How Can I Talk To You?

I don't know how to talk to you. I don't think I ever knew.

We can rhapsodize about music and art and pedagogy. We can enter into intellectual, philosphical debates about everything under the sun. We can challenge, question, and agree or disagree about all of it. We feed from this discourse, our blood and our thoughts and our passions pump through us, invigorating and sustaining us. We are alive, and we are together.

But when it comes to me, the way I live my life, the choices and the paths I take, we look at eachother like strangers. We speak different languages. Our biorhythms clash. Our faces and feelings become alien. Judgement and fear and regret pound our beings so hard, we can barely find our footing. We lose the ground. We lose eachother.

And we don't know what to do. We don't have a clue.

I came to you with news--great news, I thought. News that excited me and represented change, hope for a future more in-line with who I am and who I want to be. I came to you, eager to share and rejoice in the possibility of the unknown. I came to you, for the first time, as an equal, as the friendly confidant and companion I've always hoped we could become. But you tore me down.

The voice I heard was full of worry and condescention. The words and the questions were not of support, not one of them, but of criticism and fear of failure. Your viewpoint was so far away from mine, so unwilling to meet me where I needed you.

I immediately jumped the fence, becoming defensive and emotional. I became the angry teenager, stomping down the hallway and slamming the door twice just to be sure you heard it.

I hung up the phone disillusioned, disappointed, hurt. You hung up the phone in tears. I called to create a connection, a bond I've rarely felt with you, and I hung up farther down that hallway than ever.

I want--I need--you to see me as a capable adult. I need you to let me make my own mistakes, regardless of what you've learned or experienced in your life. I need you to believe that I will be okay and I will make a life worth living. I need you to care about me, but not doubt me. I need you to realize that you might not have all the answers, you might not know everything about what is right for me. I need you to let me go.

I thought you said I could do anything I wanted, be anything I wanted. I thought you said I was special.

Then why, the first time I've EVER stepped out of my comfort zone--both in my life and in my communications with you--did you stomp all over my dreams? Why couldn't you, for once, tell me that the universe would support me and allow for magic to arrive, finally, after long last? Why couldn't you be a cheerleader for my happiness and fulfillment, not the dollar amount on a paycheck? Why?

Maybe you never actually said that I could do anything, be anything. Maybe it was a figment of my imagination. Or maybe you said it, but never really believed it.

And that lack of faith, that skepticism, is something I do not and will not accept. It is something I do not, will not understand.

This is why I don't know how to talk to you. This is why I choose not to.

It is simple.  It is true.

It is the living, breathing mushy stuff.

It's a solid "me and you."

Two hearts pumping and beating together.

It's as simple as "I love you."

This letter preceded a collection of writings through my past (they can be found under The Familia link).  A Christmas gift, I chose pieces from different points in my recent journeys, pieces that I think this person might appreciate more than some.  My intent--to let her in a little more.  I just hope she receives them the way I think she will.

Consider this another (or the first official) letter of my Letter Project!!

Saturday, December 20th, 2008

________,

When I picked your name last year, I was ecstatic. Not just because I thought shopping for you would be easy, but because I figured I could take the opportunity to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and my family since you entered our lives. But as I began thinking about what I could get you to show such profound gratitude, I came up empty.

There really are no physical things to say thank you from the heart. Finding an object to give as a gift, however beautiful or thoughtful, does not truly accomplish the task. The thing is, there really are no words to portray this feeling, either. And it is here that I stumble on a paradox, the paradox, in fact, of my life.

As an artist, a dancer, a writer, a poet, a teacher, a student of life, I am constantly trying to find a way to experience and express the inexpressible. I go through each experience in real time and then in dreamtime. I analyze and cry and think and laugh and feel my way through the stepping-stones of my life. Sometimes I make things more complicated than they need to be. Sometimes I find a way to see each piece of my puzzle, good and bad, in a new and more meaningful way. Sometimes I realize I need this part of me to survive—I need to dive into the ephemeral energy, the enigmatic space, and I need to flit, or trudge, my way out of it.

And I have done this for as long as I can remember.

When you came into our lives, I was doing just that. In fact, I have been doing just that for the past four years. Who am I kidding? I will probably be doing this for as long as I live. But what I want to share with you is a slice of that journey. I have been working my way into adulthood, and I’d like you to see some of it.

Why? Because you have always inspired me. You have never judged me. You have never made me feel like I had to be a perfect person. You have accepted me as I am and have encouraged me to grow into the woman I know I can be. When we spend time together, I am invigorated. When I am down, you know how to help me. You have selflessly thrown yourself into the morass of our family. You have helped me see that I am stronger and more forgiving than I think I am. For all of this and so much more, I will say the words that never seem to say enough: thank you.

Here are a few more: Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Peace Be With You. And most importantly, I love you.

...As if through the black and white flicker of his old film projector splashing the past across the walls, showing footage of my father and uncle when they were babies, toddlers, and teenagers, I saw my grandfather's very own life mythology flash before my eyes...

