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2 October 1991 McMurray Last Wednesday I spoke to Bob Bennett, who told me Mom was really sick & they couldn't handle her any more. She's down to 90 pounds and weak as a kitten. So I'm here to give her some filial TLC and make whatever arrangements need to be made. I arrived last night via Pan Am puddle jumper, and am scheduled to go back Monday the 7th, but that's just to get the round trip fare. I'll stay as long as I need to. She needed to be home & not have to feel like she's imposing on anyone, including the Bennetts; close though they may be, they have their own life & Mom's been there six out of the last eight weeks. Poor baby, she's working as hard as she can, but she's so weak she can hardly do anything. This morning just getting up & fixing & eating her breakfast exhausted her, & now at 9:10 she's back in bed. That's the way it's been for weeks. I see there's nothing in here up to now, so here's the background: after I left after Dad died Mom continued to feel more and more tired & weak, a condition that dated back to the Prozak incident, & even before -- since that's what the Prozak was prescribed for, being tired all the time. Then in August Dr. Mittell put her in the hospital for a week or so because her sodium count was dangerously low -- for reasons no one can explain. But IV sodium seemed to work, so she came home, to Bob & Lynn's until she felt better, but she didn't get much better. Still, she came home after a while, but then started losing weight at an alarming rate -- 3 pounds in 2-1/2 weeks, which at her 105 was very fast. Mittell ordered some tests outpatient, but they were inconclusive, and Mom couln't handle the schlep, even with help, so she begged him to admit her to the hospital for the rest -- an upper & lower GI -- which he did. These too proved inconclusive, and she had ultrasound & blood work & all the rest. When I spoke with Mittell last week in preparation for coming out, he said he thought cancer because of the weight loss, but the tests turned out not only negative but not even suspicious. I will see him this morning, and he will perhaps have some news from the blood & urine tests he did when she went to see him Monday. Mom has mentioned going to an osteopath named Corkery in the same building; the guy's also an MD and an internist. Maybe that'll turn up something, but we clearly have to go beyond Mittell, who has no ideas, and something's definitely wrong here. I"ve also asked [Rev.] Don Steele to keep his ear to the ground re live-in help, which I don't think Mom needs yet, but may if things don't improve. Mom thinks all she needs is a visiting nurse twice a week to help her get a shower, which she hasn't had in six weeks. Maybe. But it seems to me that the most important thing is to get an answer to what's wrong -- or else to have her miraculously just get better -- and then worry about living arrangements, which really ought to be determined by health considerations, ne? Bob & Lynn, bless their hearts, did what they could -- which was give her a place to be, among loving friends, when she couldn't fend for herself. But they probably also felt that it wasn't their place to take charge of the situation, which led them to call me in, and it is my place. God knows what Mom would have done without them, and I'm going to have to find some way to thanks them -- and the Clearys, who have been most attentive throughout this ordeal, first with Dad's incapacitation, now with Mom's (they picked me up at the airport last night). My sister Lynn's in a difficult situation: just moved to Seattle, not yet settled with a job & sense of direction, relationship with Geoff still young & needing much tendance, and her own psyche undergoing a huge change -- first the therapy she entered over a year ago, now the pressure of being in love, and with a recovering alcoholic, with all the intense attention to matters psychological that that entails, and having just joined Al-Anon herself, in her capacity as enabler -- the kid has a lot on her plate, and this adds a huge dose of guilt, that magic ingredient of crazy-making, to the stew. When I spoke to her last night, she laid it all on the table: on the one hand she's the prime candidate for care-giver, should Mom require it; on the other hand she has serious reservations about coming back here to live in this house in this part of the world. She has visions of turning into a little wrinkeled [sic] old spinster here, and the negative power of this place over her is much stronger than over me, especially now when she's so vulnerable. I told her that the ideal situation would be that I manage to make some arrangement that would preclude her having to come except for a visit; now that I know where she stands, I'll forget about proposing that she spell me, unless that's absolutely necessary. Deb has offered to come, & maybe that'll be enough, if I plan to extend my stay this time, then have Deb come, then return myself. But until I talk to the doctors, let's stow that stuff. 3 October 1991 Dave Mittell suggested that we make an appt. w/ Dr Corkery upstairs from him; the guy's an MD & osteopath as well as an internist. That's at 10, then the visiting nurse to get Mom a shower & so on, then at 3 to Rita's to get our hair done. Sometime in the middle there I'd like to drive down to Independence Court, an assisted living arrangement in Mt. Lebanon. Tomorrow we're taking the day off. Made a pot roast last night; it was a disaster -- didn't cook it nearly long enough. Try again tonight. Always better the second day, they say. It's definitely autumn here in Western Pennsylvania. I noticed it first as we descended in our crop duster into the airport, but down here on the ground it's more advanced than it seemed from the air, where only one tree in an acre looked like it was starting to turn. The back yard is seriously littered, if not covered, and all of the outer leaves on most trees are already pale & going tanslucent. The air has that sad chill at its heart regardless of the temperature (which is mild, near 60†) that allows no mistaking: fall is here. And of course I feel the melancholy that seems to affect all things at this time. This feeling is heightened -- or deepend -- by being home, with its memory caches, not of specific things or events, but of moods, times, states of mind or feeling. 5 October 1991 º"That which we find words for is that which cannot be held in our heart." -- Nietzsche, in Book of J First the home front news: Dr. Corkery's exam was as inconclusive as Mittell's, though he prescribed more blood tests & a brain scan Tuesday. She's not exactly weak -- her muscles are strong, she's just greatly fatigued. She doesn't sleep well nights, but gets up to go to the bathroom 3 or 4 times, though whether frequent urination or insomnia is the problem is hard to tell. Her right arm tingles, & it's beginning on her left, the soles of her feet burn, but she wobbles when she walks because of the weakness, not dizziness. Dr. Corkery said he could see why Dr. Mittell was stumped: he did a very complete workup, but nothing's popping out, no systemic cluster of symptoms, no real pattern. He talked about depression, which he called the diagnosis of exclusion -- only given when medical cause is ruled out -- and that 50% of people diagnosed with depression didn't know they had it. He then mentioned that there is a psychologist in McMurray, a woman he says is very good, should depression turn out to be what's wrong. As one after another medical possibility is eliminated it begins to look like this is it. I hope it is, because there's nothing exotic about it, and it can be treated. I think the doctors think it may be, too, but want to be absolutely sure, hence the tests. Then after we got our hair done at Rita's I went into Mt. Lebanon to a new assisted living facility called Independence Court, where the motto is, "When a nursing home is more than you need," and talked with Carol Thomas, who was an elder at Center Church when Mom was, but who left during the Dave Walker scandal. It's like Hotel Camp, beautiful building with single & semiprivate rooms, activities, restaurant style dining room, nursing care & a doctor on call, of which one can make use of as much or as little as is needed. We're going to look at it Monday, and if all goes well Mom will move in next Friday. This will be a respite stay, not a permanent arrangement (unless she likes it!), to last as long as she needs until she gets better, which I believe she will. I know she's apprehensive, but she realizes she can't stay in this big house by herself as long as she feels like this. And this arrangement looks perfect, in fact was designed, for just this type of situation. She is committed to it (not the institution) only as long as she needs to be. So I'll be staying another week, until Monday the 14th, to get her moved in & give her a chance to get settled. Then I'll come back for her appointment with Dr. Corkery on the 18th, when all the test results should be in. All else being equal, she should be on the road to recovering from whatever this is soon.
