Bell-issima

Several months ago, I promised my friends in Classical Bells that I would join them in the recording they were scheduled to make on October 19, out in a small recording studio in Ann Arbor.  A couple of times each year, they do  demo recordings for one of the larger publishers of handbell music.  This fall's batch of new tunes included a couple of  piano/bell combo pieces, so they asked if I'd do the piano parts. As is par for the course with Classical Bells, things always turn out to be more involved than you would expect.  Actually, that's just the nature of music in general.  So a gig that started out being just one easy piano piece, turned into one easy and one not so easy piano piece, plus "garbage bells" on first one, then two, then three bell pieces.  Then, Jim got involved on a piece where the bass bell ringers needed some extra muscle. 

But I'm not complaining.  Far from it, in fact.  Yesterday's rehearsal reminded me once again of the restorative power of music making.  Because I went in dragging my residual yoke of sadness, the one that seems perpetually tied to my shoulders, and came out with a definite spring in my step and a considerably lighter heart.  For the first time in a long time, I felt as if I were where I needed to be, doing what I was meant to do. 

And once again, I realized how important it is for everyone to have something they're passionate about.  For me, it's music.  For my friend Kim at work, it's running...and though I couldn't run  26 miles if my life depended on it, I understand her excitement about the marathon this weekend, the one she's been training for the past six months.  It's the same excitement I feel about preparing for a special concert, like the ones we did with the Detroit Symphony several years ago.  And it's the same sense of satisfaction and pride whether  you're crossing a finish line or listening to the last tones resounding in the air. 

Whether you're a musician, an artist, a writer, or an athlete, it's this passion, this sense of satisfaction, this feeling of all's right-ness, that helps us survive everything from the occasional boredom of everyday jobs to the searing pain of grief and loss. 

So I'm thankful for my moments of music, and thankful for the friends who invite me to share with them.

Bellisima.

Early Riser

Thump. The sound of Molly's four feet hitting the floor, jumping directly from the bed, her failure to use the miniature staircase placed beside it indicative of her emergency need for the backyard.

My eyes jolt open, and glance at the clock on the dresser.  4:11 a.m.

She trots urgently toward the back door, and I stumble along behind, my heart sinking as I feel my eyes opening wider and my mind begin to crank itself into gear.

There will likely be no more sleeping for me this morning.

Oh, I give it my best shot - attempting to woo myself back into sleep with hot chocolate Ovaltine and cinnamon toast.  I even heat up the microwaveable neck wrap, curling it around my neck as I crawl back into bed and prop myself up with lots of pillows.   I take up my book and read for an hour or so, finish another chapter at 5:23 and think I might just be able to close my eyes again, get another hour of sleep before the real wake up time arrives.   I turn out the light, curl up on my right side so that Magic can insert himself into his customary place beside me, and try to fall back asleep.

No dice.

Admitting defeat, I get up and make coffee.

I'm also admitting to some difficulty getting my life in gear this week.   Topping off the trauma of the past couple of weeks is the fact that I'm still getting sorted in my new work routine.   This business of leaving for the office every day at 9 am and not getting home until nearly 6 pm is new for me.  So while I'm in the process of grieving for my aunt, I'm also faced with grieving the loss of more than half my personal freedom.   

And I'm not liking it so much.

I miss having mornings to walk the dogs and go for coffee afterward.  I miss spending an hour or two writing after breakfast.  I miss practicing piano until lunchtime and then eating my sandwich at the kitchen table with a book for company.  I miss the afternoon shopping trips with my mom, and stopping at Panera on the way home for coffee and a danish, and feel guilty about spending less time with her as I know she's grieving these days too.

And it's silly perhaps, but I think about all the days now that I won't get to spend with Magic and Molly, and I jealously watch them grow more attached to Jim because he's the one here with them all day while I'm the absent figure who comes home exhausted and desultorily throws the ball a couple of times before collapsing on the couch to watch television.