"Good things happen to good people like you and me."

To my Gramps. One of the loves of my life.

This eulogy, from Russell L. Grinold’s funeral services on Saturday, September 27th, 2008, was written and delivered by his granddaughter, Tina M. Grinold.

Good morning.

Or, as my grandfather would say, “Hello, hello, said the man with two heads.” He would then follow either by asking how I was or by cracking a sly joke and then asking how I was. Nodding, listening closely, his eyes would sparkle, beautifully magnified by those big old bifocals he wore. And as I spoke, I could tell how genuinely he cared about what I was saying, how genuinely he wanted to make me laugh. With arms crossed and heart open, he’d say, “I see…said the blind man, as he picked up his hammer and saw.” He would look at me in that impish, mischievous way; his laugh would rumble up from the depths of his being; and at that moment I knew…all was right with the world. No matter where we were, as long as we were together, my grandfather made me feel at home.

My grandfather was a beautiful contradiction. He was a living, breathing paradox. He was a tough guy and a softy. He maintained control out on the streets and relinquished control in the kitchen. He was an enforcer and a supporter. He set rules. He followed rules. And he knew how to break them. He had German Shepherds and Beagles. He was a dog and a cat person. He loved Cadillacs and he loved pansies.

My grandfather embodied the phrase “tough love.” In a way, I see his life’s journey as a progression from the “tough” to the “love.” And in looking at that progression, in looking at who he was, through and through, I am learning more about me and who I want to be.

In my mind, my gramps represents an era that I never knew and could never fully understand. He is a time capsule showing me pieces from my family’s past and my country’s past, showing me pieces of things that I will try to carry through in my life and also some things that I will never condone.

But he is my grandfather; I love him; and I never, ever questioned his love for me.

Since the day I was born, he has been making me laugh, supporting me, and making me feel like a princess. When he called me Cutie, I knew I was beautiful and deserved to feel that way. When he stood by his family through the years, even when it was hard to do, I saw what true love and devotion looked like.

More recently, when he started trying to marry me off to any male nurse or doctor we came across, I realized he only wanted to make sure I’d be ok. He’d say to them, “This is my granddaughter. Isn’t she beautiful?”

I would turn scarlet and tell him not to be fresh.

He would look from me to whichever guy it happened to be and say, “Are you married?”

They would be gracious and charming, and eventually they would leave. As I scolded him, that impish look would come back, and he’d say, “What?! Would it be so bad to have a doctor in the family?”

When he slipped me various bills through the years, I knew it wasn’t about the money. It was about his generosity, his unwavering support. Two days ago, as I was looking through old family pictures, I wandered around my grandparents’ basement and found myself wading through the images, the special moments of their life together.

I came upon a little note I’d left them a long time ago, maybe ten or twelve years ago. I signed my name on a note pad and underneath it I wrote: “This is going to be worth money some day.” Underneath that, in his distinctive print, my grandfather wrote back: “You’re worth more than money now, Cutie.” It has been something like twelve years, and he never tore off the page.

Through the tears welling up in my eyes and the baseball growing in my throat, I looked around. As if through the black and white flicker of his old film projector, splashing the past across the walls, showing footage of my father and uncle when they were babies, toddlers, and teenagers—much to my father’s chagrin—I saw his very own life mythology flash before my eyes.

My grandfather kept a close, careful chronicle of the loves in his life.

I saw a proud and devoted public servant. As a Hartford cop, a state policeman, a national guardsman, and a military man, my grandfather maintained a high moral code and a sincere pledge to serve and protect others. I noticed a framed citation, praising him for his bravery, for his willingness to put himself in harm’s way. Because of him, a murderer, armed and dangerous, was taken into custody. I had never noticed this before. He never bragged about it. He never brought his work home with him. With all of its challenges and hardships, my grandfather never burdened anyone else. He never took any of those hardships out on anyone else. And this is just one of many ways he helped make other people’s lives better.

He also was one of the few officers given the honor to work closely with Gov. Ella Grasso in the 70’s. As her bodyguard and chauffer, he once again took on the role of protector. I understand that Ella was a tough cookie, and gramps respected her for it. While most people would sit in the back seat, she insisted on sitting in the front seat with him. She even asked him to pull over on the highway sometimes to pick wildflowers, knowing full well that this was not technically permitted in the state of CT. It seems the two of them shared a similar understanding of the important things in life. They were able to appreciate the other’s toughness, while also embracing the simple beauties and pleasures surrounding them.

I continued my trip down his memory lane, and my tears started to dry. The baseball began to shrink. I saw a proud and devoted husband, father, uncle, friend, brother, son, colleague…grandfather. I saw a man who could be serious and silly. I saw someone who knew what he liked, someone who cherished the seemingly small moments in life. I saw his sense of humor bounce from wall to wall. I saw a full and happy life. I saw my grandfather in ways that I hadn’t before, and also in the same old ways that I always had. The ways that always made my heart smile. The ways that still do and still will make me remember him with love and admiration.

