April 16th, 2009: It’s been a couple of weeks since the last posting, a lapse of time that hasn’t happened since my visit to Southern California. Since getting my reprieve from Dr. Jahan, I have been settling into a cultivation of normal. This means going to work more hours each day, and the timing has worked well because I've started a reasonably large project. Also, I’ve been dealing with some pain management ups and downs for the first time in several months. As a result, I’ve decided to up my dosage of transdermal narcotics to take the edge off my discomfort.
A couple of weekends ago, my friend Dan Avshalomov was in town with his group, the American String Quartet. My friend David and I went to hear them at Hertz Hall on the Cal campus in Berkeley. The program opened with Haydn, progressed to Alban Berg and after the intermission moved to the Dvorak piano quintet with Menahem Pressler at the keyboard. What a wonderfully resonant piece; echoes of Schubert and lavish writing for all the instruments, particularly Dan’s viola. A wonderful afternoon followed by a visit backstage with the players after the concert.
During my visit with Dr. Jahan at the first of the month, an event occurred that may have repercussions. When he came into the clinic room for our visit, he was accompanied by a physician who introduced herself as visiting from Shanghai, China. “Oh,” I exclaimed, “I’ve always wanted to visit China, particularly your city. And also Beijing and Guilin and the Great Wall.” Without missing a beat, Dr. Jahan, piped up, “Don’t wait. Do it now. If that’s something that you really want to do, start planning and do it.” So I’ve been imagining my trip to China. At Passover this year, David and Judy Orzech talked about their China tour a few years ago and how much they enjoyed the three weeks that they were on the road (as well as on the water for the Yangtze River portion of the travel). That would be my ideal amount of time: three weeks. Details to follow as they unfold.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
April 4th, 2009: Over the weekend of March 28th and 29th, I was in Portland, Oregon where my family held a memorial service for my Mom. First, let me say that it was good to have a few weeks from the time of my Mom’s death at the first of the month to plan for her service. I’m glad that we didn’t have a funeral rushed by the conditions of her body after death. With the extra weeks, Betsy my sister had time to notify people, post the obituary and organize the memorial service. In the meantime, my dad developed pneumonia and Betsy also managed his stay at the hospital and then moved him to a convalescent home where his breathing and fluid retention could stabilize.
Betsy was great about sending drafts of memorial materials to me, but basically she did the heavy lifting for setting up the service. I'm in awe of the circumstances that side-lined me after almost 30 years of end-of-life care. This allowed my sister to step forth and do a great job in my Mom’s last days and in organizing the memorial.
I flew to Portland on Friday and my first task was to pick up my Mom’s ashes at the crematorium. It was my Mom’s wish to be interred in her family niche in Piedmont where she grew up. After much of a lifetime in Oregon, she returns to California. With the ashes in the trunk of my rental car, I stopped by the convalescent home to see my Dad for the first time in many months. When I walked into his room, he was asleep and a nurse came in to wake him up. I said, “Hey, good to see you Dad.” As he looked up at me, he said, “I don’t know who you are, but I recognize your voice.” “OK,” I said, “Whose voice is it?” And he replied, “You’re George.” Once identified, we had a good visit, and it felt to me that my Dad would be able to get through the rigors of the upcoming weekend. His voice was clear, he walked with a spring in his step and he was alert to his circumstances.
Then, I drove to the new Portland home of Kris and Darius Abbassi, the parents of my godson, Willem. In many ways, Willem provided the counterbalance to the rest of the weekend. At age a year and a half, he is just starting to explore this complex world. His mom and I took him for a long walk, and it was wonderful to watch Willem take all the time he wanted to look at a patch of moss, smell daphne flowers or whatever absorbed his attention. I had missed Willem a lot because his godmother Christine and I would visit him monthly when he lived in San Francisco. This was my first opportunity to see him since last August just before my hip replacement and the unexpected diagnosis of cancer that has changed my life.
On Saturday Betsy arrived in Portland and we both had lunch with Dad at his assisted living apartment complex. Since he’s been in the hospital or then a convalescent center for a couple of weeks, it was heartening to see his neighbors stop by our table in the dining room to welcome him back home. The community spirit of the place is strong, and it reassured me that my Dad would be surrounded by many people who cared for him as he works through the grief of my Mom’s death.
A couple of weeks earlier, Betsy and I decided to have a brief ceremony on Sunday morning where we would scatter some of my Mom’s ashes at the home where she had lived for 52 years. The house is still unoccupied after my parents moved last summer, so Betsy informed a the neighbors about the plans. What a surprise to drive my Dad to his old home and see about twenty neighbors and relatives waiting for us in the yard. We thanked everyone for showing up, and then I gave a brief speech about how much Mom loved living in her home, gardening and hosting her friends and neighbors for coffee and dinners over the years. I opened the container with the ashes and said that I would let my handful of her remains guide me to where they wanted to be placed. First I went to the pine tree that my Mom had shaped in a Japanese style, then the place in the yard where she sat under a leafy walnut tree during the summer. Finally, I took the last of her ashes to the garden where she cultivated raspberry canes. I hadn’t thought about it, but I realized that my Dad might want to participate. When I asked him, he seemed taken aback, but then willing. With his handful, he went to the same spot under the walnut tree where they had spent so many summer hours reading or visiting with friends. He said, “Ruth, you were so wonderful to all of us. We love you so much, and now we miss you. We miss you.” Then he threw the ashes high into the air and burst into tears.
In the couple of hours before the memorial service we had a family lunch: Betsy and her husband and daughter, Dad and me. Betsy’s son Christopher goes to school in Pullman, Washington and air travel had been canceled that morning due to snow. At the last minute, he was unable to join us and was definitely missed.