I find myself thinking more and more of the broad spectrum, the long term picture, because I've learned this summer how fleeting the happier moments of life can be, how very fragile life itself really is.  I'm angry at circumstances which force me into this position, angry that when my boss pulls one of her little power trips on me I don't have the luxury of saying fuck-you-and-your-little-job-too.  I'm angry about thrusting myself back into life with all it's busy-ness before I"ve had a chance to properly come to terms with yet another loss, angry that the modern world expects us to simply pick up and carry on as if nothing ever happened. 

Ultimately, I'm just tired of feeling that life is out of my control, because you all  know  how much I need to be in control. 

All this and it's only 6:00 in the morning.

I have a feeling it will be a very long day.

Refresh

It rained sporadically all morning, a fine, needle like mist that pelted my cheeks as I dashed from the house to the car.  We spent the morning at my aunt's house, searching for paperwork (house deeds, car titles, insurance policies...)  We found instead a marriage certificate, signed with a flourish by Justice of the Peace Anthony Owen, on November 15, 1947.  We also found an (incredibly small looking!) uniform shirt, US Air Force, circa 1943, and a pair of purple silks such as a boxer might wear into the ring.  There was a box filled with patchwork quilt squares, ready for my aunt's Wednesday morning quilting group to piece into one of the many beautiful bed coverings they made back in the 1960's.  And a class ring, again incredibly small, threaded through a delicate chain so it could be worn as a necklace.  When we emerged from this time warp, the sun had come out.  The maple leaves sparkled with glints of gold, and raindrops perched on their tips like diamond earrings.  There was a freshness to the air and a similar lightness in my heart, as if the rain had washed away the gloom and sadness which had permeated the past two weeks.  I could see light at the end of this tunnel at last.

My challenge emotionally  for the coming months is to pull myself out of the melancholy pit I've been lingering in for most of the summer, seek out opportunities for happiness and indulge in them, refuse to allow myself to get drawn any deeper into self-pity and fearfulness and worry.   It's a bit like hitting the refresh button on the computer keyboard...the same page will come back on the screen, but with the newest, most up-to-date information.  The basic facts of my life aren't going to change right now...there is fresh loss and grief, uncertainty about the future, more work to do...but mainly there is still life, and people who love me.  There are dogs to cuddle and take for a walk, music to play, and books to be read.  There are vistas of red and gold maple leaves, cool autumn breezes,  hot coffee and fresh baked cinnamon rolls for the morning.

A dear friend  sent me a card in the mail that reads...

There's no doubt this is hard.  There are questions, "what ifs."  Hurts, doubts, regrets...

But I know you.

I know you've come through hard times before, and you'll come through this one, too.

And what's more,

I know you'll be even stronger for it -

deeper in understanding and even more certain of your good place in this world.

Today I caught a glimmer of light at the end of this long tunnel, a moment of certainty that there was still a good place in the world.

And I was refreshed.

Another One Gone

On Saturday night, about 11: 15 p.m., my aunt quite peacefully stopped breathing.  There were six people hovering around her bedside - I wasn't one of them, for I had told her goodbye earlier in the afternoon and gone home.  I knew when I left that I wouldn't see her again, but the hospice nurse told us that most often people prefer to die alone, and will often "linger" in hopes of being able to do just that.  But there were surprising numbers of people who wanted to be at her bedside - relatives, close friends, even casual acquaintances, who seemed bound and determined to insert themselves into her final hours.  I didn't feel the need to compete for her attention, or to try and hold her back on this journey.  She was ready to go, and I was ready to let her leave.  Yesterday afternoon we buried her next to her husband, so they are "together forever" as it says on their newly minted grave marker.  (We will have to leave it to God to decide whether that is reward or punishment for them.)  This picture of her was taken in 1946, not long before they eloped to Bowling Green, Ohio, on a chilly November afternoon.  Like most young couples of their time, they were full of the optimism and hope erupting from the end of  that long war.  And they would definitely have said they achieved the American dream as it was defined in those days.  My uncle, a poor Mexican boy from Texas, got a college education and a professional position.  He earned enough money to buy his own home, wear good suits from Brooks Brothers, and drive Buicks and Cadillacs.  He retired with the security of a lifetime pension and healthcare, and the knowledge that his wife would be well taken care of even after his death. 