And I have a feeling I will continue to find relics of his life’s history, of the story of this man that we all loved, for many years to come. And I have a feeling—no, I know—that those findings, those precious memories will be laced together with laughter and love.

Over the past few days, I began that process of uncovering, of remembering who he was. And all of the people I spoke to—many of you are sitting right here in front of me today—told me many of the same things.

He was a great guy. He was fun. He was funny. We had some good times. We have wonderful memories. He was a prankster. He was generous to everyone he met, even when he didn’t have to be. He provided undying and unflagging and unquestioned support—financial and moral. He was willing to make fun of himself, but God forbid anyone poked fun at his loved ones. He bailed people out of trouble. He scolded them for it and never let them forget it, but he never held it against them.

He gave and gave and gave some more, and he still felt like it wasn’t quite enough.

We also shared his stories. We remembered some of our favorites and couldn’t remember some of our favorites. And through the process, we laughed. A lot. I think he would have wanted it that way.

I have two stories, in particular, that I would like to share with you all today.

The first marks an earlier stage in my grandfather’s journey, and it comes in the form of a joke.

There was a man walking along a cliff’s edge, too involved in himself and his own thoughts to realize how treacherously close he had come to this edge. He lost his footing and fell over. Hanging on for dear life, he looked to the heavens and cried out, “Can anyone hear me? Is anyone up there?”

And a great booming voice answered him, “Yes, my son.”

“Oh, thank GOD,” he cried. “Can you help me?”

The voice replied, “Yes, my son. Have faith. Let go.”

The man, still dangling above the precipice, considered this proposition for a moment. Then he asked the booming, faceless voice, “Um, excuse me, is there anyone else up there I could talk to?”

The second story is one he told at his brother’s grave, with his wife and his sister-in-law. I believe this is the story he would have wanted told today.

There was a very special ship being built for a very special purpose. It was to transport people who were loved, respected, and cherished by others from their homeland to a new land. Board by board, this ship was constructed, and day by day, its departure came closer.

When the day finally came, the people boarded the ship, one by one, two by two. They boarded the ship for their very special voyage. They went up to the deck and stood by the rail. Their friends and family, their loves and their lives, stood on the shore waving and smiling and crying and waving. The people on the ship stood on the deck and waved back at them.

As the ship moved out of sight, the people on shore wondered what they would do without the departed. How could they ever replace that hole they left behind? And as those friends and family, the loves and the lives, tried to figure it out, the ship was coming into port on another shore—their newest destination.

And the people on that new shore were waiting there, waving and smiling and crying and waving. And they were ready to welcome the passengers of the ship with open arms. The very special passengers of the very special ship traveled from one shore filled with love, across a very special horizon, to another shore filled with love.

I think my grandfather told that story then for a reason. He wanted to help and to comfort and to protect once again. I believe these are his words coming through me. I believe this is his wish for us—to be at peace, to be comforted, to remember him fondly, and to know that he will be ok.

My grandfather defined himself by his strength and perseverance, and it became more and more difficult for him in the end. He hated having to inconvenience anyone. For years he took care of himself and the people he loved. For years, he did it all himself. He held it together. He fixed it. He built it, even if the “it” he built wasn’t perfect, my grandfather was proud to have done it himself. The thing is, I only see perfection in those imperfections. In fact, that may be one of the most important lessons he taught me.

But through all those years, I’m not sure he ever got over having to let others help him. All those years, those times that I drove my grandparents to and from the doctors appointments and the hospitals and the procedures; the times I went shopping for them or picked up prescriptions; the times I pressed the nurses and doctors for more information; the times I told him that “it shouldn’t happen to someone as nice as him” and that “if I could, I would take the pain away”—the same things he used to tell me when I was a little girl, sniffling over a scraped knee; or, more importantly, the times I just sat and listened and talked and laughed; all those years, my grandfather lamented being a burden on me, on all of us that helped.

He didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, ever, not even when he had no other choice. He still didn’t want to rely on anyone else. His stubborn pride couldn’t let him accept his weakening body. His inner strength and will fought sickness until the end.

What he didn’t seem to understand was my free will. If I were truly inconvenienced, I wouldn’t have stayed. If I didn’t want to be there, I wouldn’t have gone. If I had somewhere to be that was more important than being right there with him, that’s where I would have been. But there was no such place. In fact, this wasn’t just something I wanted to do; this was something necessary for me. I needed to be with him. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if I missed this part. This was the part when I could give back. After all his years of protection, care, and service, I could finally return the favor. If I made him laugh just once, if I made him feel comfortable when he hurt just once, if I put his mind at ease even just a little bit for a little while, then all of the time he felt I was surrendering was worth it.

What he didn’t understand was how much he was giving me still, every minute, every second I spent with him.

And what I want him to understand now is how he protected us until the end. The strong, the stoic man spent the last years making sure we would all be ok. He gave us the time we needed to say goodbye; he showed us how to finally and gratefully surrender when the time is right.