6 October 1991 The temperature has dropped 20†. I spent a good part of yesterday raking leaves & carting them into the woods. Probably will do same today. John Patero [sic, = Petero], business mgr at Wash Cty Health Ctr, is coming about 11.30 to discuss Mom's finances. The sky is deep & clear blue, the air crisp as they say. It's Sunday morning, so the traffic is lighter than usual, but still heavier than it used to be during rush hour when I was a kid. (Tell us how it was, old timer!) I've been reading with great interest The Book of J, Harold Bloom's fascinating commentary on David Rosenberg's translation of the oldest strand in the Penteteuch c. 950 - 900 BCE, whose author calls God Yahweh, & so is called J (< German Jahweh). Bloom contends J was a sophisticated lady in the court of Solomon's son Rehoboam, on whose watch the united kingdom of David split into Israel & Judah. Further, he says she was not a religious writer but a literary ironist, whose characters & stories are more Shakespearean than anything else, but whose wonderful poetry has been truncated, indeed mutilated by what he calls the normative writers who came after and built upon J: the E (Elohist) revision of J c. 850 - 800, the Deuteronomist c. 650 - 600, the Priestly author 550 - 500, and finally the Redactor who combined all four in c. 400. David Rosenberg has extracted what is surely J & put that together into a single narrative, which Harold Bloom introduces & then comments upon. (Harold Bloom is the mentor of Camille Paglia.) The book's been out at least a year, and according to Deb has received mixed reviews, mostly negative on the scholarship end, as one would expect. But this is theory, on the order of OMBBC [sic: should be OCBBM for The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind], at least in piquing my interest. I've needed a book like this for some time. The best part is Yahweh himself, an imp who plays favorites, who doesn't play fair, a human-all-too-human personality who is yet incommensurate with the human, being God. Bloom regards J's Yahweh as a metaphor for dynamis -- "more life and the promise of yet more life, into a time without boundaries." What really hooked me was J's Jacob, heel-clutcher --> God-clutcher, always scrambling, pushy, obnoxious, hardly beloved by Yahweh, bearer of the Blessing because he wrestled for it & would not let go. J also portrays Yahweh as changing over the generations, from companion/creator of Adam to the terrifying & remote monster on Mt. Sinai. At first he chose his favorites, who were always energetic & vital, never pious or "good," including such tough women as Sarai, Rebecca, Rachel, & Tamar; but when he decided to bestow the Blessing on everyone under Moses, he seems to have vacillated between rage & revulsion, promising then punishing, jerking the chosen people around in the Wilderness. No wonder they complained so much. 7 October 1991 I just wrote a note to Deborah in which I said it was strange to be "home" in the fall, with its built-in melancholy, it's "memory-mood" that feels like nostalgia, but for a time & place that only exist perhaps in the longing that this season creates or intensifies. I do think there is a mood peculiar to the autumn, and although I do think of autumn past -- as in earlier entry -- I believe what I'm remembering is not life situations or events, but rather this same mood. It is hardly nostalgia in the sense of wanting to "go back" anywhere; many times the onset of this feeling is prelude to some imagining, as in the Egderus material, or a poem. But it feels like longing; for what isn't always clear. Got sidetracked looking for another Nietzsche paraphrase in The Book of J, but it was to the effect that this longing is the impulse behind fiction, and indeed I have been thinking about my own often while reading the book. I may not be anybody special in the world, but these characters are, to me, and their stories remain largely untold while I dither here in Shadowland. That ain't right. 9 October 1991 Yesterday late afternoon while rambling in what used to be the cactus, stopped by the old Penis Tree, which is still there, though the branches used by Jimmy Burke are but stumps. Most of the surroundings are totally changed, but that tree is still there, looming over the crick. And while there the idea for a story arrived. When I returned, John Paterra [sic, = Petero] was already here, to present his company's product. Unfortunately, the higher-yield funds have an 8.5% sales load, to which Deb says, and adamantly, NO. So I sent for Vanguard info, the idea being, I guess, to manage the Mom Portfolio myself. Which I actually think I can do. 10 October 1991 Yesterday we went to the bank to put my name on Mom's checking account. In the afternoon I went to Sears to pick up the new Sony Trinitron 13" TV and then to the store. Mom seemed pretty burned out all day; I know the CT scan trek took a lot out of her, and that she's worried about the outcome, especially since the tingling i her arms & hands seems to be getting worse. Last night I drove into Oakland for a poetry reading by Galway Kinnell; apart from being a great poet he's a damn charming Irishman. As happened at NYU a couple years back (that long?) the place was mobbed, & no one there seemed prepared. Samuel Hazo, to whom I wrote a jejune [sic] letter nearly twenty years ago & received a curt dismissive reply (amazing I heard from him at all), was most put out, and impressed me as a pretty self-important little person. I've not read any of his poemes (odd slip there, ne?), so cannot but judge superficially. But Galway was great, as expected. He started with Saint Francis & the Sow and then Blackberries, then read some new stuff, a funny but serious one called Shit, and a beautiful love poem Rapture. In Shit he uses the word (or sound) "do" five times in succession, which recalled the three times in a row the word "is" is used in A Prayer, which he recited then. He then read the Oatmeal poem, to great effect, as ever, and sections of something printed or xeroxed on a single page double sided called Sheffield Sequence (or something), which was quite beautiful and unfamiliar. I forgot that second he read a poem about his mother dying and the littlest but sweetest member of a junior-high poetry workshop he held when he was in Pittsburgh some years ago (83-4?) -- her name was Celeste, I think, & she ran after him down the street after the last class to hug him & say goodbye. He read it from Selected Poems, so it must be from The Past, or perhaps the one before (can't think of the name). And then he read When One Has Lived a Long Time Alone entire, which again made me weep for it is sublime, as moving & beautiful as much else as what he has written. I heard some undergrads on the walk to the car complaining because it's so long, but the grownups got it. He finished with The Black Bear, which puts together a respectful meeting with a bear in the woods & the birth of "Fergus, my boy," and I thought I saw the Dad's look when he said it. The encore was After Making Love..., which these folks hadn't heard, and so were thrilled by it as one is the first time, and ever after charmed. He was dressed in a safari shirt, baggy pants, and all-trainers, his hair flopping as it does as he looks down then up, shifting weight from foot to foot then settling on the right as he sets himself to recite. He stumbles not infrequently, and I sense no drive behind his reading, but I remember how different he is close up, and perhaps the distance I remained from him contributed. Afterwards he was mobbed, so I left, even more fond of him than before. He appeared rested and up to it if not exactly vigorous, but as I said, the distance.... 11 October 1991
The infant searches at his mother's breast -- G[alway] K[innell], "Alewives Pool" in What a Kingdom It Was [O]n the home front, Mom moves to Independence Court today. About all we did yesterday to get ready was to get suitcases down from the attic and do some laundry. We will take the time we need. John Paterra [sic, = Petero] called yesterday morning, and I let him down as nicely as I could. I like the guy, but his product wasn't very good; or rather it cost too much, regardless of how good it was. $637.50, which is 8.5% of the &7500 we'd talked about putting in a longer-term fund, would buy Mom 10 days at Independence Court (@ $67.-- a day for her room with kitchenette), or me three round-trip tickets. But it's the principle of the thing: it shouldn't cost anything for you to give your money to someone so they can use it. I then called [Mom's lawyer] Reed Day about putting my name on the deed to the house, but he cautioned that, although it would save some probate costs, the house represented an assert that Mom might need to be as large as possible, if worse came to worst. I began to realize that maybe things were moving a little fast here. Mom's condition is not permanent, there is no call for me to just take all this stuff over, but rather I should be doing only what I've done -- make some decisions, arrange for Mom to be taken care of as needed (neither more nor less), move the medical process along. So basta.
