ghosts

Facebook is a funny thing. I get frequent reminders to send my deceased friend Cam a message, so that we can "keep in touch." I have, from time to time, gone to his page to see what people are saying, and I went there this morning.

What I found was many entries from his newlywed widow, her pain palpable and very much on display: "Cam, I can't live without you. Why did you leave?" "I am devastated that all that is left of you is a box of ashes." "My dear, sweet Cam, I need you so much."

It's incongruous to me that the same medium that provides us with updates from Farmville becomes a venue for the display of such deeply personal emotions. Perhaps now there will be a poll: "Why did Cam kill himself? List your top ten reasons and invite 10 friends!"

This is unkind of me. I spend my days examining the currency of others' emotions, and I'm not ignoring that Cam's widow is in an awful position. When we had lunch with Cam this Spring, he told us about how she took him in when he had ankle surgery and nursed him enthusiastically. He seemed very happy. The "ironist" in my uncharitably points out that Cam was an inveterate hypochondriac. This, I thought, might be a match made in heaven! Hypochondriac meets caretaker. Just might work! Cam disclosed that he had fibromyalgia (of course you do!). His gravestone might well have read "I told you I was sick."

Those of us who "grew up" with Cam knew that his was an exaggerated emotional roller coaster ride. Even a musical partnership with him was fraught with peril, not because he was unkind, but because he had such a difficult time deciding how he felt about anything, or at least deciding for sure how he felt. I reached the conclusion years ago that I would have to let him ride that ride without me. I could stand on the ground and watch him ascend and descend, relieved to be an observer, hoping that the carnies had tightened the bolts sufficiently that he would not go hurtling into space.

That's not to say I don't miss him terribly, that I'm not grateful for his encouragement and support as a musician, a songwriter, a reader of good books and a lover of the well-turned phrase. He was, in his way, a very good friend, and we had some terrific times together.

In the end, it appears that Cam's final marriage was a bond between two good, depressive souls. It looks to have been a tragedy: in which each character brings to the story the seeds of his or her own undoing. My mother's good friend once said "marriage is most often a case of mistaken identity." If it's to last, there is a lot of grinding, difficult work to do. Romance keeps us at it, no doubt, but we must come to terms with who we actually married, not just who we imagined we married. We must see each other, and, alas, ourselves, for who we really are. This is a moving target at best, more akin to a butterfly than a bull's eye.

There is a fable I like to refer to about the woman who picked up a wounded snake on the road and nursed it back to health. When the serpent was well, she held it on her lap as she had grown used to doing, and it bit her. As she died, she asked "how could you do this to me after I took you in and saved you?" The snake replied: "You knew what I was when you took me in."

Cam wasn't cold blooded or serpent like, mind you. He was a brilliant, creative, talented, generous individual. He was also a romantic narcissist of the first order. Abandoned by his father, raised by an alcoholic mother, he found what he could find in life the best he could, trying to fill a glass that that leaked, no matter how much he put in it. He searched for his Dad and found the man's ashes, just missing the reunion he longed for. This life left him ill equipped for the tedious, personal work of marriage and partnership.

My observation was that Cam tended to love and marry very strong people, women with intelligence, beauty, and resilience, who came to understand him and could survive him at the very least. One by one, they let him go. I'm not so presumptuous as to say what they learned.

This time, he left badly, leaving a scathing note to a woman ill prepared to handle it. Getting the last word in the worst possible way. Leaving himself, like debris, in his own living room. It was a terrible way to go, and I can't help feeling that it was unworthy of him.

I'm done with anger (well, maybe not quite). Disappointment lasts a while, and then life calls. The bolt loosened, the carny turned his head away, and the small wooden car careened off the track, sailing into the gray sky, a scruffy missile arcing higher and higher and then plummeting toward the ground.

Yes, well, when you think about it it makes sense. An empty glass lies on its side on the kitchen table. A fine Gibson guitar stands in the corner. Those of us who carry on carry on.

Signs

One of my favorite times is early morning on Sundays. The paper has come but I haven't gone out to get it. I've got one cup of coffee down and a good refill by my side. The house is quiet. Tye and Caitlin are curled up in her warm bed, Walker is sprawled across his top bunk, and Robyn, fighting off a sinus infection, is curled under layers of bedding, staving off morning a little longer. The house is quiet, and for a little while it's mine.

On Friday, I rode with my friend Chris up to our friend Doug's father's funeral. Whitey was 81, I believe, and lived a long and useful life. Our families spent some time together, years ago, picnicking on the banks of a lake together. Our kids were small and Doug and LeaAnn didn't have kids yet. We really enjoyed ourselves and I decided I liked Whitey and Ardy just fine. Whitey had a stroke a while ago and life hadn't been the same for him. Doug said he was ready to go, tired of illness and limitation. Fair enough, Whitey. That's not why I went to his funeral.

Whitey sang in a gospel quartet. The highlights of his funeral were Doug's loving, humorous eulogy of his father, and recordings of Whitey singing the old gospel standards, a la Eddy Arnold. He had a warm voice and a laid back delivery that belied obvious passion for the music and a sincere belief in the words that his generation could always pull off better than mine can. Whitey, in his own way, was a ham (takes one to know one). He loved to get up there and sing. Singing at his own funeral was right and just and a great way to go out.