He went down still telling stories and charming strangers and making all of us laugh. I will never forget the day he brought the house—or rather, the hospital—down telling one of his stories. The one about a parachute and a man with a stutter. Nurses and hospital workers packed into the tiny hospital room and the laughter rang through the hallways.

He showed us all the merits of both “tough” and “love,” and we will never forget it. I know I won’t.

Before I close, I need to turn the attention to my Gram for a moment. Through the years, but especially in the end, we were privileged to witness the tenderness between my grandfather and grandmother. Gramps referred to her in many ways: Polly, Dear, and even Cutie, which I always thought was reserved for me, but then quickly realized the truth. She was the original and only true cutie to him. He would also, quite simply, call her his bride. She never aged for him. Their love never aged. It went through different stages, sure. But for fifty-six years, they were a team. They supported each other, they finished each other’s sentences, they lived with and loved each other.

In the end, they were very careful with their goodbyes. Every single time she had to leave him, he would make sure to kiss her and let her know how much he loved her, how much he appreciated everything she was doing for him, everything she had ever done for him. I watched my grandmother tortured by every moment he was tortured. I watched her try with all her might to help him maintain the control that had always defined him. She lived for him, day in and day out, and he knew it. If it was possible, I think he loved her more than ever in the end.

And, Gram, I believe that his love will never, ever leave you. I believe you can go inside yourself whenever you need to and feel Grandpa’s love. I believe that for you and Grandpa, “till death do us part” is just a formality. It is only about the physicality of your relationship. When you miss him and when you need him, just remember him in your heart and soul. He will never really leave you.

Today, even the heavens are weeping for my grandfather. But somehow, I don’t think they are tears of sorrow or of grief. I believe that these are tears of joy. In many traditions, water cleanses, it purifies. When it rains, we should remember the story of the ship crossing the ocean.

In our limited, worldly view and experience, it looks like Russ is leaving us today. But in reality, he’s just moving on to the next place. He is bringing joy and laughter to the folks on the other side. I imagine him on the deck, as the ship heads for the horizon. He is standing on his own two feet, for the first time in a very long time. His belly is bulging again, just a little bit. He is wearing his baby blue fishing hat that he always wore, a short-sleeved striped polo, and he’s waving to us. He is at peace. He is ok.

And when he gets to the other side, he’ll see all those that went before him. He’ll see his parents, my great-grandma and great-grandfather Conti, his sister, his brother, and all the friends that went before him. He’ll saunter on over, thinking of the first joke or the first story he’ll tell. He’ll give a sturdy handshake or a big hug, and he’ll say, “Well. Here we are.”

I imagine him there right now, sitting around a kitchen table like the one over on Country Lane, surrounded by loved ones, looking down on us sitting here right now remembering him. I imagine him sitting there, saying the same thing we’ve heard him say time and time again: “It’s always nice when the family gets together.”

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On Tuesday, September 23rd, 2008, in the early hours of the morning, my mother and father, my grandmother, and my Auntie Ann and Uncle Joe went over to Manchester Hospital to see my grandfather’s body before it was transported to the funeral home. They weren’t sure what to expect when they walked into his room. But as they did, they were amazed at what they saw. On my grandfather’s face, where we had seen so much pain and suffering in the past few weeks, was a gentle, peaceful smile. It’s true. My Gramps was smiling in the end.

And as we were heading to the church in the limo this morning, to celebrate his life and to say our final goodbye’s, my grandmother said, “Maybe he was trying to tell us something. Maybe he was trying to let us know he was ok.”

I think my father said it best, “Dad had the last laugh.”

Even in his last moments, my grandfather was protecting us. He was trying, one last time, to make sure we’d be ok.

When the end arrives...

...I'm not sure I'll be ready. After seven years of staring inevitability in the face, I'm still not prepared. Last night I sat in his latest hospital room, which is much like all the others, watching drops of blood plop plop plop into his veins. Watching as the latest attempt to flush sickness out plop plop plopped in vain.

His skin sags off of his bones. His head itches and flakes from the last round of chemotherapy he finished not too long ago. Or is it from the last bout of radiation to the head, the round attacking the four tumors in his brain? Purple bruises scatter themselves across his hands, elbows, arms, reckless marks of stabbings and pokings and needlings he's put up with for far too long. One of his legs is so thin you can see all of the bones and joints in detail. The other one bulges violently, angrily, from the thigh.

Metastasized, they said. In the soft tissue, they said. No more procedures, no more tests, they said. Hospice, they said.

Home, he said. I want to go home. I want to sit on my chair, in my living room, with my cat, in front of my big t.v, he said. I want to be able to go outside on a nice day, he said.

I sat at the foot of the bed, unable to take my eyes away from him and the last of the dripping blood. I had a baseball in my throat, and I blinked back tears more than once. I've known this was coming for a long time. I've been back and forth to different hospitals and nursing homes for years. I've driven him to New Haven for special testing, to DeQuatro in Manchester for various treatments and updates. I've heard doctor after specialist after nurse after doctor give reports and updates and diagnoses. I've read pamphlets and seen specials. I've heard the word cancer my whole life and always known what that meant.