12 October 1991 All over the TV yesterday, as I was helping Mom pack for the move to Independence Court, was the Supreme Court Soap Opera. Clarence Thomas, Geo. Bush's nominee to replace the great Thurgood Marshall, has been accused by his former aide, Anita Hill, now a law professor at UOK, of sexual harrassment. This has come very late in the process, at the last minute in fact, when it seemed that the Senators, unable to find anything objectionable about him in 103 days of hearings, were seeing the safe vote to be for cnfirmation. Prof. Hill did not come forward; this came out when she was questioned by Senate aides who were doing dbackground interviews of his associates. Both of them are credible, though one has to be lying. Judge Thomas began the day by denying everything and blasting the process of public hearings. He's pissed off, and his outrage & righteous indignation were impressive and convicing. Prof. Hill, on the other hand, was composed & controlled, though clearly terribly upset by all this. She is not, however, going to back down. Her story is that a number of times Thomas asked her out, the began discussing pornographic movies in which "people with large penises & large breasts had sex, scenes in which women had sex with animals... [and in which] sex & rape scenes were depicted... He also described his own penis as very large and talked about the pleasure he had given women with oral sex." (My best paraphrase) Prof. Hill was then grilled for eight hours by the Committee, and though they uncovered some inconsistencies, she never lost her cool, and it was clear no one wanted to badger an extremely sympathetic witness. Judge Thomas then returned at about 9 p.m. & refused to answer any specific questions, as he had promised in his opening statement. He continued to lambaste the process, calling it a circus, and to roast the Senators for pursuing it. He said, at the end of his statement in the morning, "Confirm me if you will, do not confirm me if you are so led, but this process must stop." He clearly no longer cares which way it goes; his good name is what is at stake, & he blames this "Kafkaesque" process for ruining it. What is truth? asked Pontius Pilate, and that is certainly one of the questions here. But in an odd way, although a species of it will dominate the thoughts of everyone following the story -- i.e., what is the truth here? -- I don't think that can be determined in this case; I think it may be incommensurate, if I'm using that word correctly. Judge Thomas is right, this process is a circus, and as such cannot have any efficacy in determiing a nominee's fitness to serve, it can only dig up dirt. In fact, as John Chancellor pointed out, public confirmation hearings may be counterproductive, because presidents are more likely to choose someone unexceptionable than someone with experience at making tough decisions, who surely thereby has gained enemies. Clarence Thomas, Buish thought, was just such a nomineee, and his lack of distinction was in fact a slight problem with the NAACP & others, along with his conservative tilt, enough so that he failed to get their endorsements. But after all it seemed that he would be confirmed because no one could think of a good reason not to. And then this bombshell hit. Does this accusation, even if substantiated, make Clarence Thomas a monster of depravity? Yes & no. Yes in the absolute sense: in part because no one should subject another to such unwelcome attention, but more importantly because it is an abuse of the power ta man as boss has over a woman as employee. It's a form of rape. Camille's right: sex is power, perhaps the ultimate. Kissinger said power was the absolute aphrodisiac. But every woman who has ever worked recognizes the story Prof. Hill is telling. The legal definition of sexual harrassment requires the plaintiff to demonstrate that resistance to these unwelcome attentions created a dangerous atmosphere in the workplace; that it was clearly implied her job would be jeopardized or at least made difficult if she made any fuss. But this is not a trial, in the legal sense. Clarence Thomas may very well have done what Anita Hill alleges, and still be unexceptional, if not eunexceptionable. He may not even eremember it, because it was no big deal to him, hence his outrage is totally sincere. (I find this scenario not entirely plausible, though in combination with other possibilities it may do.) Deb tells me that even maintenance men feel they have the right to talk dirty to almost any woman who enters the building, and they have no power at all, except this one. She's had to put up with this crap all her working life, and so has every other woman i the workplace. And that's the monster of depravity, the fact that the kind of thing Clarence Thomas is accused of is not even unusual, let alone incredible. No doubt the senators & others will pick away at her story, but she's flushed the bugger out, and even if she's lying through her teeth (another implausibility), it will be difficult to get the toothpaste back in the tube. I HOPE. Sorry Clarence. I'm afraid your good name is no longer the issue. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ [Independence Court] The home front news is that Mom moved into Independence Court almost without incident. We were almost on our way out the door when the phone rang: it was Marsha from Dr. Corkery's office -- they found an "artifact" in Mom's brain CTscan, and now want to do an MRI, which cheered her up no end. So she was pretty glum, already nervous about the move. Radiologist said had to order MRI even though this may be nothing, don't be alarmed -- easy for them to say. But once here she seemed to perk up, is always looking around and smiling & saying hi to everyone she meets. Smoking lounge after dinner made her a couple-three new friends, most notably Anita, who lives across the hall, an apparent wise-cracker but frinedly and welcoming. I'm sure there's a downside to being here, perhaps especially just having to be here, but so far so good. The food's good too. 13 October 1991
Coming/Arriving/Come at last to/at/to the end of words 19 October 1991 Have been home for four days, then returned late Thursday night to take Mom for MRI yesterday. I show up at the home, ask, "Where's your wheelchair?" she looks up innocently & blinks. "I don't need the wheelchair." She's been walking to the dining room and the smoker for a couple days. With help, of course, but without the exhaustion. Even the MRI, which put her in the oven for forty-five minutes, & meant lugging her all the way to the hospital, only wore her out a normal amount, whereas the CT scan a week & a half ago nearly killed her. I found out that the reason for the MRI, the "artifact" on the CT scan, is some "noise" or shadow made by the machine, and the radiologist has to order another look at the brain to make sure that's what it was. On the order it said ABN CT, but according to the guy who took Mom's CT (he showed up during the MRI) there was a variation within the normal range on Mom's brain. He seemed a little flushed while he was telling me this, so I still worry. Then in the afternoon Dr. Corkery called the nurse @ Ind. Ct., ordered B-12 shots to build up Mom's energy. At last some kind of treatment has begun, but she also seems to be making her own progress as well. 1 November 1991
