Sunday when we were driving home from Portland (and Mike Rabby's wedding), I heard a request on All Things Considered. Their Homework segment is an opportunity for listeners to speak up about something, and in this week's segment they asked folks to write in about a song that meant something to them. The timing couldn't have been better - I was thinking about this all weekend. I was compelled to write.
Here's what I sent them:
A few weeks before his wedding, my high school friend Mike told me he had put a song in the dance mix to remember Dawn, a friend of ours who had died. He wouldn't tell me what the song was, but he expected me to know. There was only one song for Dawn, and the memory of it playing still makes me laugh and cry.
Twenty years ago we were all high school seniors, finishing our last semester of school, writing for our school newspaper and getting ready for prom, graduation, and college. One day during a particularly intense deadline run, we all stopped, put on some music and just danced. I remember Dawn, full of life, on a desk with her bra swinging overhead to Erasure's A Little Respect. The joy was palpable, the future ahead of us. Nothing could stop us.
A few days after graduation, Dawn learned she had a brain tumor. That fall when we all left for school, Dawn stayed behind, resentful and hurt. She died before Christmas.
Two days ago I stood in the sweltering heat dressed to the nines, watching Mike dance with his new bride, still wondering if that would be the song. It was. When it came on, there was a dizzying moment that felt like I'd jumped off a building - and I ran to the dance floor, hugged him, and we laughed and cried the rest of the song.
Postscript:
Two days after I submitted this, I got a call from NPR. They recorded my story for the coming weekend's Homework selection, and I'm now waiting to see if it got selected for the on-air spot.
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Monday, August 18, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
An anniversary, of sorts
I can't believe it. It's been a year since we brought Lucy home, and 6 months since I lost Grendel. I can't imagine our home without her, but still I can't believe my little man has been gone that long. His urn's still sitting next to the computer, waiting for us to decide if we're putting him into the foundation of the house (long story, ask next time) or if I'm going to parcel him out to friends to spread everywhere.
And Lucy's something else. Since becoming lone dog in the pack, her princessy behaviour has gotten even more noticeable, and she's absolutely and completely Todd's girl. Finicky about her food, she still fights nail clippings - but at least she's started to chew her own nails when we sit down to watch movies on the computer. Weirdo.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Take a moment...
It's been raining for 27 days.
You'd think that's not such a big deal in Seattle, but it's actually a little unusual. Normally it's sort of drizzly and overcast, but it's been dark and cloudy for weeks now and the rain's come down hard. Pot holes have appeared, trees fallen over and venues sparse because folks are tired of going out drenched. Today was actually the first day I woke up and it wasn't raining - the sun's shining and the air is crisp. We got up and took the dog to the Magnuson park - off-leash heaven - and celebrated with all of the other cabin-fevered Seattlites by getting out in the mud. The dogs went nuts...mud everywhere with barking and frothing and humping from the biggest mastiff to the teacup chihuahuas. There was so much life in the park this morning, I almost cried at how happy the dog looked to be running at his own pace. And then there was this moment when I watched the dog walking alongside Todd - about 25 yards ahead - I watched them walk and play and the dog looked up at him, he looked back at me...and that was it. My dog, my shadow and my security standing with my guy, my hopes and my dreams. And I laughed at it all, the sweetness and the absurdity of such happiness.
But the sun comes out only briefly.
Just two days ago I was reading a friend's blog when I stumbled on writings about his father. His dad, a young 62 (just a few years older than my dad) was diagnosed with fronto temporal dementia (FTD) in May of 2004 - and is now no longer the person he once was. This is the first Christmas that he thought of it as being without his dad, because he sits in the room but is no more. He is like a shell of the person he once was, and if my friend listens closely he can almost hear the echoes of his voice in the hollow of his chest. His writing was powerful, the descriptions of his mother unforgettable. We talked about his dad for the first time the next day at work, and listening to him reflect on death gave me respect for the struggle his family faces daily. For all that medicine has given us, it rarely treats those most afflicted - the family.
In this state of mind I found myself at lunch with an old friend whom I hadn't seen in nearly 4 years. He too was facing similar struggles - his mother had a stroke 27 months ago and his father's dementia is like a prison sentence from which there is no release. He comes to work each day so he can afford to take care of them, but at about 6 hours he starts to worry that his father might have forgotten to feed his mother, or worse yet, that he's burned down the house. His only solace from this is Moon, the Golden Retriever his brother left him during a relocation to Hawaii - and I have no doubt that this fragile balance wouldn't be possible without that dog. None but he and the dog will escape, and even they too will succumb eventually. But for now he walks for the parents who cared for him as a child, the dog keeping watch on him.
Only two months ago I was wrapped up in living in New York, my sphere concerned with survival. It's been quiet these last weeks safe from the City, hearing things for the first time - the marvelous texture that has become my life, the privilege I have in the friends I keep, their experiences a borrowed perspective that shapes the person I will be.
You'd think that's not such a big deal in Seattle, but it's actually a little unusual. Normally it's sort of drizzly and overcast, but it's been dark and cloudy for weeks now and the rain's come down hard. Pot holes have appeared, trees fallen over and venues sparse because folks are tired of going out drenched. Today was actually the first day I woke up and it wasn't raining - the sun's shining and the air is crisp. We got up and took the dog to the Magnuson park - off-leash heaven - and celebrated with all of the other cabin-fevered Seattlites by getting out in the mud. The dogs went nuts...mud everywhere with barking and frothing and humping from the biggest mastiff to the teacup chihuahuas. There was so much life in the park this morning, I almost cried at how happy the dog looked to be running at his own pace. And then there was this moment when I watched the dog walking alongside Todd - about 25 yards ahead - I watched them walk and play and the dog looked up at him, he looked back at me...and that was it. My dog, my shadow and my security standing with my guy, my hopes and my dreams. And I laughed at it all, the sweetness and the absurdity of such happiness.
But the sun comes out only briefly.
Just two days ago I was reading a friend's blog when I stumbled on writings about his father. His dad, a young 62 (just a few years older than my dad) was diagnosed with fronto temporal dementia (FTD) in May of 2004 - and is now no longer the person he once was. This is the first Christmas that he thought of it as being without his dad, because he sits in the room but is no more. He is like a shell of the person he once was, and if my friend listens closely he can almost hear the echoes of his voice in the hollow of his chest. His writing was powerful, the descriptions of his mother unforgettable. We talked about his dad for the first time the next day at work, and listening to him reflect on death gave me respect for the struggle his family faces daily. For all that medicine has given us, it rarely treats those most afflicted - the family.
In this state of mind I found myself at lunch with an old friend whom I hadn't seen in nearly 4 years. He too was facing similar struggles - his mother had a stroke 27 months ago and his father's dementia is like a prison sentence from which there is no release. He comes to work each day so he can afford to take care of them, but at about 6 hours he starts to worry that his father might have forgotten to feed his mother, or worse yet, that he's burned down the house. His only solace from this is Moon, the Golden Retriever his brother left him during a relocation to Hawaii - and I have no doubt that this fragile balance wouldn't be possible without that dog. None but he and the dog will escape, and even they too will succumb eventually. But for now he walks for the parents who cared for him as a child, the dog keeping watch on him.
Only two months ago I was wrapped up in living in New York, my sphere concerned with survival. It's been quiet these last weeks safe from the City, hearing things for the first time - the marvelous texture that has become my life, the privilege I have in the friends I keep, their experiences a borrowed perspective that shapes the person I will be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