Then, off to St. Barnabas church which I attended all through childhood and high school. Due to my weight loss from the chemo, I was able to fit into a black suit that I’ve owned since the mid 70’s. When I checked to see what it looked like with a black satin tie, the overall impact was so dreadful that I decided on a tie with more color; something that my Mom would have enjoyed. Also, I had just started to appear in public without my cap since my hair is growing back. Dressed and ready, I went to the door of the church to greet people as they arrived. I knew most of the people but hadn’t seen most of them for decades. It was particularly moving for me to welcome my old childhood friend John Baker, who helped his 102 year old Dad navigate from the car to the church. Also there was Leonora Guinazzo my high school Spanish teacher who has been such an inspiration to me over the years.
The service was simple and effective, three hymns were sung, the gospel was read and then it was time for the speeches. I went first, and read the text that I posted on this blog on March 24th. It ranges across the span of my Mom’s life, and it was well balanced by Betsy’s eulogy which focused on the last days of my Mom’s life. She talked about what happened and who was there to help in all the many ways that help was needed. Then, the church deacon spoke about how Ruth had been her friend for many years; they’d played bridge together and developed bonds of affection and support that sustain and enrich so many women’s lives. I had heard my mom talk about her friend who had been ordained, but I had never met her before this ceremony of goodbye.
The reception afterward felt warm and vibrant: many people with many stories about Ruth. Clearly, she had warmed many lives with her interest and concern for each person. Two family members had traveled a long way to attend the service, so we had leisurely dinner afterward and then the day was over. Amazingly, my Dad had paced himself through the long day. I spent my final hour that night visiting with my hosts Kris and Darius, before getting up the next morning and returning home to San Francisco. Along with me, I’ve brought my Mom’s ashes. Right now, they are sitting on a Japanese chest in my living room. But in the next few weeks, I’ll drive them over to Oakland for interment in the family niche in Piedmont.
During the mid-eighties and the first half of the nineties, I attended many, many memorial services for friends who died of HIV. Each service was special just as each life was special. I have to say, I am proud and grateful for the ceremony that was held for my Mom. It was about her and the people who attended had clearly been touched by her love. Although I said goodbye to my Mom over the telephone, it still hasn’t hit me that she has died. It will. It just hasn’t happened yet.
Betsy was great about sending drafts of memorial materials to me, but basically she did the heavy lifting for setting up the service. I'm in awe of the circumstances that side-lined me after almost 30 years of end-of-life care. This allowed my sister to step forth and do a great job in my Mom’s last days and in organizing the memorial.
I flew to Portland on Friday and my first task was to pick up my Mom’s ashes at the crematorium. It was my Mom’s wish to be interred in her family niche in Piedmont where she grew up. After much of a lifetime in Oregon, she returns to California. With the ashes in the trunk of my rental car, I stopped by the convalescent home to see my Dad for the first time in many months. When I walked into his room, he was asleep and a nurse came in to wake him up. I said, “Hey, good to see you Dad.” As he looked up at me, he said, “I don’t know who you are, but I recognize your voice.” “OK,” I said, “Whose voice is it?” And he replied, “You’re George.” Once identified, we had a good visit, and it felt to me that my Dad would be able to get through the rigors of the upcoming weekend. His voice was clear, he walked with a spring in his step and he was alert to his circumstances.
Then, I drove to the new Portland home of Kris and Darius Abbassi, the parents of my godson, Willem. In many ways, Willem provided the counterbalance to the rest of the weekend. At age a year and a half, he is just starting to explore this complex world. His mom and I took him for a long walk, and it was wonderful to watch Willem take all the time he wanted to look at a patch of moss, smell daphne flowers or whatever absorbed his attention. I had missed Willem a lot because his godmother Christine and I would visit him monthly when he lived in San Francisco. This was my first opportunity to see him since last August just before my hip replacement and the unexpected diagnosis of cancer that has changed my life.
On Saturday Betsy arrived in Portland and we both had lunch with Dad at his assisted living apartment complex. Since he’s been in the hospital or then a convalescent center for a couple of weeks, it was heartening to see his neighbors stop by our table in the dining room to welcome him back home. The community spirit of the place is strong, and it reassured me that my Dad would be surrounded by many people who cared for him as he works through the grief of my Mom’s death.
A couple of weeks earlier, Betsy and I decided to have a brief ceremony on Sunday morning where we would scatter some of my Mom’s ashes at the home where she had lived for 52 years. The house is still unoccupied after my parents moved last summer, so Betsy informed a the neighbors about the plans. What a surprise to drive my Dad to his old home and see about twenty neighbors and relatives waiting for us in the yard. We thanked everyone for showing up, and then I gave a brief speech about how much Mom loved living in her home, gardening and hosting her friends and neighbors for coffee and dinners over the years. I opened the container with the ashes and said that I would let my handful of her remains guide me to where they wanted to be placed. First I went to the pine tree that my Mom had shaped in a Japanese style, then the place in the yard where she sat under a leafy walnut tree during the summer. Finally, I took the last of her ashes to the garden where she cultivated raspberry canes. I hadn’t thought about it, but I realized that my Dad might want to participate. When I asked him, he seemed taken aback, but then willing. With his handful, he went to the same spot under the walnut tree where they had spent so many summer hours reading or visiting with friends. He said, “Ruth, you were so wonderful to all of us. We love you so much, and now we miss you. We miss you.” Then he threw the ashes high into the air and burst into tears.
In the couple of hours before the memorial service we had a family lunch: Betsy and her husband and daughter, Dad and me. Betsy’s son Christopher goes to school in Pullman, Washington and air travel had been canceled that morning due to snow. At the last minute, he was unable to join us and was definitely missed.