"... always it's the past blowing its -- G[alway] K[innell], Les Invalides
18 December 1991 1 January 1992 The yearly recap, beginning at the end. Last night I added my first string of script to a HyperCard stack -- "play wahoo" when I click on Saturday in MyToDoList. I nearly bust a gut when it worked: I did strain one of those little abdominal muscles near the rib cage from laughing. When I showed it to Deb she howled too, then suggested I add a "splat" to Monday, which I did. I'm a programmer! Earlier I wrote letters & sent the latest chapbook to Michael Harper, Nick Hill & Sherry Horton from the NYU Poetry Camp. The Faculty Resource Network published A Poetry Collection, consisting of the poems we read the last day, in a beautiful chapbook. On Christmas Eve I found out Antigonish Review will publish "Bagatelle". Earlier in the fall 5AM finally appeared with "sitting in the empty [playground park]" in it. I am now a published poet & will soon be a published fictioneer.... This is good. What's not so good is Mom, who languishes at Independence Court of Mt. Lebanon, still underweight, & too weak to walk. Dr. Corkery remains mystified. Just before Thanksgiving, when the physical therapist said she was just about to "turn the corner," she had a crashing relapse that kept her in bed for a whole day & afterwards left her strength devastated. When she went back to Corkery in December she'd lost 4 pounds. They're still jiggling meds. I go to see her Sunday (driving the big Swede), will take her to Corkery Tuesday. I can't stop worrying. Lynn's romance has become becalmed, it seems to me, and she goes back & forth about rejoicing & regretting what she's done. All this 12-step stuff may be helping, but it also sounds like an awful lot of work. On the other hand, she's making friends & likes where she sings. I don't know. I worry about her too. Deb's exhausted but exhilarated too: she's on the masthead of Trinity News and Books & Religion as Associate Editor, and she's damn good & beginning to feel it. This is very good. Haven't seen or heard much from Nell, though the one time I was with her -- to take her back to Yale after Thanksgiving -- wa just wonderful. She's gained some wisdom, and soon will pass into a realm of the intellectual aristocracy that I'll never attain. She spent New Year's Eve in Florence (or was it Paris?) with Jimmie & Michael. She's going to be unstoppable. God I love her. And I can't help telling her every time I'm with her at Yale how happy I am for her. That's the best I can do -- God knows I can't pay for it. In this respect as in others it's good she went with Jimmie. God knows what would have happened to the boy had he not. This is good. At some point during this year I ceased to be a dark-haired person. I also topped 170 pounds. Not good at all. We bought bikes, rode them once (and may go out today). We've ordered a NordicTrac, which can't arrive too soon. A partial list:
While the country & the world slips into the boiling waters of the fin de siècle, our life is very good, promising, loving. The cats are great. Onward. 7 January 1992 I woke up teaching international students to write English in exchange for their teaching me to write in their language. I'm here to take Mom to the doctor's She's not so good as she was when I last saw her -- thinner, more drawn, paler. But Dick the physical therapist says she's on an upswing. Two weeks ago she couldn't hav walked with a cane at all, as he made her do yesterday. Her endurance is better, though still not enough to get her to the dining room. But she's interested in her appetite again, she's eating better, her spirits are better. She's started talking about the arrangements that'll have to be made when she comes home. She's anxious to get out of there. This is all good. He thinks this is basically her call: what does she want to do with her life? Lynn went to Suzie's for a week & came back with lots of questions: What's in his differential diagnosis? What is the main focus of treatment? What is the etiology of her symptoms? If this is depression, why not a psychological consultation? Neurological? I agree she should have a psycho evaluation, probably see a neurologist too. One interesting observation Lynn (or Suzie) made is that many of Mom's symptoms are the same as Dad's. And she always got sick around the holidays. But I'm a little annoyed. Lynn sounded almost bossy on the phone, as if these things weren't being considered. I understand, I think: she's not here, she wants to be able to do something, she just came from talking to a nurse -- well, everybody's got suggestions, even Jimmie, who said test for Epstein-Barr (is that chronic fatigue?) & Hashimoto's Revenge or something. Of course I'll bring these things up, but I'm not going to interrogate the guy. If she wants to she can. Mom's appointment is today at 1.45. 8 January 1992 Logic is a means, not an end. It is a tool for discovering meaning, not meaning itself. -- Bly's dream, 1/8/92 Woke up at precisely 7.00 with the above ringinging [sic] in my brain, hd to get up in the dark & write it down. Somebody else probably said it first, but I like it: it sums up a line of thought I've been pursuing in a subliminal fashion for some time. I'm sure I'll find an occasion to use it soon. Mom's visit to Dr. corkery was a modest success: she's gained three pounds, looks better, is somewhat stronger. But there's been muscle atrophy & she still has tingling in her right arm & hand, & the hand now jerks. Prescription: keep it up, but it's likely to be a slog. She'll need to be bucked up often. I'm off in a few minutes, will be back in two weeks. No doctor for two months. PT for another 4 weeks.
21 January 1992 Back at the ancestral home for a pep visit to Mom, who now is walking to the dining room & back for one meal a day (thought she was smart a couple days ago & tried two meals, but it was too much. Dick the PT is very encouraging, has her traipsing up & down the hall & even doing a flight of stairs with only a cane, so dshe can see where she's headed. She's in good spirits, & her appetite's improved -- & the new food service at the Court is helping that, too.