But none of that could soften the blow. None of that prepared me to hear those words. None of that prepared me to watch as the last units of healthy blood dripped into my grandfather's ravaged body. I stared, willing time to slow down, unwilling to let go. Then I got up, I kissed his face, said "I love you," and went home to bed.

Tonight he was fast asleep. There were no units of blood dripping. I held onto his hand for dear life. My hand held on tight; his trembled and lurched. He didn't wake up, and I wouldn't let go. Then I got up, I kissed his face, said "I love you," and went home to bed.

We're nearing the end, and I know I should be prepared. But I don't know how.

My ghosts...

Something I wrote as a model for my students. The goal was descriptive writing, using sensory detail, metaphor, and simile, all mashed together illustrating one of the steps in an epic hero's journey. Now, some of it may be corny (or undeveloped, at the very least), but it deals with some real things. Things that have not fully happened yet. Things that should happen if I'm ever going to let go and move on...
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My green Honda civic crawls to a halt and I yank the emergency break a little too hard.

Just breathe, Tina, I have to remind myself.

My eyes are pinched shut and my fists grip the wheel. I fumble through my purse, searching for my Burt’s Bees and for an extra moment before the inevitable. To my right, on the passenger seat where loved ones should sit, is the dried rose—once a deep, pulsing blood red, but now a shriveled leaf brown—the one Mom and Dad saved from the funeral that I couldn’t attend. With a trembling hand, I bring the flower to my nose. It smells like autumn leaves, fallen to the ground, dead, kicked around, forgotten.

I step out of my car and slam the door. The crisp, cool October wind whips into my body, and sends my hair flying. I lift my eyes and, through blurred vision, I see the stones sitting there, an army of them, in rank, at attention, eternally patient—waiting for me. Well, at least one of them is.

It’s been entirely too long, I think, and I feel my feet pulling the rest of me forward, as if they know I can’t do it on my own.

Amidst my indecision, I feel a flurry of wings above my head, as a dove, a perfect dove, leads me to her stone, to the stone. The bird lands and waits. My feet, now like lead, finish the journey for me.

And there it is: In loving memory—Deborah O’Briant.

I drop to my knees. A solitary tear rolls down my cheek and tries to run away from the unfinished hurt in my heart. The fibers there remain unhealed. The scab there threatens to rip away any progress I’ve made trying to forget and forgive this woman, this woman’s husband, this woman’s child, and this woman’s niece—me. And I sit there, fierce in my determination to keep the scab intact, to finally move past this grief. Three years have passed and this is my first visit to her grave. My mouth is bitter with guilt.

Coo, coo…I look up. The dove cocks her head knowingly, as if she knows me.

Coo, coo…she repeats, and I close my eyes. The wind is gentle now; it has lost its bite. It circles me, dries my tears, and calms my racing heart.

My skin tingles, and I feel her here. My aunt, she’s here.  But it’s not just her.  It is her and it is everyone else buried under the ground.  It is the dead and it is the living.  It is everything visible and invisible.  It is the feeling we have around us every day, but we rarely notice.  It is the breath of fresh air as we leave a crowded space.  It is the ever-present knowing, the essence of everything and nothing. 

My skin tingles with the feeling of that something we can always count on, like a mother’s touch or a lover’s kiss.  Like a shiver and a sigh.  Like the longing and the loss.  Like the comfort found cuddling in a down blanket or spooning with your dog. 

My skin tingles, and I wake up.  I start to remember, to realize all of the things I forgot. 

It’s time to stop this, Tina. I don’t just hear these words.  I feel them seeping through the pores of my skin.

Now is the time for forgiveness, the feeling tells me.  Remember that I love you and that I’ll always be with you, but let me go.

Let this go.

The dove swoops down, takes the dried blossom that has fallen from my hand to the brown grass, takes one last look at me, and flies away.

She’s right. It’s time to let this go.

I take a long, deep breath.

This time, though, I don’t have to remind myself to do it.

first sammi installment

Rain streamed down the windows and flung itself away as the ill-fated car tore through the streets. Black velvet sky wrapped around white picket fenced houses where young children were safely tucked away in bed – all except for one. The celestial lights had vacated the heavens, leaving only two headlights flailing in space, yearning for a resting place – for peace. Lightening sliced through the darkness and with that single crack of thunder a whole world fell to pieces.

She screamed from the backseat, with piercing wisdom and grief – like somehow she already knew her father had made one of the biggest mistakes of his life, like she knew this man who was single-handedly supposed to be watching out for her was incapable of looking out for himself. Tears filled her big, brown eyes as she looked to her only parent for comfort. Her father’s unsteady hands loosely held the wheel as he turned around to face her – one last penetrating look before both lives lost all recognition of their past.