Then, off to St. Barnabas church which I attended all through childhood and high school. Due to my weight loss from the chemo, I was able to fit into a black suit that I’ve owned since the mid 70’s. When I checked to see what it looked like with a black satin tie, the overall impact was so dreadful that I decided on a tie with more color; something that my Mom would have enjoyed. Also, I had just started to appear in public without my cap since my hair is growing back. Dressed and ready, I went to the door of the church to greet people as they arrived. I knew most of the people but hadn’t seen most of them for decades. It was particularly moving for me to welcome my old childhood friend John Baker, who helped his 102 year old Dad navigate from the car to the church. Also there was Leonora Guinazzo my high school Spanish teacher who has been such an inspiration to me over the years.
The service was simple and effective, three hymns were sung, the gospel was read and then it was time for the speeches. I went first, and read the text that I posted on this blog on March 24th. It ranges across the span of my Mom’s life, and it was well balanced by Betsy’s eulogy which focused on the last days of my Mom’s life. She talked about what happened and who was there to help in all the many ways that help was needed. Then, the church deacon spoke about how Ruth had been her friend for many years; they’d played bridge together and developed bonds of affection and support that sustain and enrich so many women’s lives. I had heard my mom talk about her friend who had been ordained, but I had never met her before this ceremony of goodbye.
The reception afterward felt warm and vibrant: many people with many stories about Ruth. Clearly, she had warmed many lives with her interest and concern for each person. Two family members had traveled a long way to attend the service, so we had leisurely dinner afterward and then the day was over. Amazingly, my Dad had paced himself through the long day. I spent my final hour that night visiting with my hosts Kris and Darius, before getting up the next morning and returning home to San Francisco. Along with me, I’ve brought my Mom’s ashes. Right now, they are sitting on a Japanese chest in my living room. But in the next few weeks, I’ll drive them over to Oakland for interment in the family niche in Piedmont.
During the mid-eighties and the first half of the nineties, I attended many, many memorial services for friends who died of HIV. Each service was special just as each life was special. I have to say, I am proud and grateful for the ceremony that was held for my Mom. It was about her and the people who attended had clearly been touched by her love. Although I said goodbye to my Mom over the telephone, it still hasn’t hit me that she has died. It will. It just hasn’t happened yet.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
April 2, 2009: After arriving home from my Mom’s memorial service in Portland, I went into a weird tailspin that centered on anxiety about my tumor. Basically, I felt like it was growing and that I no longer knew what to do to stop the growth. I had tried drastic amounts of chemo. I had veered to another extreme and lived on wheatgrass juice and raw vegan food to detoxify my body and help it heal. Yet I still experienced a daily fatigue that required a late afternoon nap. Then, from places in my mind that I hadn’t heard from yet, I realized that I could die from this tumor. It was as if I had not had that thought before, and it took over on Tuesday. I had waves of psychic shock focusing on “Das Ende.” The End. Had I finished my legal paper work? What to do with rugs and glass and furniture? No need to buy any new shirts for this summer; my task would be to get rid of my clothes. The End. No more event. Cancel subscriptions, etc.
While getting overwhelmed I realized that within a day’s time, I would talk with Dr. Jahan about the results of my scans from the previous week. That would do it, for sure. Then I’d really get the bad news. Plus, I hadn’t seen Dr. Jahan for two months, and I became convinced that he’d start taking my inventory about how I had walked away from treatment, etc. Well, I thought, I’ll just hide behind the fact that my Mom just died. No doctor can stand up against that. So, having put together my strategy of how I’d handle Dr. Jahan, I resumed having my dismal thoughts of dying soon. The culmination occurred over dinner with my friend Bob Currier where I said that I didn’t know how to combat my tumor. Given this lack of ability, I would die. Tears ran down my face. Dinner arrived. Bob listened carefully and reminded me that I was more than my tumor. Also, he reminded me that having a meditation practice was not inconsequential. Still, I felt like I had finally understood something simple and inevitable and dreadful: I would die soon enough.
I arrived at clinic and visited with Eileen prior to seeing Dr. Jahan. I summarized my feelings about the strength of the tumor’s grown and my own relative weakness. Eileen counseled patience and a day at a time. And then, we were in the clinic room and Dr. Jahan was coming through the door. He seemed happy and friendly like he wasn’t going to start out with an admonishment to start chemo right away. And, in fact, he did no such thing. Rather, he started by saying, “Your scan results are just amazing. I can’t believe it. There has been no tumor growth over the past two months. None. I am so surprised. I looked at the results really carefully. You must be doing something right.”
I was totally stunned, but managed to say, “I know nothing. That’s the last thing I expected to hear you say. It’s been feeling to me like that tumor has increased in size, especially toward the back of my groin.”
“Well, it hasn’t grown at all. Not a bit. Really, it’s quite extraordinary. In fact, I’d say you get a breather for a while. I don’t have anything to prescribe at this point. No reason to do chemo if your body is holding firm and the tumor isn’t growing. So I’m thinking that you should have more scans in three months.”
“Three months!” I gasped.
“Sure. I don’t want to wait too long. And if anything changes for the worse, more pain, any bleeding, let us know right away. In the meantime, keep doing what you’re doing.”
So that’s what happened to me as my scans were read on Wednesday. The tumor is not getting larger (nor has it gotten smaller). I do not have to wrap up my life in the next six months. Rather, I'll have time to live more with the cancer and do what I can to diminish it’s size as well as shrink it’s hold over my life. What a surprise.
For the first day, I didn’t really believe the good news. It wasn’t until I started telling people and saw their looks of astonishment and happiness that I began to understand that this was happening. Now, a day and a half later, it feels more real. I’ve had time to get used to the idea of living longer. I’ve started to imagine how I want to celebrate. What a week.