22 February 1992 Mom looks bad. I know she's lost weight, though she says she thinks she's gained, she can feel it in her clothes. Looks to me like they just hang off her -- the shoulders of her sweater down almost to her elbows, her back pockets under her butt. She's lost her shape, her collarbones & cheek bones show, and her hands have gone flat. Worst, she's got that big-eyed look. But she doesn't act any different -- her spirits, her sense of humor, the way she talks (except for slightly slurred speech) are all unchanged, and she doesn't repeat herself any more than I do, so I think her mind's OK. But she didn't do her exercises yesterday, and I didn't have the heart to make her. She just doesn't have the heart to make herself, somehow. She's to have a visit from Dr. Wright, the head of psychiatric at St. Clair, an older (or at least "white-haired") man who sees some of the other residents at the Court. She speaks hopefully of this new tack, though she's not sure how it can help. But she's willing to try, and that's good. Many people have told her this, including, of course, Lynn. But I'm worried. The Big Worried, as Deb would say. Seems to me that if this doesn't work, and soon, that will be all. The point of no return -- physically, at least -- may already have been passed. I wouldn't have said this before now, before seeing her this time. I hope it isn't true, but it has happened. I've been puzzling over what is wrong with her, and since the doctors are stumped, I guess I've as much of a chance as they of coming up with an answer (awkward enough, Mr. English teacher?). And I think I have a plausible scenario, though it's only deduction from what I know of my own feelings & reactions. I'll put this in its extremest expression, so that its outline will be most clear. Mom's ultimate weapon was the freeze-out. Dad's was the sulk. At some point, I think, Mom froze Dad out once too often for him, and he went into a permanent sulk, from which he would not, then could not, be revived. At first Mom would have done what she always did -- she waited, because he always came back, because he loved her. But he didn't come back, he slipped further & further away, and she became angry & scared, & then panicked, & then -- Well, here's where I grope. I'm describing what I imagine to be her experience, her point of view -- leaving out, for example, Dad't meeting his own death, another of my imaginings. But Mom has told me a number of times of the terrible things she said to him near the end, just before they took him away from her. In typical Bly family fashion, I didn't ask what those terrible words were, believing, in my innocence, that ther were mere obscenities, which seemed at the time to be what Mom was implying. Now, I think, she meant something far more horrifying than mere profanity -- and I also believe she may have wnted to tell me what they were, to confess, if that's the right word. But confess what? That she'd said she hated him? That would do it, I think. Repressing that rage, and thus bearing that guilt, would be enough to wear her out, if my meatball psychology has any merit. And it might be this simple, I guess, though I doubt it. Part of my Big Worriy is that in her weakened state bringing this all out may kill her. But maybe I'm underestimating her again, as I always did. I also have this belief, probably first formulated by Deb, that if she can make it past May 24, she'll make it. But beneath all of this fretting & casting about, I believe most important is that Mom find some peace. Perhaps I say this becuase it's what I feel is missing from my own life, but she needs it more than I do, becuase she has more to bear. 23 February 1992 I am really disturbed by the way Lynn is taking this. I called her from the hotel last night to tell her how bad I think things have become, & she didn't seem to care all that much. Kept saying things like, "...if this is her time," then following that with "not that I'm burying her already..." Mayve it was surprise, because she'd called earlier & we'd talked a little bit, but I could hardly say anything with Mom right there. But nothing I said later seemed to faze her -- she acted as if she knew it all already, and that the whole thing was settled. When I said I didn't know what good I was doing by visiting, she thought I meant there was nothing we could do, which was hardly what I meant. At the end of the conversation I said, "Don't give up on her." She said, "I haven't. Do you think I've given up?" I said it sounded like it. She said she was just trying to deal with the way things are. It's the indifference that bothers me most. Deb thinks Lynn's just mad -- mad at Dad, & at Mom for being cold & letting (enabling?) happen whatever she thinks Dad did to her with his alcoholism. But I don't think Dad's alcoholism explains everything. I would love to really talk this out with her, I need to, but she's holed up in some psyhchological cave, where this stuff can't touch her. (Believe me now or regret it later, darlin', this is happening to you, too.) She's wrapped herself up in this 12-step theology, & she ain't coming out. Her life's a worse mess now than it ever was, so maybe I should have some compassion. No, definitely I should have some compassion. If this is the way she's taking it, it means she's not taking it at all, and she's going to hate herself later if she lets Mom go feeling like this. I better talk to her again. But I'll consult Deb first.
26 March 1992 The good news is that Deborah is with child. All this month she'd been gacking & feeling really terribly & much more tired than usual. But she never kept very close tabs on her period, so didn't know if she'd missed. It began to seem like a good possibility. So she got an EPT (Early Pregnancy Test) at the drug store & took it when I was at school, must have been the 9th or 10th. When I came home she popped it to me. There has been quite a flurry in the two choirs. The folk at Wagner -- particularly Connie -- have been wonderful, though it's not clear how thrilled Katherine is at Trin Communications. There's a lot more to say about it, but I'm preoccupied with the bad news, which is why I'm in McMurray. I was here for Mom's appt with Corkery two weeks ago; Lynn was too. She was down to 75 pounds. The shrik had seen her, and ordered neurological tests. The neurologist did a routine chest x-ray, which turned up a "large mediastinal mass." A CT scan of her chest the next week seemed to indicate a lymphoma, so Mom was admitted to Washington Hospital so that, as Corkery said, we could get more aggressive now that there was something to treat. The first thing was to get a diagnosis, for which a Dr. McCabe was enlisted to do a mediastinoscopy, wherein a small incision is made in the sternal notch & biopsies of the offending tissue are taken. The diagnosis: a tumor on her lung which is compressing the right bronchial tube. Lung Cancer. Inoperable. Somewhat sensitive to radiation, but not to be cured. And her condition probably precludes any aggressive attack, if there were one to be made. When she called me Monday to tell me she was going in, I started planning to drive out just to be here until Lynn arrived on Saturday. Now Lynn's coming today (Thursday) at 3.24 USAir 1438. I'll want to talk to the doctors today, but beyond that, I don't know what there is to do. 28 March 1992 When I arrived in the mornig the day before yesterday Mom was sitting up, struggling with her oxygen mask, which was much too big for her face. She had no strength & was shaking with the effort. There was a feeding tube taped across her forehead & hten tied to her upper lip with gauze, whence it goes into her nose, down her throat, & into her tummy, as the nurses say. For a good part of the morning she fussed with her monitors & tubes, seeming particulary mystified by the blood oxygen one that was taped to her left ring finger, which glows with a red light, rather like ET. At 1.30 they took her down for radiation, just about the time Carol Thomas showed up for a visit. Carol & I went to the coffee shop, where she told me she left (was locked out of, actually) Independence Court because she'd been complaining fo unethical practices such as raising ratess 3 times in the past year, doctoring census figures, charging full rate (instead of the 80% in the contracts) when residents were in the hospital, & so on. Legal action is being pursued, & she's got tsome concessions that "mistakes were made." Then I picked up Lynn at the airport & brought her back. Mom was pretty much out of it the whole day. Sally Evans & Helen Fispis called & I gave them the news (I'd spoken to Bob Bennett & Til Cleary the night before). We spelled each other at the bedside & the snack bar. I took Lynn home around nine, then came back & spent the night in the consulting room, part of the time on one of the love seats, part on the floor. Next morning (yesterday) Lynn returned at 8, & we saw Dr. Heise around 9. The whole story is this: it's called oat-cell cancer, and its principal treatment is chemo, but it's pretty rough, & considering Mom's nutritional condition, not a good idea. The lymph glands in her chest are all swollen, which is what's making it hard for her to breathe, so the cancer specialists are interested in continuing radiation, which will shrink them somewhat & make her a bit more comfortable, at least for a while. But the cancer's also having other effects -- making her sodium levels fall again, as at the beginning. That can be treated, but the pattern is clear: more things will eventually start to go wrong. Lynn asked how long; Dr. Heise's best guess is weeks rather than days, but certainly not months. So that's the sentence. I went home to change clothes & eat a little bit. When I returned Wayney-Bob was there. Mom had been somewhat better after a restless night: they'd had to restrain her, as she kept trying to get out of bed. She'd slept during our interview with Dr. Heise, but now was fairly alert. When the shifts changed we went to the lounge, where W-B pontificated about this ministry being to tell rural folk they're not stupid. He was more fun when I could beat him up. Lynn went to Independence Ct to arrange to check Mom out; while Mom napped some more I ate my chipped ham & monster cheese sandwich. When Lynn got back they took Mom for radiation. About five we decided to leave: Lynn wanted to make a meeting at 9 & we'd decided to get all Mom's stuff from the Court & check her out. While there we saw Millie (to whom I gave Mom's last two packs of cigarettes) and Mary Broda, both very sad at the news. It was hard to do: all the stuff Mom had, the last things of her real life there. It was the clothes that got to Lynn the most; for me it was the dishes & silverware. The spoon was the one either Lynn or I had used to bang on something, & was all flat, & we'd always change it if we got it for dinner. It was very, very sad. We went to Elby's once we'd packed up, where a troop of Mongoloids stood around the cashier with their little change purses, being very functional as Lynn put it. Then home to bed. Now we're in Mom's new room in the cancer unit, waiting for Dr. Corkery.
