3 Friends, 5 Days, 10 Years

"A friend is one who knows you and loves you just the same."   Elbert Hubbard

 

Ten years ago this week, I lost three of my dearest friends within five days of one another.  Each was in his/her early 50s.  Each had cancer. 

 

Doug and I on his 40th birthday

The first to go was my friend Doug.  He died ten years ago yesterday of  colon cancer.  He was and still is the funniest person I have ever known.  Friends since high school, we hung with the same crowd in the parking lot of a coffee shop known as Dyles.  We christened ourselves  "the Dyles gang" although we weren't  a gang, per se, just a group of teenagers with similar interests:  drinking, smoking cigarettes and pot, going to the beach, going to any party we might hear about. The friendships began for some of us as early as junior high and are still going strong.  Doug, who began his tenure in the group as a slightly built, straight man to his overweight sidekick nicknamed "Wally", eventually became the king of one-liners & witty responses.    He told anecdotes and, like Jerry Seinfeld, most were based on truth;  those we'd experienced and those he embellished.  He was so funny he should  have done stand-up.  I think it was his secret passion. My life was never so hilarious as when portrayed by this guy.  He met the love of his life in his early twenties.  They married, had children and were supposed to live happily ever after.   Ten years after his passing,  she's still alone and in love with him. 

Mazatlan ca 1984 or 85
 the way I like to remember Doug, beer in hand

 



Maui, ca 1980  Dari & her then BF

The second loss came the next day when my best friend's sister, Daria, died of breast cancer.  She and Doug knew one another and surprisingly were diagnosed with their respective cancers within weeks of one another.    Each  fought their illness for five long years.  Daria comes from a medical family and she explored every available avenue, including, finally, a bone marrow transplant from her doctor brother.  She was a free spirit.  Unlike her three siblings, she did not follow the dictates laid out by her rigid father.  She was the only one to smoke before she was 21, forgoing the $1000 he promised each child if they made it.  She moved to Maui in her early twenties, lived at the beach, taught school, bartended and had a very cool life.   She married later than most, meeting her dream man in her mid-thirties.  After many years of shuttling between Maui and Lake Tahoe, where she was a black jack dealer, she settled for a more conventional life with her handsome, boyish husband, moving to a tiny town in Wisconsin to live on his family farm and teach school. She was unconventional to the end and I picture her turning the tiny town in which she passed her final years on its ear with her beautiful brave ways.   I consider myself privileged to have spoken  with her numerous times before she was too weak to talk.  Her death left a void in that family that can never be filled.

 



Randy & Pat ca 1984
Old Towne Mexican Café
San Diego

The third loss was two days after Daria's.  My very close friend, Pat, whom I met and worked with in my mid twenties, was one of the kindest, gentlest most thoughtful people I've known. She was a great listener.  When we first met, I was getting divorced; then I was dating (all the wrong men); then I was partying too much; then I was diagnosed with epilepsy; then I was in love and so on.  Pat listened to all the stories with great understanding and humor.  She was married to her soul mate, Randy, with whom she's grown up just outside Milwaukee.  I know she lived vicariously through many of us because we were "out there" and she was not.  But I never detected anything but interest and her advice was wise beyond her years.  Pat and Randy were family to me back in those days.  Pat had a wonderful gift.  She never forgot a birthday.  I never failed to receive a beautiful card and I looked forward to those cards because I knew, wherever I was living, she'd send one.  She was beautiful inside and out.  When she and her wonderful husband, finally left San Diego to return to their families and make a home in Milwaukee, my husband and I threw a wonderful large going away party for them.  Everyone in San Diego radio and TV  came because everyone loved Pat.  She had a way of making me feel like I was brave and funny.  I was a better person seen through her eyes.

 

Three friends.  Five days.  Ten years ago.  It seems as if it were yesterday.

 



Zoe's Last Walk

Zoe's Last Walk by Cole Scott

Her daddy shot this series of photos this winter while walking in the snow-covered fields across the road from our house.  She was 16 years old.  We'd had her since 1999 when my husband and sons brought her home from a shelter with a little cat we later named Maggie.  Zoe was already named, approximately 2 years old and about 58 lbs.  At the time she was a sleek, black mix of Lab and Dalmatian.  She had a white chest with a few black spots, a bit of brown under her eyes and the softest ears I've ever felt.  She wasn't pretty but she was cute.  It took a while to calm her.  She'd been brought to the shelter, along with her brother, and was waiting for her forever home.    He'd already been adopted.

We became her forever home.  She had sensitive ears.  We didn't know why but you could not stroke or touch her ears without a yelp or a growl.  She did not like being bothered after dinner.  She liked her quiet time.  We later learned that is characteristic of Dalmatians.  They are a cranky breed.  

We already had a dog,  a beautiful, black long-haired lab/spaniel mix, about 60 lbs, named Jake.   I adored him.  Zoe became his companion.  She was as demanding as he was quiet.  She liked to run, chase balls, chase the car.  He liked to doze, keep watch, let little children climb all over him.  He was gracious, calm, gentle.  Zoe was fierce.  She could snap at you but she was always there for you.  