The car swerved. The tires hit the curb. The sky swirled around them; and with a breath of hesitation, it crashed into the ground.

That was the night that changed everything; choices were made by two people, tearing the fabric of an existence I thought was mine, and sending a little girl on the most bittersweet ride she would ever know. True it was only for a year – but in one moment we both saw fallibility in those we once found flawless. And in one moment we were tragically linked by the very heartstrings we felt tearing away.

This is a story that spans three generations; it tests the strength of family and the very quality that courses through our veins. It is also a story of discovery and hope, and of finding out what truly matters and holding onto it for dear life.
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From: Kathy Grinold
To: tbina7@hotmail.com
Subject: Deb
Date: Fri, 25 Apr 2003 13:33:41

Hi Tiner,

I’m very sorry to have to tell you like this, but Deb died yesterday (the 24th) at 6:15pm. She finally got to Columbia/Presbyterian Hospital in Manhattan on Tuesday, but she just kept going downhill. Wednesday night Kevin drove home to get a change of clothes and to sleep in a bed for a change, and got a call Thursday morning that she was deteriorating. He drove back down, but by the time he got there she was on life support, but there was no brain activity. So he had her removed from the machines and she died yesterday evening.

One of the last things she said to me was to tell you not to worry about not being here and to enjoy the rest of your trip. I know that will be difficult for you now, but that’s really all you can do. Of course, the prayers are still helpful, that she find her way in the next world, and feel loved and comforted… and you can do that from wherever you are.

Kevin is doing as well as can be expected, in fact is experiencing some sense of relief. She is no longer struggling and in pain. The ordeal really took a toll on him. Sammi doesn’t really understand much. I don’t know exactly what he has told her. I spent time with her yesterday afternoon and she didn’t know what was going on. We left it to Kevin to explain.

I’m sending you a big, big hug and can’t wait to see you to do it in person. We love you Tiner. Keep smiling and keep sending your best thoughts!

Love and hugs,
Mama
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There I was, on a ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean – having just finished an Acting final where I’d played Krishna from the Mahabharata – reading and rereading that letter from my mother. I stopped seeing the words; they were just a blur. And I couldn’t find any air in my lungs. There I was, on a trip circumnavigating the globe, gallivanting around, while my aunt had lain dying in a hospital. And my baby cousin had been robbed of her mother at age five.

Have you ever seen a cat run full speed into a glass door? Well, that’s how I felt. All I wanted from the world in that moment was to be there. But I couldn’t. Running out onto the deck, I gasped at the sea air, chest heaving, and I slammed myself into the railing that held me prisoner.

Suddenly my body weight was too heavy and, slipping to the deck, my tears burned my flesh before adding themselves shamelessly to the ocean below.
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In memoriam ~
As I sit here to write this, it should be about 9pm on April 26th back at home. For me, it’s lunchtime and we are currently sailing through Alaskan waters. I can see the gorgeous volcanic mountain range of the Aleutian Islands from my porthole as we steadily approach our 2nd to last port of call. Technically I’m in the US. So, technically, I’ve sailed around the world. The pressures are already beginning: to put a name on my feelings, to label my experiences, to pick a favorite place. But how can I begin to do those things when I’m currently struggling to find a place for myself in this world I’ve just been traveling through?

Today I’m discovering the impossibility of that task; today when I consider the importance of Mother.

Since I left in January, there have been so many changes. Changes in myself, the global community, and the lives of the people I love and hold closest to my heart. This ship is a bubble-world, a little microcosm of home. The SS Universe has been our Great White Mother to whom we run when things get tough or when we just need to curl up in a ball and hide from reality. She’s also provided blissful separation for us, her passengers and children. But while I’ve been becoming acquainted with Mother Earth and her various places and peoples, my own motherland has been forever altered.

In the absence from my former life, a war has begun, a deadly virus has been loosed on the world, and my aunt has passed away. Each of these things have affected me in ways that could never be expected or fully explained. I’m ten days away from being home. Being that close, but not being there during this time when I should be with my family … the helplessness is overwhelming. Last night while standing on deck, with dawn approaching, looking out at the ocean and off into eternity I thought, “If I could jump ship and swim to shore, I’d do it in an instant, just to be there.” Something my mother said to me in her email – the email – resonated in my mind, “One of the last things she said to me was to tell you not to worry about not being here and to enjoy the rest of your trip. I know that will be difficult for you now, but that’s really all you can do.” My mother, my mama, the one who is sending me a big, big hug and can’t wait to do it in person. I can’t imagine not having that. But Sammi won’t. My baby cousin has just lost her Mother.

Debbi would always call the house and say, “Hey, it’s your favorite aunt!” and then would proceed to give me a hard time about any and everything she could. Our sarcastic interchanges were code for how much we cared for each other and enjoyed each other’s company. After Sam was born and as I grew older, I began to feel like Deb was more of a friend than an aunt. She would sometimes break down to me and say, “I’m so tired of being sick.” She wanted so badly to be healthy and able to do all the things she wanted to do. I found myself trying to find the words to comfort her, the same words that just don’t seem to matter now.