5 April 1992 Over the last week Mom's received radiation therapy oce a day, which has been very effective, and has perked her up, but brought her back to what? With the help of Dr. Corkery & Paul the social worker, Lynn has managed, she believes, to get Mom to understand what's happening. She has also arranged for Mom to be released (next Wed or Thur) to Presbyterian Manor, the place Reed Day liked so much. & was always recommending. I drove back to NY last Saturday, leaving at 3, arriving by 10.30. I then made all the arrangements I could for the next three weeks. Colette of course was a rock, and everyone at NYU was most solicitous. That's true at Wagner as well, but God forgive me I don't care. The Writing Center languishes -- I should probably ask adjuncts to cover, or something -- but probably that will continue. Owen is flying me back for the St John's; I even have a little solo. Lynn is not finding this easy. With me this is a scheduling problem and also terribly sad, but being back here is not a trauma. But for Lynn being here is a real aggravation. 6 April 1992 (Couldn't really continue in the hospital room next to Mom & with the TV blasting.) I'm not sure why this is so hard for her: girl-guilt; anxious to get back to her new life, which has hardly set yet; never liked it here once she got away, which she was dying to do; afraid of getting sucked into the muffled quality of things out here.... Whatever it is, she's really chafing, and resenting me for not being here when some hard decisions had to be made, such as where to take Mom when she's discharged. Lynn admits to this resentment, volunteered the information within an hour of my arrival on Friday, didn't exactly apologize, but also implied that she knew it wasn't entirely fair... Her first night alone here she dumped out all the liquor left in the passthrough cabinet. The next she dumped out all of Mom's wellbutrin antidepressant pills -- which Mom could have gotten her money back for, I believe, & she asked about. She talks endlessly with her Al-Anon sponsor & Geoff & others "in the program," has determined that she was addicted to marijuana, and so goes to Narcotics Anonymous meetings when she can't find an Al-Anon or some other 12-step meeting to go to. I think she's been swept away.
7 April 1992 Yesterday I spoke with Dr. Frimmer (sp?) the oncologist, who gave a somewhat more encouraging picture of Mom's prognosis. First, she's reponding very well to the radiation, getting good air in both lungs, & the pulmonary failure for which she was hospitalized in the first place has been fixed. However, they haven't yet been able to test for any of the things upon which they base survival predictions; in particular, has it spread to bone or other organs. But, he said, given an otherwise healthy patient (which Mom is not, being seriously undernourished) and localized disease, 6 months to a year was possible. But the disease is very aggressive, and Mom's debilitiation rules out the standard chemo treatment. But Dr. Frimer said there were some forms of chemo that could be used on frailer patients, and if Mom continues to improve at her present rate, he will try one of them. The radiation now will end on Saturday, not tomorrowk, at which time Mom can move to the Presbyterian Home. If all goes well thereafter, in two weeks she can go to Dr. Fremer's office for the beginning of those tests which they have been unable to do so far. This puts a different complexion on Lynn's & my vigil here -- apparently the present crisis is over. Lynn now thinks she'll stay thru Easter Saturday, which means I should do a lightning raid the next weekend. Two weeks after that the semesters end, & I can come to Pgh to grade exams. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Hosp. Nelly just called to say she'll be coming i for the weekend. Unfortunately I'll be back in NY for the St. John Passion, leaving tomorrow at 6.25 am & returning Sunday night very late, by which time Nell will have flown back. Last weekend was her performance of the Tempest @ Yale, in which Nell played Adrian and Juno in the masque. Jimmie & Michael appeared for friends & neighbors night, saw Nelly rappelling down from the chapel ceiling for the s.d. "Juno descends," and proptly put a stop to that. Although Nell had thoroughly trained & her coach (who also played Caliban) was certified, what was not approved was the building itself. So I suppose it wasn't just her being a killjoy, but... And then Nell described the esprit de(u?) corps of the cat, having been together 4 hrs a day for six weeks, then all day & all night the last week. Do I remember, including the cast party...
8 April 1992 Mom wasn't very good yesterday. When I went in I found her in a torso restraing -- she told me they'd found here at 3.30 in the morning sitting up in a chair, though she didn't remember it. A bad night; she dozed most of the day. Lynn arrived about 3.45, having makde real good time playing bumper cars on the way over. We went out to Elby's for dinner. And back at the house I was blessed by three does coming into the yard at dusk & frolicking before me as I sat on the porch railing watching the dark gather, doing my Dad. And I was reminded that just sitting still & waiting often brings a blessing.