While getting overwhelmed I realized that within a day’s time, I would talk with Dr. Jahan about the results of my scans from the previous week. That would do it, for sure. Then I’d really get the bad news. Plus, I hadn’t seen Dr. Jahan for two months, and I became convinced that he’d start taking my inventory about how I had walked away from treatment, etc. Well, I thought, I’ll just hide behind the fact that my Mom just died. No doctor can stand up against that. So, having put together my strategy of how I’d handle Dr. Jahan, I resumed having my dismal thoughts of dying soon. The culmination occurred over dinner with my friend Bob Currier where I said that I didn’t know how to combat my tumor. Given this lack of ability, I would die. Tears ran down my face. Dinner arrived. Bob listened carefully and reminded me that I was more than my tumor. Also, he reminded me that having a meditation practice was not inconsequential. Still, I felt like I had finally understood something simple and inevitable and dreadful: I would die soon enough.
I arrived at clinic and visited with Eileen prior to seeing Dr. Jahan. I summarized my feelings about the strength of the tumor’s grown and my own relative weakness. Eileen counseled patience and a day at a time. And then, we were in the clinic room and Dr. Jahan was coming through the door. He seemed happy and friendly like he wasn’t going to start out with an admonishment to start chemo right away. And, in fact, he did no such thing. Rather, he started by saying, “Your scan results are just amazing. I can’t believe it. There has been no tumor growth over the past two months. None. I am so surprised. I looked at the results really carefully. You must be doing something right.”
I was totally stunned, but managed to say, “I know nothing. That’s the last thing I expected to hear you say. It’s been feeling to me like that tumor has increased in size, especially toward the back of my groin.”
“Well, it hasn’t grown at all. Not a bit. Really, it’s quite extraordinary. In fact, I’d say you get a breather for a while. I don’t have anything to prescribe at this point. No reason to do chemo if your body is holding firm and the tumor isn’t growing. So I’m thinking that you should have more scans in three months.”
“Three months!” I gasped.
“Sure. I don’t want to wait too long. And if anything changes for the worse, more pain, any bleeding, let us know right away. In the meantime, keep doing what you’re doing.”
So that’s what happened to me as my scans were read on Wednesday. The tumor is not getting larger (nor has it gotten smaller). I do not have to wrap up my life in the next six months. Rather, I'll have time to live more with the cancer and do what I can to diminish it’s size as well as shrink it’s hold over my life. What a surprise.
For the first day, I didn’t really believe the good news. It wasn’t until I started telling people and saw their looks of astonishment and happiness that I began to understand that this was happening. Now, a day and a half later, it feels more real. I’ve had time to get used to the idea of living longer. I’ve started to imagine how I want to celebrate. What a week.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
March 24, 2009: I plan to read this text at my Mom’s memorial service which will be held this Sunday, March 29th in Portland, Oregon. I'm excited about going up to the Northwest to honor my Mom and to have a chance to see family and friends at the service. Additionally, I’ll visit with Willem, my godson, and his parents Kris and Darius. Playing with a one and half year old will be a great counterbalance to delivering this well-deserved praise for my Mom. The rest of this blog entry is the draft of my speech.
******************************
I want to thank all of you for being here today to honor Ruth. I’m going to start by reading the last lines of Mary Oliver’s poem When Death Comes. My friend Ruthann sent me this poem at the time of my Mom’s death, and I had not read it before. The poem ends:
When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it is over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
I particularly like the final line: I don't want to end up simply having visited this world. I think that Ruth did not just visit this world. She loved striding into this world: meeting people and exploring cities. I remember being with Mom one day at the Frick Museum in NY. We were in the long picture gallery standing between the two huge Turners and she said, “Isn’t this great!” It was not a question. She meant appreciating the museum, being in NY, knowing each other, traveling together, being alive. She loved having lunch on Madison Avenue and going to the opera in Paris. Travel and people invigorated her.
She lived here with a fullness that I’d like to talk about now. Two basic gifts that Ruth gave to all of us were her love and her attention. The combination felt great. I can remember talking with her dozens of times, and while I was paying attention to our conversation, I was also observing, “Wow, she really knows how to listen.” Or, “She is sending me so much love as we’re talking.” From another perspective, I received a letter of condolence and appreciation from my friend since college, Ellen, who enjoyed a decades-long friendship with my Mom.
“I am so saddened to hear of your mother's passing. To experience the loss of one's mother, especially when she has been so loving and supportive, is difficult. Such a deep, deep loss--only our mother is interested in every single detail about us and our lives--what a great gift it was to you to be able to assume her unconditional love. Your mom was so kind, so bright, cultured, and interested in so many things. Her aura was so clear, allowing, and receptive. She enjoyed other people and accepted them in a gentle non-judgmental way. When I met her at age 19, I knew immediately she was not like any other adult woman I had known. I felt instantly comfortable with her--she was so receiving in a relaxed, un-pressured way. The home she created emanated calm and beauty to me, untutored as I was to things like red Persian rugs, Mozart on the stereo, Chinese furniture, large sunny windows looking out onto a garden. She created in that house an interior of great soul and that environment felt so nourishing and lovely.”
She goes on to say, “Your mother was a true Hestia woman, and the first I had ever met. Hestia women are shaped by the archetype of the goddess of the hearth. They are the heart of the home, creating a safe and warm refuge from the vicissitudes of the outer world. They are the ones who put flowers on the table and around the house, light a fire on a winter's evening, put on just the right music at the right moment, cook wonderful and interesting food, and love attending to their homes, not for status or to impress anyone, but to create beauty and a harmonious background for the comfort of the ones they love.”