When I was ready to leave for Semester at Sea, she started to cry and told me she didn’t like that I would be out in the ocean somewhere on the other side of the globe instead of a couple hours north in New Hampshire. Was she trying to tell me her time was running out? Was she trying to say goodbye? Last night, when I got the news of her death, did she make me hold off on checking my email until after my final performance was over? Was she trying to protect me until I would be able to take the time to grieve? I think so. Deb was always so fascinated with the existence of angels and I believe she is now among them.

Though I know her suffering has finally ended, I still feel powerless. What can I do? I’m a bird in a cage, wanting to break free. I’m a missing puzzle piece wanting so much to finish the pattern that is my family. I’m constantly sending my love, my prayers, my meditations – I can only hope that is enough, because it is really all I can do. I can’t be there to hug my uncle and look into his eyes, because the words I’d be searching for just wouldn’t suffice. I can’t be there to hold my little munchkin; I can’t take her outside to blow bubbles and watch them float into the wind … an attempt to ease her pain, her confusion, her blissful naivety. I won’t be there to see Deb’s face one last time. I won’t be able to throw a blossom symbolizing my love into the grave, to say goodbye and to begin the healing process along with everyone else. These are the things I’d hoped for when the emails, the sickeningly impersonal emails that have been the only thing connecting me to these events, started looking bad.

How selfish I’ve been in wanting to travel, move around, spend a few years here and a few years there – all of the things that take me away from the people I love. Am I really as independent as I thought? Am I really capable of moving that far away from home again, for that long? Do I want to remove myself from the lives and happenings of my motherland? Can I deal with this feeling again, the feeling of seemingly not caring enough to be there, or of letting my loved ones down in some way?

I suppose, through it all, various forms of Mother will always be there; whether in biological, figurative, associative, or even angelic form. Mother is not a thing that can die. It’s more than just a person. It’s the purest form of love and support. Although the home I’m returning to in ten days can never be the same place I left 3 months ago, the universal Mother-spirit will remain the same. I will get my big, big hug from my mom. And someday when Sammi wants that same big, big hug from her mother, I hope I can be there to tell her that’s it’s always there in some form. You just need to ask. Mother can never leave you.

RIP Debrah O’Briant ~Peace and Love Forever.
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My dad read this aloud at the funeral. I wanted some representation of me there even if it was physically impossible at the time. At a later family gathering, I griped to one of my cousins, as a whiny child impersonating a broken record, “I wish I could have been there.” He looked me square in the face for one of the longer moments I’ve sat through and said, “Tina, you were more there than any of us.”

sammi

This was one of those crazy college weekends that you look back at and say, “Man, we were a complete waste of space. But it was awesome!” My roommates and I had spent two years living above Town and Campus in apartments that, shall we say, had… character. Our current apartment was previously an office of some kind, so our living room came complete with coat hooks in the wall, a random left over door which we decorated and left leaning in the corner, and a fully operational old fashioned sink which we filled with water and housed our faithful pet rubber ducky. The walls were painted midnight blue by the last tenants, so we strung Christmas lights around the perimeter, surrounded the room with our Salvation Army sofa, futon, satellite chair, scattered pillows, and we called it a day. Our kitchen table was the graffitied beer pong table, which had once been a bedroom door from our last apartment, and the window in my room had roof access. For all immediate purposes, this apartment was prime for a few twenty one year olds and their friends.

So this weekend, my brother and some of his wacked out buddies were coming to visit. Our track record was pretty good. When people come to visit us, we usually deliver unforgettable times. UNH kids know how to party; and we partied artfully. We generally stayed away from frats and the people we associated with being involved in that scene – unless, of course, we dressed up in crazy costumes just to crash. Instead, we counted on each other for amusement.

Weekends of this sort usually included things such as 4am outings to the launder mat to play in the dryers and climb onto rooftops, or rollerblading excursions across campus when most of the die-hards had returned to bed. We’d been known to break into locked up residence halls before school was in session just to play the grand piano, or spray paint phrases such as, ‘You are being lied to,’ or, ‘Everything you know is wrong,’ on the back walls of the student union – and we nearly shit our pants when it showed up the following Tuesday in The New Hampshire. We savored deep philosophical conversations on our roof while staring at the stars, beach drives and trips to the ocean (where some would venture a swim in the nearly freezing water), lighting fireworks on an open field (somehow succeeding in lighting grass on fire and attracting the attention of the local five-oh), and any other spontaneous notion that might flit it’s way into our thoughts. This weekend was no disappointment.

To cap off this fun-filled few days in Durham, the lot of us took a field trip down to Hampton Beach – music blaring, enjoying being in the now – and to the nearest Taco Bell we could find. As we sat there in our Burrito, Chalupa, Cheesy Gordita glory, my brother says to me, “So. Have you talked to Mom?”