Monday in Holy Week Arrived last night via American Eagle 4917, landad at almost 1 am. Mom will move today at 1.30 to the Presbyterian Medical Center. Lynn's at an Al-Anon meeting in Mt. Lebanon. I'm groggy but present. Last Wednesday (4/8) passed without incident, except that I left my house & office keys in my winter coat, and so had to wait for Deb to get out of a Vicar's meeting before I could go home. Then to Wagner for an uneventful half day. Drove in for Bach, which was harried but OK. Next morning Deb & I went to the genetic counselor's, where we had the next procedure -- chorionic villi sampling -- explained. At this stage the placenta & embryo are of the same genetic makeup, so a culture from the chorionic villi can screen for chromosomal abnormalities. The counselor, Pam, was of the Ruth Cunningham type, a lovely woman. She was joined by Carol (Cindy?) the one Deb had talked to when she set up the apt -- also a type, rather bored but competent & pleasant enough. The hell of it was that I'd failed to change my return to Pgh, so Deb was going to have to go alone -- one of the items I had to rearrange that I didn't get to, and Deb was so scarded about the procedure. When we realized it Wednesday night she cried, & I felt like a shit -- I knew how important it was. The plan was to call Kathy Burdick & see if she could go. In any event Mom was still scheduled to go the same day. When Deb came out of the bathroom after the consultation, she was crying -- she was bleeding. She'd spotted a little bit the day before, but the books said it wasn't unusual, especially after intercourse, because the cervix is so heavily vascularized. But an increase was not good. So we called the obstetrician, who said go to the ultrasound lab (in the same building) first. There it became clear that there was no one in there. Dr. DeCelis said look on the positive side, everything else worked, and that this happens 20% of the time (in all pregnancies?) that there is a miscarriage within the first twelve weeks. We figured this baby was conceived on Valentine's Day, which would have made it 7 - 8 weeks old -- maybe an inch long if it had lived. [The scene in the ultrasound room; running the gauntlet through the mommies & babies at the OBGYN, twice -- they of course knowing as we came out...] Well that trashed the rest of the day. We got home in time for me to leave for TQ practice, dress rehearsal for the Bach, where everyone was wonderful. Becca Armstrong, it turns out had had almost exactly the same thing happened [sic] to her six months ago. Deb didn't go, called Owen & proposed he give her solo to Ana Hernandez. He said just decide on the day, but as it turned out, Ana would have to keep it -- although Deb felt OK on the day, by that time Ana would have been really hurt & mad if Deb took it back. It was Ana's first solo in public. Friday was spent at the Wag in the morning, then Deb & I went to the Mall to order my tux for the St. John. America at its best. Saturday we were at home, Deb fielding phone calls & me trying to write a study-group proposal for Empire State College in the fall, and then we both went back to the mall to get my tux & Deb to get some underwear. Then I went to the grocery store. Sunday was church & the St. John. Then I flew here. Maundy Thursday Mom died yesterday at 8.45 am. She'd had a rough night; at 3 the nurses had called the doctor and the chaplain; Mom was so agitated I guess they thought she might go then. But they got her calmed down and resting comfortably, whatever that means. Then at 8.30 Linda the charge nurse went in to check on her, couldn't get a blood pressure. Mom was having difficulty breathing. Linda called here, told Lynn Mom had taken a turn for the worse. I was in the middle of packing to drive back to NY, though I'd planned to stop in to say goodbye on my way. We took both cars for some reason. I got there first. Linda met me at the desk, walked me back toward the room, telling me about Mom's night and morning. "Then about ten minutes after we called you," she said, "your mother did stop breathing for us." I went into the room with her; she drew back the curtain. Mom lay on her back, the sheet & blanket up to her shoulders. From across the room it was clear there was no one there. "Oh, yes," I said, in recognition, it felt like. Then I went around the far side, petted her forehead, stroked her cheeks. "Oh, darlin. Oh, sweetheart." Linda said she'd leave me alone for a few minutes, then I'd need to go back out to the desk. Mom was lying off-center, closer to the window. They'd composed her limbs, folding her hands on her stomach. Her eyes were closed, but her mouth hung wide open, her upper lip slightly snaggled on the one tooth she had left, the right precanine (? -- 2nd from right front). There was a pool of saliva at the back of her throat, and a little blob of snot in her right nostril, from where they removed the feeding tube. She was still body temperature, & when I bumped the bed she moved. But she was very pale, & her lips & the inside of her mouth had no color at all, it seemed. J. Paul Cameron, the chaplain, then came in to ask if there was anything he could do. A large fleshy guy of the Terry Waite type, he'd spent ome time the previous afternoon getting to know us, though I think Mom was feeling too bad to much appreciate it. Now I asked him if he wouldn't mind leaving us alone for the moment, my sister would be there shortly. I don't remember if I talked to her, but I petted her some more. Then I became a little impatient for Lynn to arrive, & went back toward the desk. As I got there, she came in. I put my arm around her as we walked toward the room, started the spiel Linda had given me. Lynn interrupted: "Is she dead?" "Yes." I finished the story, & we got to the room. Lynn went around to the far side, tried to close Mom's mouth, but of course it wouldn't stay. She then pulled back the covers, felt Mom's bony hands, looked at the blue crosses on her chest where they'd nuked her, covered her back up. At that point we both broke down & cried, hjolding each other. I went back to the desk & called the funeral home, & then Deb, while Lynn packed up Mom's stuff. J. Paul appeared to her with a ginger ale & two cups with ice. After everything was sort of arranged, we stood in the room getting ready to say goodbye. Lynn pulled back the covers to see her feet, which had looked like Mom's feet all along. Their color was shocking, most like ivory, but I don't think anything else is that color. And their beauty was breathtaking. I'll never forget it. The chaplain was outside, and it was clear he wasn't going anywhere until he'd had a chance to at least ask if he could say a prayer. Neither of us was much interested, but he wanted to badly, so we said OK. His words only sailed across the surface of my mind as I stood looking & looking at Mom. But one thing he said almost started Lynn laughing. "You have taken her in your arms, Lord," he said in his magnificent baritone, "though we don't know exactly what that means..." He choked up during the prayer, this well-meaning man who only met us yesterday. I know he felt a lot better, having prayed, and we were glad for that. And maybe Mom's spirit, if she was still in the room, was pleased. For me & for Lynn, I don't think it mattered a damn. We left & went to breakfast at King's, though I didn't eat. Back home Waynie Bob showed up, having gone first to the PMC & been mistaken for the undertaker. He stayed to lunch. I find his doctrinaire Christianity a vexation to the spirit; but he & Lynn are joined at the hip. Then we had to go to the funeral home to finalize the arrangements & officially identify the body, or "Mum," as Gary the funeral director kept saying. As we pulled into the driveway, Lynn was trying to remember who had asked her where Mom was going to be "laid out." We opined it must have been Sally Evans, whom Lynn had called while I talked to Wayne. We agreed she should have said, in as flat a Picksburgh accent as possible, "Sorry, Sal, she dint wanna be laid aht." This had us doubled over & howling as we went in the doors of the funeral home. Gary was a real nice Picksburgh boy, & his referring to "Mum" wasn't in the least disrespectful. There was some question about the urn, so we had to go through the casket room, which smelled just like a new car showroom, & I said so. Lynn told me later she was near to bursting out laughing the whole time we were there, almost told me to ask if I could take one o' those babies out for a spin. [Identifying the body: mouth wired shut, crooked. But it was, or used to be, our "Mum."] I may continue this later, but want to record one more incident. The night before Lynn & I had been talking about the Eskimos leaving their old ones on an ice floe, & how humane this was, whether the old ones took it stoicly [sic] or raged against the dying of the light. As we were leaving the house Lynn said, "Mom said, 'Fuck this shit. I ain't stayin' on this ice floe. Come get me, polar bears!'" And later, when she called Geoff from the room, she refined it. "Mom said, "Fuck this ice floe. I'm jumpin' in.'"