“Your mom was the first adult woman of my mother's generation to invite me to do something with her when she took me to hear the Portland Symphony conducted by Stravinsky. She thought it the most natural thing in the world to invite a young woman up as a house guest and attend the symphony together, but to me it was extraordinary that she would choose me over someone her own age. In doing this, she seemed to be saying: ‘You are an interesting person to me, and I enjoy your company.’"
Thank you Ellen, for those well-remembered thoughts. I hope that everyone here today felt that from Ruth, “You are an interesting person to me, and I enjoy your company.”
Like all of us on planet earth, Ruth had work to do in her life. Having known her for over 60 years, I want to talk about three of the tasks that she took on to further her growth as an individual.
First, she learned to stand up for herself. I will always cherish a big step she took back in the early 1970’s. I was visiting at the house and asked her what was new. “Well,” she answered, “I did something last weekend that I’ve never done before.” When I asked what that was, she said, “I had friends over for dinner and we started talking about the war in Vietnam. One of the people at the table insisted that we had to stay there and win. And finally, he became so obnoxious that I asked him to leave. I mean leave the table and leave dinner and leave this house. I’ve never done that before.” When I praised her for standing up for what she believed, she replied, “It wasn’t that I disagreed with him. I could put up with that. It was that he wouldn’t tolerate any other point of view. It was his intolerance that I couldn’t stand. I didn’t want that in my home.” For a woman as gracious and kind as Ruth, it was a big stretch to also be able to stand up for her deepest values. She had to step through a lot of fear. Fear of not being nice. Fear of being punished for her beliefs. She learned to do this, and it was a big piece of work for her.
Also, Ruth’s life included some serious meditation on the meaning of her name. As a little girl she took to heart the story of Ruth traveling with Naomi to find food and a home. “Whither thou goest, I will go.” This promise to follow was acted out in Ruth’s life not with her mother-in-law, but with her husband George. The biggest test came after the end of WW II when George decided to move from California to Oregon. Ruth was initially appalled. She didn’t know anyone in Portland. All of her friends and her support system for raising a child were in the Bay Area where she’d grown up. Nevertheless, she moved with her husband. “Whither thou goest, I will go.” It was not easy. Her first house in Portland was cold, damp and home to an uncommon number of spiders. I can only imagine that she had moments when she wondered if her loyalty had betrayed her. However, she stayed and started to make friends. She traveled to the coast and discovered the beauty of the rocks and water. She explored the Columbia River Gorge and found Multnomah Falls. Along with friends, she learned to enjoy her new home by gardening. As she cultivated plants, she became more grounded, more attached. What she learned from this was that she could have a fine and rewarding life in more than one place. As years passed, she became more admiring of Oregon, and especially Portland. She flourished with each visit to the Art Museum, each play and symphony and opera.
Finally, I want to honor the defining grief of Ruth’s life, the death of her first born daughter, Patricia Ann. A few weeks after my birth Patty was diagnosed with childhood leukemia and she died shortly after that. It was a painful and miserable experience to watch her three year old daughter die. The doctor’s visits were grueling and disappointing and they resulted in a young life ended. Ruth grieved for a long time. She learned to accept the loss, but the mystery remained with her. She always felt the concurrence of Patty’s existence in another dimension. Occasionally, she spoke about it. One October 15th at dinner Mom announced, “Patty would have been 47 today. I wonder what she’d be like at 47?” Or another time, “I had a dream about Patty last night. She was just fine. She was older, but it was her.” On the occasion of this memorial service, I want to thank Patty for compelling my mother to face death and to learn to peer through death into life after. Patty was the guide who led my mother into her spiritual growth. My own sense is that Patty was right there during Ruth’s final hours and helped reassure her during the time when she left her body. After some initial re-orientation, my Mother got to ask the question that she’d been wondering for over sixty years, “Why did you leave so early?” And she was able to do this with the person most able to answer. Then, a missing piece of Ruth’s life was resolved and completed. And she understood even more.
Thank you, all of you, for being here today. Thank you for being part of Ruth’s life and for being open to receive the love that she so generously gave.
******************************
I want to thank all of you for being here today to honor Ruth. I’m going to start by reading the last lines of Mary Oliver’s poem When Death Comes. My friend Ruthann sent me this poem at the time of my Mom’s death, and I had not read it before. The poem ends:
When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it is over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
I particularly like the final line: I don't want to end up simply having visited this world. I think that Ruth did not just visit this world. She loved striding into this world: meeting people and exploring cities. I remember being with Mom one day at the Frick Museum in NY. We were in the long picture gallery standing between the two huge Turners and she said, “Isn’t this great!” It was not a question. She meant appreciating the museum, being in NY, knowing each other, traveling together, being alive. She loved having lunch on Madison Avenue and going to the opera in Paris. Travel and people invigorated her.
She lived here with a fullness that I’d like to talk about now. Two basic gifts that Ruth gave to all of us were her love and her attention. The combination felt great. I can remember talking with her dozens of times, and while I was paying attention to our conversation, I was also observing, “Wow, she really knows how to listen.” Or, “She is sending me so much love as we’re talking.” From another perspective, I received a letter of condolence and appreciation from my friend since college, Ellen, who enjoyed a decades-long friendship with my Mom.
“I am so saddened to hear of your mother's passing. To experience the loss of one's mother, especially when she has been so loving and supportive, is difficult. Such a deep, deep loss--only our mother is interested in every single detail about us and our lives--what a great gift it was to you to be able to assume her unconditional love. Your mom was so kind, so bright, cultured, and interested in so many things. Her aura was so clear, allowing, and receptive. She enjoyed other people and accepted them in a gentle non-judgmental way. When I met her at age 19, I knew immediately she was not like any other adult woman I had known. I felt instantly comfortable with her--she was so receiving in a relaxed, un-pressured way. The home she created emanated calm and beauty to me, untutored as I was to things like red Persian rugs, Mozart on the stereo, Chinese furniture, large sunny windows looking out onto a garden. She created in that house an interior of great soul and that environment felt so nourishing and lovely.”