They never had children of their own, but there were all of us nieces and nephews to play with and spoil.  There was also a parade of neighbor children and the children of friends who were the beneficiaries of their generosity.  Although my aunt was rather opinionated and demanding, she somehow marshalled an army of loyal followers who were faithful to the bitter end.   She didn't give of herself unselfishly the way my mother does, but somehow she managed to inspire fierce devotion anyway. 

The end of a life - especially a long one -always inspires introspection, making one think about the mark you leave on the world, the possibilities fulfilled (and unfulfilled), the legacy left behind.   Each of us has one, some certainly larger and more impressive than others, but each one important and necessary in the grand scheme of life. 

"Honey, I just tried to do what the Lord wanted me to do," my aunt would say.  In her heart, she believed she followed her Higher Power. 

I suppose that's all any of us can do before we're gone.

Up for Air

How can one week feel so interminably long, yet at the same time pass in a mere heartbeat?  The world has continued to turn at its normal pace, while I feel stranded in the midst of a foreign and dangerous land, virtually drowning in a sea of emotions and impressions.  Will there ever be time to process all that has happened in my life during this week? The facts:  On Monday, after determining that the only remedy for my aunt's condition would be a major surgical procedure from which she would likely never recover, the decision was made to place her in hospice care.   The hospital has its own hospice unit, and on Monday afternoon she was wheeled directly into a spacious private room.   She has her pillows and favorite quilt from home, those intrusive tubes and IV's have been removed,  and she has been resting fairly comfortably since then.

Of course, those bare facts don't begin to scratch the surface of  the myriad  emotions which have pulled at me like the fiercest undertow.  The leaden resignation as I sign my name to DNR orders and hospice admittance papers.   The searing pain of walking into her home, her refuge from the world for the last 56 years, and knowing she'll never return.  The anger at a medical bureaucracy which saps the little strength I have left.  The frustration with other people who demonstrate such lack of awareness regarding the needs of the dying.  The weighty responsibility of managing her estate which is about to fall entirely on my tiny shoulders.

But most of all, of course, is the sadness, the sense of loss which has become so familiar to me in recent years as my elders have disappeared from my life one by one.  I feel like an infantryman watching his front line of defense mowed down before him, forced to continue marching onward into danger without their protection, guidance, or love. 

It is the love that I will miss the most, and in these past few days, I've realized just how much my aunt loved me.  It's hard to lose those people in the world who still see you as a perfect, shining star, with all the possibility you had as a child still dwelling within you.  

She has been completely lucid during all of this, and I've been visiting her early in the morning before any of her other friends and family come around.  I've had to ask some hard questions, things we didn't quite get around to taking care of this summer as we handled all the business related to my uncle's death. 

"I'm worried about you," she told me the other morning, her voice barely a whisper.

"You don't have to worry about me," I answered, trying hard to swallow the tears. 

"Well, I am," she insisted, in the soft southern drawl which seems to have become more pronounced since her illness. "Don't you cry for me.  You know this is what I wanted."

Yesterday afternoon the hospice nurse told us she had moved into the phase known as "actively dying."  I didn't need a nurse to tell me that, for I've become more familiar with the look of this process than I ever expected I would.  We can't rouse her anymore, and her inveterate talkativeness (which I admit could occasionally grate my last nerve) is now silenced for good. 

So I came home in the middle of the day for the first time in a week, hungry for a respite of normalcy.  I did some laundry and hung it on the line, letting the fresh autumn breeze whip it clean and free of wrinkles.  I sat on the porch and listened to the gentle chords of my wind chimes.  I took a walk with my dogs. 

Like a swimmer coming to the surface, I gulped in the sweet, fresh air, and tried to breathe.