without moving her along with the blankets.  I often sleep on my side, and she would perch on my all-too-generous hip and settle in there -- sometimes with her head so close to mine that she was purring almost directly into my ear.   Does a sound exist that is more peaceful than the soft, constant purr of a contented cat?

My brother wrote in an email to my younger daughter, "You had one of the greats of the feline world!"   There are no truer words for her epitaph.  We look forward to seeing her again at the Rainbow Bridge, where all our beloved lost pets wait.

I will never forget you

All things must pass.

 

October 9, 1940 - December 8, 1980

 February 25, 1943 - November 29, 2001

My Sweet George

 Never get over you.   I'll see you in my dreams.

R.I.P. KRZR

OK, so I guess it wasn't REALLY about cell phones.  In retrospect, I realize that the whole cell phone rant was about being unable to communicate whenever and wherever I am, being disconnected (from my daughters, especially), dealing with my budgetary issues, and, not least, still adjusting to doing everything myself.

And it was about loss.  About losing -- without warning -- the contents of an object that had been with me almost constantly for three years, since before my life, as I knew it then, was shattered.

Late August 2007: Just days before my older daughter went off to college, we (all four family members)  hopped into the car, heading for the nearby phone store so we could all acquire "real" cell phones.  This was how we were all going to stay connected with each other: family plan, no limitations on calling among ourselves.  Initially I got the "plain Jane" handset, while the other three got fancier phones.  When I got home, for the first (and, so far, only) time in my life, I got "technology-envy".  So back we went and I swapped my "plain Jane" black-no-camera model for a sharp-looking, shiny, fiery-red model with texting and camera (not that I was ever planning to use them, mind you). 

When my life imploded less a few weeks later, that little red device became my lifeline; in my unbearable pain, my talisman.  Though, of course it couldn't really avert evil or bring good luck, it was a critical tool for coping with the destruction of my life around me.  I remember, immediately after receiving the Rejection Speech, when I simply could not stay in that house for one more minute, when I knew I was incapable of driving safely, when all I could do was walk away....  Phone in hand, I got as far as the end of the block, where I collapsed on the ground and called my sister to break the incomprehensible news.  Weeks later, I sat on a swing at the local elementary school playground and, through my wracking sobs, just two clicks would "contact" a friend, so I could just let it out.  On late night/early morning walks when I couldn't sleep, I carried it with me, for comfort as much as for security.   When my younger daughter's therapist would call to touch base prior to an appointment, I would pull off the road and park to talk to her.

On that mere four ounces of electronics, I had photos my older daughter sent me from the National Mall on the frigid day of the President's inauguration, when she walked several miles because the Metro was overcrowded.  There were text messages from my daughters, saved from their victories, large and small, and from their reaching out to me for advice or simply to express their thanks or their love.  The texts were locked to prevent accidental deletion, and were there for me to read over and over whenever I needed to remind myself why I had to continue to do whatever had to be done.  Because they needed me to be there, for whatever reason.

Three years later, I'm (mostly) used to doing everything by myself.   It's not like I have a choice, is it?   I'm even at the point where I find myself doing the most of the legwork toward finally divorcing.  Partially by my choice (goal of saving money since we've dealt with the property/financial stuff), but partially because of his inertia.  It's time.  I'm ready.  And, for my own reasons, I don't want to wait until he decides to make it a priority in his life and in his schedule.  I know how long that can take. 

But sometimes, in a moment of weakness or mental exhaustion, I'm hit with the memory that I used to have someone to share the responsibility: to take out the trash, to clean the litter box, to work with me to put the shelving unit together, to stop and get milk on the way home.   Someone to compliment and thank me, to make me coffee in the morning, to listen when I had a bad day, to tell me that it would be OK -- whatever "it" was -- that we would get through it together. 

Now, I have to be all about DIY.

Follow-up: Within 48 hours,  I'm supposed to have a refurbished "stupid" phone.  Don't really want much more right now, and it's all I can afford, especially since I have now taken over paying the bill for the girls and me.  The one bright side?  It will be purple.