She goes on to say, “Your mother was a true Hestia woman, and the first I had ever met. Hestia women are shaped by the archetype of the goddess of the hearth. They are the heart of the home, creating a safe and warm refuge from the vicissitudes of the outer world. They are the ones who put flowers on the table and around the house, light a fire on a winter's evening, put on just the right music at the right moment, cook wonderful and interesting food, and love attending to their homes, not for status or to impress anyone, but to create beauty and a harmonious background for the comfort of the ones they love.”
“Your mom was the first adult woman of my mother's generation to invite me to do something with her when she took me to hear the Portland Symphony conducted by Stravinsky. She thought it the most natural thing in the world to invite a young woman up as a house guest and attend the symphony together, but to me it was extraordinary that she would choose me over someone her own age. In doing this, she seemed to be saying: ‘You are an interesting person to me, and I enjoy your company.’"
Thank you Ellen, for those well-remembered thoughts. I hope that everyone here today felt that from Ruth, “You are an interesting person to me, and I enjoy your company.”
Like all of us on planet earth, Ruth had work to do in her life. Having known her for over 60 years, I want to talk about three of the tasks that she took on to further her growth as an individual.
First, she learned to stand up for herself. I will always cherish a big step she took back in the early 1970’s. I was visiting at the house and asked her what was new. “Well,” she answered, “I did something last weekend that I’ve never done before.” When I asked what that was, she said, “I had friends over for dinner and we started talking about the war in Vietnam. One of the people at the table insisted that we had to stay there and win. And finally, he became so obnoxious that I asked him to leave. I mean leave the table and leave dinner and leave this house. I’ve never done that before.” When I praised her for standing up for what she believed, she replied, “It wasn’t that I disagreed with him. I could put up with that. It was that he wouldn’t tolerate any other point of view. It was his intolerance that I couldn’t stand. I didn’t want that in my home.” For a woman as gracious and kind as Ruth, it was a big stretch to also be able to stand up for her deepest values. She had to step through a lot of fear. Fear of not being nice. Fear of being punished for her beliefs. She learned to do this, and it was a big piece of work for her.
Also, Ruth’s life included some serious meditation on the meaning of her name. As a little girl she took to heart the story of Ruth traveling with Naomi to find food and a home. “Whither thou goest, I will go.” This promise to follow was acted out in Ruth’s life not with her mother-in-law, but with her husband George. The biggest test came after the end of WW II when George decided to move from California to Oregon. Ruth was initially appalled. She didn’t know anyone in Portland. All of her friends and her support system for raising a child were in the Bay Area where she’d grown up. Nevertheless, she moved with her husband. “Whither thou goest, I will go.” It was not easy. Her first house in Portland was cold, damp and home to an uncommon number of spiders. I can only imagine that she had moments when she wondered if her loyalty had betrayed her. However, she stayed and started to make friends. She traveled to the coast and discovered the beauty of the rocks and water. She explored the Columbia River Gorge and found Multnomah Falls. Along with friends, she learned to enjoy her new home by gardening. As she cultivated plants, she became more grounded, more attached. What she learned from this was that she could have a fine and rewarding life in more than one place. As years passed, she became more admiring of Oregon, and especially Portland. She flourished with each visit to the Art Museum, each play and symphony and opera.
Finally, I want to honor the defining grief of Ruth’s life, the death of her first born daughter, Patricia Ann. A few weeks after my birth Patty was diagnosed with childhood leukemia and she died shortly after that. It was a painful and miserable experience to watch her three year old daughter die. The doctor’s visits were grueling and disappointing and they resulted in a young life ended. Ruth grieved for a long time. She learned to accept the loss, but the mystery remained with her. She always felt the concurrence of Patty’s existence in another dimension. Occasionally, she spoke about it. One October 15th at dinner Mom announced, “Patty would have been 47 today. I wonder what she’d be like at 47?” Or another time, “I had a dream about Patty last night. She was just fine. She was older, but it was her.” On the occasion of this memorial service, I want to thank Patty for compelling my mother to face death and to learn to peer through death into life after. Patty was the guide who led my mother into her spiritual growth. My own sense is that Patty was right there during Ruth’s final hours and helped reassure her during the time when she left her body. After some initial re-orientation, my Mother got to ask the question that she’d been wondering for over sixty years, “Why did you leave so early?” And she was able to do this with the person most able to answer. Then, a missing piece of Ruth’s life was resolved and completed. And she understood even more.
Thank you, all of you, for being here today. Thank you for being part of Ruth’s life and for being open to receive the love that she so generously gave.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
March 22, 2009: The past week has been full of transitional insecurities for me. I’ve felt a lot of fear that my tumor is growing, then I feel reassured that it has been shrinking. Truth is, it’s hard to tell by touching it from the outside of my body what’s going on. Tomorrow, I go into clinic and get a PT and MRI scan to determine what the tumors have been doing for the past two months. Then, on April 1st, I’ll meet with Dr. Jahan to go over the results.
The hardest part of not knowing for me happens when I go into fear. I fear that the tumor is growing and that I’ll have to resume chemo which has been so hard on my body. Ouch, I don’t want to do that again. But I’m also committed to taking care of myself and don’t want to rule out chemo as possible ally. Back and forth until my thinking process is the most immediate problem. That became the turning point this week for me. I finally stopped and re-centered myself. I did this by meditating and getting grounded. Once that happened, I was better. I remembered that I have options. I remembered that there are many types of chemo. I remembered that I make choices one at a time. I remembered that I can ask friends for advice and council.