As my husband describes it, Zoe was "the most loyal dog I've ever had."  She stayed close.  She protected the house.  She protected my beloved cat.  One morning, while driving down our long drive with Zoe in the back and my son in the front seat, we saw Maggie at the driveways' convergence with the neighbor's drive, back arched, fur sticking straight up.  Two foxes had her cornered.  One fox stood above her on our drive, the other to her left on the neighbor's drive.  She was about to be breakfast.  Zoe dove out the open window of the car, chased the foxes away, and my son rescued Maggie.  If not for Zoe, my cat would have died many years earlier than she did.

Zoe liked to run.  I would often come home from work, too tired to walk her.  Instead, I'd put her in the car, drive to a long deserted dirt road, let her out and have her chase the car until she was exhausted.  It was thrilling to see her in my rear view mirror, speeding down the road like a bullet.  She was fast.  She loved to run in a straight line.  We called her "Radial Zoe".

Zoe aged quickly.  Her muzzle turned grey too early; her body thickened, her pace slowed.  She probably spent the last 7 years of her long life as an old dog.  But she never lost her love of the outdoors.  Her joy was palpable.  My husband would take Zoe and Dewey, our younger dog, out for walks and she would bounce around like a little lamb in a meadow.  That behaviour continued almost to the end.  

The last year of her life was fraught with physical deterioration.  She couldn't hold her food down, she 

was incontinent, she slept most of the time, she had tumors on her body and she was failing. The house was becoming a war zone of  accidents. 

Every time I suggested "It's time",  my husband would take her outdoors.  She'd bounce around in the yard, doing her little lamb act.  He'd point and say, 

"See?  It's not time."

Finally, it was.  She couldn't lie down.  She couldn't sleep.  She was very sick in a matter of a few hours.  We rushed her to the vet at midnight on a Sunday.  The vet looked at us and said,

"It's time."

Zoe went peacefully, easily, gracefully.  She slid into death quietly.  We held onto her and stroked her and told her how much we loved her.  We didn't let go until we had to.    

Songs to a Child Born to the Breed

I've been listening to a series of old tapes, favorite music recorded on audio cassettes long ago; long before I had children.   I must have been destined to be a mother; the songs that grabbed me emotionally back in the day are the songs written by the composers to their children.

 Judy Collins' "Born to the Breed" has always moved me.  It is about her then 16 year old son as he leaves home to perform in a rock n roll band, filled with the mixed parental feelings of the joy of his birth and youth to the pain of letting go.

Along the same lines is the better known and iconic "Cat's in the Cradle" by Harry Chapin.  Lost time and time lost with his son are the themes. I never hear this without a pang. It may have even shaped my parenting subconsciously.

Both  songs are about parental love and loss, albeit for different reasons. Both children, as it turns out, are born to the breed.  Both outcomes are surprising, different, yet similar.

In looking for the musical videos to include in this post, I came across this Judy Collins interview with Rosie O'Donnell.  It was a shock.

   

The poignancy of the song is so much greater now.  I did not know this information until yesterday.

As for Mr. Chapin, I remember his early death, though not the exact circumstances which I, again, learned during my research for the post.

Death is still the one absolute.  

I hope you take the time to watch and listen to these great artists whose lives shaped their music and whose music shaped our lives.

BERY5Q9S7SJM

Reflections on Memorial Day

Platitudes, 

We are full of them.

The attempt to comfort                                      

A loss too great to bear.

The attempt to justify

Actions unjustifiable,

Memories unbearable,

Pain unceasing.

Words unspoken

Which might have changed

The way things are

Hover in the air.

It's all terrible: the loss

Human sacrifice, suffering,

Sadness.  And the Masters of War 

keep their secret counsel.

Anniversary

Today would have been my parent's 60th wedding anniversary.  My mother and father would be 95 and 100, respectively.  Mother always said she did not want to live to be "too old" though I'm not sure she meant "old" so much as "infirm".  She did live to be 81 but was bedridden the last 18 months of her life, felled by strokes.  That was the kind of infirmity she dreaded.  Mercifully, she died in her sleep.  She loved me unconditionally and it was wonderful.

Dad lived to be 97.  He's been gone three years now.  It's hard to believe as he was such a presence in my life, mostly an irritating presence, but a presence nonetheless.  I loved my father but he worried too much and he gave way too much advice.  It's hard taking advice when you're in your fifties...forties...etc.  I find myself doing the same damn thing.  The apple doesn't fall too far from the tree.

My brother called to remind me today but I already knew.  I'd been thinking about this anniversary for weeks.  We talked a bit about them; how much we miss them.  We both agreed it's amazing to be married that long.  Our parents married late and both had previous spouses but no children.  I suppose my husband and I can hit that number because we married 35 years ago and we're both only 50.  Why yes, it was a shotgun wedding...

There is a common wisdom that says one can never again be a child once their parents have died.   I have begun to think that is true.  I know it in the deepest part of my Id.  I know I can never again feel the warm comfort of my parent's arms about me, their kisses on my forehead, my father's hand holding mine.  I can talk to them but I cannot be with them.  And I really really miss that. 