Easter Day After leaving the funeral home, we drove south on 19 toward the travel agency where Lynn needed to exchange her ticket home. And I wanted to stop in at Rita's to get my hair cut. The restaurant Arrostaria's (formerly Lou Kairy's) was advertising Lenten Specials. We wondered what the hell those could be. Crown of Thorns? Spear in the Side? How about Vinegar on a Sponge? The travel agent was unprepared to deal with Lynn's request, though she could come back tomorrow, so we returned to Rita's to see if she could squeeze us in. Rita was freaked -- the last time she saw Mom was back in October (my last hair cut) just before Mom went into Independence Court. She loved Mom, considered her a friend, was, in fact hurt that no one had told her what was going on. But she cut my hair, & Lynn was to go in next day. Back home there were a couple calls, as there would be at intervals throughout the day. Lynn took a nap, I went down to the trail, & found a neat back woods path from Peter's Wood down the hill, a trail used by horses & deer as well as people & their dogs. The peace there was wonderful, & I sat down once to cry. The one picture that remains in my mind is of Mom sitting up in bed in the ICU, struggling with her mask. She's better now.
25 April 1992 Ten days. I drove back to New York the next day for Maundy Thurs services, arriving a scant ten minutes before the service began at six. Afterward Deb & I went to Patricio's of Stapleton for a real meal. The next morning we arose before 5 to leave at 6 to arrive at NYU Medical Center by 7 for her D & C. Once checked in, we went to 1259 to wait (12th floor's the OR holding pen). She had to take off her wedding ring, and there was some question about her eye, but since she sleeps with it in it was OK. About 11 they finally came for her, after one false alarm at 9.30, and I went to Trinity & sang the Good Friday service, which was a mess, so far as the choir was concerned. By the time I got back to the hospital just before 3, Deb was out of recovery & into room 1520, where she stayed until Saturday morning. She told me she'd had to fight with the anesthesiologist, who suddenly said he wouldn't put her under because she's asthmatic. She needed this last unpleasant surprise like she needed any of the other bad news we've been getting of late, so she wore him down. But as a result all her muscles were locked when she came out of anesthesia, apparently because she'd been fighting the whole time. So I brought her home, & she napped while I caught up on "paperwork," then we left for rehearsal @ Trinity, then potluck & Vigil with the Family Choir [@ St. Paul's?]. The service was beautiful but long, & Deb had to lie down whenever she could. At one point during the hour-long candlelit part, during the baptism, I think, in one of those solemnly silent moments, a little girl said loudly, "where's my baba?" and it said it all. Walking down deserted rainy Broadway to get the car after service some jerk robbed me of the $20 I needed to get the car out, so I had to stop at the cash machine. Next morning we had to be at church at 7.45 for the two Easter services, but had to pick up Jennifer & Charles, so had to leave even earlier than ever. After services -- which went basically without incident, except that the 9 o'clock was like a ghost town -- we came home to crash. Deb was still hurting pretty bad, but lots of sleep helped some. Monday we both stayed home, Deb because she was still moving too slow & painful, me because Wagner had inexplicably made Easter Monday a class holiday. Connie Schuyler came over with some flowers, & stayed long enough to look at the archives a little. Later we went on a junket to the two savings banks & King's Chef & a search for a picnic table. Tuesday we both went back to work. When I arrived at UG Drama, I was called in to the faculty mtg for hugs & condolences. The two classes went OK, though I was less than brilliant. Back home I read Happy Days. Wednesday I went to the Wag, found out Susan & Nom had had a baby girl, Caroline, Easter Monday morning 12.58. Did class, came back; flew here. Or that was the plan. We left the house at 8.45 & drove to JFK, where fog was cancelling flights right & left. We were OK until about 10.45, when we too were cancelled. So we were bused to the Holiday Inn, where we got three hours sleep before going back to try to get a 7 o'clock flight. It didn't leave until after 9, still because of fog. We landed at 10.30, came to the house, showered, went to the service at 3, which was beautiful -- Dopn Steele's remarks were exactly Mom -- then had the family & close friends back to the house for cold cuts & pop & stories. More about the service: Nelly read Ps. 121, I read Rev. 21, Don read John 14. Same order of events, except no Ps. 103, no poem, and Don's remarks were the most moving -- Mom loved life, didn't want to leave, was confused about dying, but wasn't afraid; rarely, he said, a man in his position has a great honor in knowing someone; knowing Jane was one such, particularly at her dying. Afterwards in the sanctuary we were greeted by relatives & friends & Mom's golfing buddies. Back at home were the Cleary kids, the Bennetts, Sally Kendall, Ann, Paul & Michael, Dorothy & Ted. Deb had a good talk with Lynn Bennett. Michael Locke gets married tomorrow. The interment yesterday was less than ceremonious: it rained, they'd spread the hole with astroturf, we each held the box for a moment, then Mark or someone put it in the vault which was just sitting on the carpet. Then we went to breakfast at King's. After which home for hanging out until Deb & I took Nell to the airport for her flight back to New Haven. On the way back Deb & I went to the real ancestral home @ 442 Union Avenue; still there, porch somewhat abbreviated, but same shingles & yard. Then back through Mt. Lebanon, past Independence Ct, an hour stop at Borders Book Store, then home. This morning on the trail, I saw Mom, or rather where she's gone. I'd stopped to gaze at a bank & puddle, realized we're all still there, one of the life forms, but now Mom's wholly there. Here. Words fail. 20 May1992 ... I believe I've done all for this trip but the last few things: pay the bills, deliver the will to Reed, drop off a check at the insurance office to add an endorsement of vacancy to the fire insurance. Technically, I could go back right now. But it's a beautiful day, and I feel so peaceful I think I'll wait till first thing tomorrow. And after I write a thousand dollars' worth of checks, just rummage. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ All done now, for now. I believe I'll remove the remainder of the archives, as well as the strongbox with all the important papers. The wills I gave to Reed. I'm not going to inventory. I think it best to wait until we're both here for the division of the spols in July. I just can't do it just now. About a week ago in the bathroom I suddenly had a feeling of no longer being under the wheel. It's hard to describe, but it was as if the clouds had broken above me, after years -- so long, in fact, that I only noticed they'd been there after they parted. Or as if a huge terrifying taskmaster who loomed over me (before me & slightly to the right), to whom I had to answer for everything I did or thought or e even felt, had evaporated. It was the day I turned in my grades.
24 May1992 Today is the anniversary of my father's death. By most means of account, a damn snake-bit year: father dies; sister leaves for the other coast; mother gets sick, has to be moved to a "home," gets sicker; darling becomes pregnant; mother diagnosed with terminal lung cancer; darling loses baby; mother dies. But I cut the grass yesterday, for the third time this year, & it ain't even June! A Prayer
Whatever happens. Whatever -- Galway Kinnell
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