The other big event this week involved drafting the speech that I’ll give at my Mom’s memorial service next weekend in Portland. I used part of a poem that my friend Ruthann sent to me and text that my friend Ellen had written recalling her memories of my Mom. The sentiments were so clear and lovely, that I thought, “Why try to improve on this?” Also, I talked about ways that my Mom had grown in her life and how much I admired that growth. Although she was a warm, loving woman who made friends easily, my Mom also had hurdles to overcome and fears to navigate over the years. I wanted to honor the work she did that caused her to grow as an individual. Turned out that this was a deeply rewarding exercise, and I’ll post the text on the blog in the next few days, since many of you will not be at the service.
This has not been an easy time, but out of it came the simple reminder of how to stay centered.
The hardest part of not knowing for me happens when I go into fear. I fear that the tumor is growing and that I’ll have to resume chemo which has been so hard on my body. Ouch, I don’t want to do that again. But I’m also committed to taking care of myself and don’t want to rule out chemo as possible ally. Back and forth until my thinking process is the most immediate problem. That became the turning point this week for me. I finally stopped and re-centered myself. I did this by meditating and getting grounded. Once that happened, I was better. I remembered that I have options. I remembered that there are many types of chemo. I remembered that I make choices one at a time. I remembered that I can ask friends for advice and council.
The other big event this week involved drafting the speech that I’ll give at my Mom’s memorial service next weekend in Portland. I used part of a poem that my friend Ruthann sent to me and text that my friend Ellen had written recalling her memories of my Mom. The sentiments were so clear and lovely, that I thought, “Why try to improve on this?” Also, I talked about ways that my Mom had grown in her life and how much I admired that growth. Although she was a warm, loving woman who made friends easily, my Mom also had hurdles to overcome and fears to navigate over the years. I wanted to honor the work she did that caused her to grow as an individual. Turned out that this was a deeply rewarding exercise, and I’ll post the text on the blog in the next few days, since many of you will not be at the service.
This has not been an easy time, but out of it came the simple reminder of how to stay centered.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
March 17, 2009: Although I had a lot to do every day at OHI, I also had time to rest and reflect on my health. Twice a day, I spent time in my room with a poultice of wheat grass pulp placed over the tumor. During this time, I would go to my healing center where I had previously received many helpers—animal, vegetable and immaterial—to aid my healing. In Southern California, I used my healing center in a different manner. During a guided meditation shortly after I arrived at OHI, I connected with a Chinese healer named Wing Lee. Wing’s specialty was doing hands on work with the tumor. Every morning before exercise and in the afternoon before yoga, I would take a handful of wheatgrass pulp and place it over my tumor. Then, I would go into a trance and invoke Wing Lee. Together we would talking with the tumor or imagining it shrinking. After about a week, I noticed that the tumor could no longer be felt on top of my pubic bone. Clearly, there was movement and change happening.
Two weeks into this process, I altered the work with Wing Lee to include actually going inside my tumor and sitting there. What did the tumor feel like from the inside? Did it have anything to say to me? What did I want to say to the tumor? Initially, sitting inside the tumor felt like being in a small room with dark purplish red walls. It was very quiet. There was a small amount of light, just enough to see my hands in front of my face. It felt like the tumor was resting after the assaults from three rounds of chemo. Finally, I spoke to it, saying, “We’re not going to be together for too much longer, so I’d like to summarize what I’ve learned from you.” No response from the tumor although I could tell that it had heard me.
What happened next and continued over the following few days was that I started to review the lessons I’d learned from the tumor. There have been many, and they include:
1) Learning to stay in my body. An aftermath of being molested was that I felt unsafe in my body. Scary things had happened that I couldn’t control, and I became dissociated from myself. I lived this way most of my life. After decades of not having me present, this tumor is a way that my body protests my absence. So, how do I stay in my body? First, I have had to learn how to recognize when I am dissociating. Then, I can start to bring myself back. Here's what I've developed in the past weeks: I imagine that my attention and my presence are attached to the bottom of my torso with a large button. When this attachment happens, I am located in my physical self. There’s a sensation throughout my head, neck, chest, abdomen and pelvis that I am present. Present means that I am more aware of my feelings and my immediate sensations. Sounds simple, but it has taken me a lot of work to achieve this, and I have the rest of my lifetime to stay in practice.
2) Accepting that I have harbored a lot of anger for a long time. Again, being molested enraged me. I didn’t like it. I didn’t want it to be happening. I didn’t know how to make it stop. Since I lived as a child with the person who molested me and the issue was never discussed, healed or resolved, I sat with my initial feelings for literally decades. The tumor helps me to focus on what happened and that I need to continue to take care of myself and my feelings.
I’m sure there are other reasons and lessons that will continue to reveal themselves as I do more work to get rid of the cancer.
To catch you up on what’s happening medically, my friend Eileen and I met with my primary caregiver, Dr. Capaldini last Thursday and we discussed my current state of health and my upcoming visit with Dr. Jahan. Basically, I feel a lot better after returning from Optimum Health. My fatigue is less, although I still have to deal with it on a daily basis. Next Monday, March 23rd, I go to UCSF for another round of PT and MRI scans. Then, on April 1st, Eileen Lemus and I will meet with Dr. Jahan to review the results of the scans. From everything I can tell, there has been tumor shrinkage over the pubic bone. Also, the tumor has definitely changed shape in the middle of my pelvis. I hope that the rest and relaxation has given my body the boost it needs to heal itself. Typically, I don’t hear about the results of the scans until I’m in the doctor’s office, so I won’t know anything until April 1st.