The older I become, the more I appreciate their wisdom, their sacrifices, the tragedies endured and the many gifts they gave me, not least of which are my values. As our parents leave us, the little irritations fade and the good things move to the forefront.  As Martha would say, "It's a good thing."

In Memoriam

In Memoriam
Robert S. Moffett
July 20, 1924 - July 13, 2009

My husband's father died in his sleep early Monday morning. He would have been 85 next Monday.

He was many things to many people but most of all he was my husband's dad. His passing leaves my mother in law, his daughter and my husband and one brother, now 90 years old.

In late May, he had a stroke which left him paralyzed on one side and unable to communicate. Most of the time he just slept. We are grateful he did not linger. His robust life had already been diminished by Parkinson's and his quick mind, razor sharp, was gone. He understood things but it took a while. He could still tell a funny story but it was too often the same one. The stroke destroyed even that, leaving just a wisp of the man we all knew.

Our friends have been wonderful, calling, emailing, each remembering a different story about the him. Our oldest friends knew him from waayy back. He was quite a character. He was athletic, he was funny, he liked to party and boy, could he dance!

I choose to remember him as "Big Daddy", the nickname I gave him God knows when. It pleased him. He always referred to himself as "the red headed kid at the bar" even when his hair turned white.

Happy Birthday Big Daddy. Rest in peace.

Portrait of His Father by Cole Scott, Summer 2008

Theme Thursday Ghost

I am really late getting to this but, here I am. I knew when I read this week's TT theme, "Ghost", I would use my husband's photography. He has a section on his Flickr site called "...bump in the night".

Three of the four images are inspired by a great story or movie. The fourth image is...well, you'll have to decide what inspired that.

Marley's Ghost

Harry & Voldemort

Doc Brown's Assistant

Last Look

As you can see, my husband has a playful imagination. This is a self-portrait but the eyes are not his. To create a ghostly look, he used the eyes from one of my dolls. There he goes with the doll playing again. He gets more use from them than do I.

Elder Care Part 2

So it begins...

My father-in-law had a massive stroke Wednesday night. My mother-in-law found him the next morning lying near his bed. He must have been getting ready for bed when he collapsed. The time frame between the incident and the ambulance arrival was too long to administer the medicine they give stroke victims to minimize damage. That has to occur within 2-3 hours of the stroke. As such, he's in ICU. His CT shows damage to 25% of his brain. His right side appears to be paralyzed. For the past 48 hours he's been in and out of consciousness.

My 83 year old mother-in-law cannot take care of him if he survives nor can my husband and I. He will require skilled nursing round the clock. We will look to Medicare or Medicaid for assistance. With an uncertain prognosis, we have to prepare for any eventuality..

If he lives, he will be put in a private, nearby nursing home for the first 120 days. After that, we are told Medicaid kicks in and he'll be moved to a state run facility at least an hour or more from here. We know that scenario. It's the same everywhere. If you're lucky, the facility is clean and decent. The help is always questionable. There are many dedicated people who work in this field. There are also many not vetted and uncaring as well. I think of the many issues, the bedsores, the neglect, the cleanliness or lack thereof. It's depressing. Of course, if he rallies and can be rehabilitated, that's another scenario in itself.

If he dies, his 90 year old brother wants him buried in the family plot in Kentucky. We'll have to have him transported. Having been through this with my dad in '07, I know what caskets, preparation for the deceased, funeral services and transportation cost. My father wanted to be buried in a military cemetery several hundred miles from where he lived. His plot was paid for by the government thanks to his military service. Still, when it was all said and done, we spent almost $5000 for a modest casket, embalming and preparation for an open casket, services and transportation.

I haven't looked in to transportation to Kentucky but I know it will be sizable. The death industry is not cheap. It's a business. Many of these places manipulate the emotions of the surviving family. Just picking out a casket was an incredible experience. I did it online as I was 3000 miles away and had to make a decision before I got out there. Luckily, I did a good job with my brother's help. I think the more modest one we chose was at least $1200.00. It was perfectly nice but not fancy. I think the cheapest one was $400-$500 but I never saw it. We actually got a discount on the whole procedure. Weird.

My brother and I were in synch on pretty much everything. There was no family discord, only cooperation, and boy did that help. When siblings or remaining family members disagree, legal wranglings can occur, particularly if there is no medical power of attorney and durable power of attorney. Those are two of the most important documents to get from each member of the family. Something to show the hospital with regard to the wishes of the patient as well as who is the designated LEGAL decision maker in these matters. A living will also covers these things.

In the end, someone has to make the hard decisions.

Post Script: My husband just called from the hospital. His father opened his eyes and recognized him and seemed to understand his son when he was told "I love you." My husband's relief in getting to speak to and be understood by his father was palpable. I am so grateful.

P.S. #2: I started this train of thought in April with my post Elder Care.

In Memoriam

John W. Rober d. April 13, 2009

Images by Cole-Scott

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