“Not since last week,” I replied, thinking this was no more than a silly story about her classroom. She always talks to us about the kids as if we know them all intimately. It’s endearing, actually; she adores her job and she’s damn good.

“Yea, so…” he sucks down some air before the plunge: “Kevin was driving drunk the other night and flipped his car.” His eyes break from mine as he takes an unnaturally large bite of his beloved Cheesy Gordita Crunch. The Band-Aid was torn; smarting, I had to respond.

“… uh…” slowly shaking the disbelief from my skull, “Is he ok?” Then it hit me, Mack truck Reality, “Where was Sam?!” trying hard to keep hysteria out of my voice.

“She was in the car.” He’s stopped eating and is looking at me again. My eyeballs are wide, wildly searching his for the punch line. The dread washes in.

“WHAT!?!?!” Usually at this point, he tells me to quiet down. I have a tendency to explode, irrespective of my surroundings. This was no exception, but this time he let it go.

“Yea. In the car. He lost custody of her.”

“…..” I can only imagine what my gaping face must look like.

“They’re both ok. I guess she had to spend the night at the hospital for observation. And now she’s staying at our house. No one really knows what’s going on or what’s gonna happen,” my eyebrows furrowed so deeply that my head started to hurt, “And Dad’s not talking to Mom.”

My heart pounded through my chest. I wondered why the others couldn’t see it, in 3-dimensional Pepe Lepew style. I continued eating and carrying on pieces of the other conversations swirling around me. I drifted in and out, sometimes staring out the gaudy advertisement-ridden windows, not looking at any one thing in particular. I would sometimes snap out of the daze, fighting nausea, and sigh, “I can’t believe this.”
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I walked in the door, sat down on my bed, dialed home, and waited. I waited three rings and wanted to scream.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end sounded tired, weak.
“Mom. Why didn’t you call me!”

“Sorry T. It’s been crazy around here and I’m not getting a whole lot of help.” Well, obviously. Dad’s ignoring her and Ian came to New Hampshire. Now, you’re probably wondering why my father would be so insensitive – be patient, I’ll get there.

“I know Mama. I’m just a little shocked. Tell me what’s happening.” My insides melted. It was rare that my mother weakened. She is one of the strongest, smartest people I know, and if she is having trouble with something it is clearly a challenge. I found myself transported back to another dark night. It was September of my first high school year, the night she learned of her mother’s death. She shook and she cried and all I could do was hug her, be strong for the woman who, until then, had always been strong enough for the rest of us. By the sounds of it, she was again trying desperately to hold it all together – for the sake of the family.

“Well. It’s been a zoo around here this week. Between DCF and Deb’s family coming by constantly to see Sam, I can barely keep things organized let alone get things settled for her. Luckily, we’re on April vacation, so I was able to get over to Birch Grove and sign her up for school.”

“So this is going to be for a while, then.”

“As long as it takes.”

“As long as what takes?”

“For the state and the court to figure out what to do. They’ve already taken away Kevin’s license.”

“Well, GOOD.”

“And he’s going to appear before a judge soon. He’s going to have to go to AA and parent retraining and, most likely, therapy. He’ll probably do jail time, too…” Jail. Wow. Switching gears, she murmurs, “You do realize that this was within days of the one year anniversary of…”

“Deb’s death. Yea, I remembered.” It stung. It’d been a year, and I still hadn’t gone to see the grave; I still hadn’t given her my rose, now dry and fragile.

“He’s been going downhill. He’s not been eating. He’s bankrupt. He’s got all of the medical bills still looming over his head. And he feels like none of us are helping him. I drove him to the police station from the hospital, he was still drunk and belligerent, and he was telling me that he had been drowning and nobody noticed, nobody cared.”

“Mom, this is not your fault.” She’s the only girl of five, and Kevin is the baby. After he was born, my grandmother was drinking whiskey daily and not being a very active mother, which had much to do with my grandfathers’ unwillingness to accept some of the boys as his own – but that, too, is another story. So my mother became the surrogate; and she’s felt responsible in that role her whole life. “Listen. I graduate in three weeks and then I’ll be home. We’ll make this work, ok? I’ll take her after school so you can focus on the end of the year.” Somehow I always knew something like this was going to happen, a moment of truth. This was a time when my spirit could shine, and I wasn’t about to lose my chance. I was going to make up for missing the funeral, for not being as active in Sammi’s life as I had wanted. I would be strong enough for all of us; we would not fall apart.

This was my role, right now, there was no turning back – forget all the other plans of traveling abroad, teaching English in Japan, or moving to San Francisco. My family needed me, so that’s where I needed to be. But, man, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
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She came tearing into my life
A ball of fire
Scalding me with what’s real
And true, when

Truthfulness
Hanged at the gallows
Suffocated
And broken
A value forgotten
It fades
As mist at dawn

She came into my home
Took my bed
My room
My space

She took my mother
And made me a mother too

She screamed
She sassed
She cried
She laughed

She pushed

Every last button
Every last nerve