Prior to that, I plan to be in Portland, Oregon on the last weekend in March for my Mom’s memorial service. We are planning to celebrate her life at St. Barnabas Church, where she was a member of the congregation for over fifty years. There will be an Episcopal service and my sister, and I will both speak about knowing Mom through the course of our lives. I have to say, I am looking forward to speaking and honoring my Mom. She was a really fine, loving woman and there will be a lot that I want to say to thank her.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
March 11, 2009: Before I completely settle back into work and my normal routine in San Francisco, I want to review what happened during my three weeks at the Optimal Health Institute. First, there was a surprising amount of physical activity every day. My morning started with a vigorous, hour-long work out including a mile walk as well as exercises designed to wake the body and release toxins. Then, late afternoon, there was a yoga class that I attended regularly. The combination of these two classes kept me alert throughout the day.
Other basic routines were meals—three them, all vegan and all raw food—and classes. Meals were communal and could be eaten outdoors on most days since the weather in San Diego in late February was usually warm and balmy. Meals were a chance to visit with other people at the Institute, to get to know who they were and why they had come to OHI. The socializing aspect of the place really worked for me. I met people that I liked very much and plan to stay in touch with. The classes delivered well-organized information about nutrition, diet and digestion as well as breathing techniques and helpful guidelines to bring all of this new material home for regular consumption. The teaching staff at OHI are gifted at presenting their materials, and clearly, they believe in the virtues of wheatgrass juice and a green diet.
Also, there were programs for massage, colonics and chiropractic healing. I didn’t use the chiropractic services but I did have my first colonic treatments and found them effective for getting rid of toxins. The massage program was run by a woman named Evangeline, and I really connected with her. If I were to give her a title, it would be: Touch Intuitive. After a half hour of invigorating massage, Evangeline would then move into an hour of highly perceptive questioning about life issues. In my case, we started talking about my cancer then moved into my early childhood molestation and how the two issues were related. It was very helpful to have Evangeline’s insights during the last two weeks of my stay which covered the time of my Mom’s stroke through the time of her death. Her advice was consistently supportive and pertinent.
On weekends, I enjoyed leaving the compound and exploring around San Diego. The first weekend, I went to the Del Coronado and spent a couple of hours walking along the spectacular beach in front of the old hotel. The next two weekends, I spent at the San Diego Zoo. Normally, I avoid zoos. The confinement and captivity depresses and annoys me, so I just stay away. But in San Diego, the zoo has been embedded in a huge botanical park with enormous, healthy plants. It was like being in an arboretum with exotic animals. I had never seen pandas until my visit there a couple of weeks ago. The sheer variety of interesting critters: raptors, tigers, all manner of feral pigs, gazelles, elephants, flamingos and more was startling and invigorating.
Externally, I felt well served by OHI and the general San Diego area. It’s certainly a different eco zone than the Bay Area as witnessed by the lavish number of palm trees and varieties of eucalyptus that I’d never seen before. Internally, the trip was very timely. I needed to lie in the sun and rest and meet new people and have silent time away from home. More than I had realized previously, the chemo really axed me over the past three months. It had been brutal, but with my almost pathological ability to normalize the abnormal, I had simply weathered through the monthly hospital stays and the aftermath of nausea and fatigue. In the sun in Southern California, I had a chance to appreciate how much the chemo took from me and how much I needed to rebalance.
Other basic routines were meals—three them, all vegan and all raw food—and classes. Meals were communal and could be eaten outdoors on most days since the weather in San Diego in late February was usually warm and balmy. Meals were a chance to visit with other people at the Institute, to get to know who they were and why they had come to OHI. The socializing aspect of the place really worked for me. I met people that I liked very much and plan to stay in touch with. The classes delivered well-organized information about nutrition, diet and digestion as well as breathing techniques and helpful guidelines to bring all of this new material home for regular consumption. The teaching staff at OHI are gifted at presenting their materials, and clearly, they believe in the virtues of wheatgrass juice and a green diet.
Also, there were programs for massage, colonics and chiropractic healing. I didn’t use the chiropractic services but I did have my first colonic treatments and found them effective for getting rid of toxins. The massage program was run by a woman named Evangeline, and I really connected with her. If I were to give her a title, it would be: Touch Intuitive. After a half hour of invigorating massage, Evangeline would then move into an hour of highly perceptive questioning about life issues. In my case, we started talking about my cancer then moved into my early childhood molestation and how the two issues were related. It was very helpful to have Evangeline’s insights during the last two weeks of my stay which covered the time of my Mom’s stroke through the time of her death. Her advice was consistently supportive and pertinent.
On weekends, I enjoyed leaving the compound and exploring around San Diego. The first weekend, I went to the Del Coronado and spent a couple of hours walking along the spectacular beach in front of the old hotel. The next two weekends, I spent at the San Diego Zoo. Normally, I avoid zoos. The confinement and captivity depresses and annoys me, so I just stay away. But in San Diego, the zoo has been embedded in a huge botanical park with enormous, healthy plants. It was like being in an arboretum with exotic animals. I had never seen pandas until my visit there a couple of weeks ago. The sheer variety of interesting critters: raptors, tigers, all manner of feral pigs, gazelles, elephants, flamingos and more was startling and invigorating.
Externally, I felt well served by OHI and the general San Diego area. It’s certainly a different eco zone than the Bay Area as witnessed by the lavish number of palm trees and varieties of eucalyptus that I’d never seen before. Internally, the trip was very timely. I needed to lie in the sun and rest and meet new people and have silent time away from home. More than I had realized previously, the chemo really axed me over the past three months. It had been brutal, but with my almost pathological ability to normalize the abnormal, I had simply weathered through the monthly hospital stays and the aftermath of nausea and fatigue. In the sun in Southern California, I had a chance to appreciate how much the chemo took from me and how much I needed to rebalance.
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