I sat in my pew, surrounded by my good friends, and watched Whitey's good friends, a gospel trio now, with some help, stand up for him again as pall bearers. They were gray, suited, solemn, and most of all, present. I turned to my friend Geof and said "that's us in a few more years." Limping a little, creaking here and there, still getting up, doing what we can. . . .

I'm in the process of making arrangement for Mom. She's under Hospice care now, and although their "six months to live" guidelines are not prophetic, she's in the final part of her journey, however long that takes. I have never looked at her last will and testament or her final version of her living will and power of attorney, so I got them out of the safety deposit box and read them through to make sure I was on track. I have started working through the paperwork to establish myself with the company the provides her annuity to see what happens next. I am planning to call the Old Welsh Cemetary at Williamsburg to see if there's really a plot for her there as my Aunt Joan said, or if this is another of her (sometimes) happy fictions. In the event of another fiction, there is money for a plot, near, if not next to Aunt Joan, as Mom requested. I will call to order a lovely hand made Benedictine casket of lovely wood as a hedge against the metal Buick casket industry. I suppose a vault is unavoidable. Mom's memorial service will need to be in Wichita, where the her life, the part of it she really loved, happened. In these arrangements I am finding a surprising sense of peace. Perhaps it isn't her death I fear, but the horror of her decline, molecule by molecule, neuron by tangled neuron.

As I look up from the struggle, I realize that in so many ways her death has already come. When she speaks to me now, still recognizing my face, it is as though she is far away. Because her moments are not connected and her concentration is brief, she is again like a radio signal on a lonely highway, drifting in and out, music I love, perhaps coming through the static a few more times, worth waiting for. So, I show up.

Soon Robyn will come and brew tea, Tye will come for his morning rub, and, much later, the children will creep down the stairs blinking at a morning almost passed. We will resume the rhythm of our day. I hope Caitlin and Walker end up with friends like mine, like Whitey's, witnesses to their alliances, divorces, births, injuries, celebrations and farewells. I hope they come to visit us in our dotage and don't dread the experience as my parents did when they went home, or as I did . . . . I wonder how to keep that from happening.

I am collecting pictures of signs (hence the first picture). Along the road, people have chosen to say so many things, to mark spots for commerce, safety, history, God. My goal is to collect them as I see them, keeping the camera in the car. I will share some of them with you as I go.

There are signs everywhere we go, reminding us who we are and where we are on our journey. We acquire age, if not wisdom. We witness for each other, if not for our own selves (a more difficult task). I still find this journey worthwhile, unlike my poor friend Cam, who went out in a blaze of blindness and spite unworthy of him. I warn myself not to be too quick to judge this, frequently tangled as I am in my own hubris. I am looking forward to this day, and to the next. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. . . .

and so the year begins

It seems that the direction is once again "forward," wherever that is.

I had my last regular session with my very cool physical therapist on Monday. My back, and all the drama attached to it, chaos, randomized nerve endings, opioids, fear, doubt, pain, waiting, more waiting, appears to no longer be the driving force or the primary limit in my life. By Summer I expect do be doing most of the things I used to do, somewhat more carefully. My grandmother was right. It's all about posture. Keep the head back, the shoulders down and engage those core muscles. If I start to hurt, there are a number of exercises that bring relief fairly quickly, stretching, engaging. Strong drugs do not appear to be necessary, although sometimes they are nice. I'm back in the Tylenol/Ibuprofen zone. I don't seem to look any funnier than most middle aged men, in fact, looking around me, particularly in Cedar Rapids, I might look slightly better than the curve. Imagine!

I find myself stumbling over the loose ends of intentions discarded when I attempted flight. (Actually, I achieved flight. I botched the landing.) Whither now? In retrospect, I find that along with the change of clothes in my panniers I was carrying a load of hubris. The head was in a very different space before I tried to sever it. Without getting into a lot of morose detail, those of us at home were required to confront each other, be with each other, deal with each other, in ways we did not anticipate. It feels to me as though we are dealing with each other more honestly, more directly, and perhaps, overall, with more patience. It was a fumbling, erratic, awkward, difficult journey at times, punctuated by moments of almost incidental clarity.

Looking up, on January 20th, 7 months after my vain attempt at a soft landing, I hope I take a deep breath and revel for a moment in normalcy. Having achieved some semblance of it once again, finding time for work, play, friends and family, able to move about at will and under my own power, whither now? Dedication to a new goal? Celebration of the mundane? Being in the moment? Adventure?

I recall thinking a lot about the idea of balance last year. Ironic, I know. Perhaps that's the lesson to learn. If so, I'm not there yet. Balance requires different things of us on different days. Sometimes a nap, sometimes a rocket up the ass to get me moving, sometimes the snowy branches of a high oak woods and a fresh trail of groomed powder, sometimes a quiet evening stretched out in bed with Robyn, comparing notes (no this is not innuendo). (If we were comparing other things, that would be innuendo.)

My friend Cam, who left this earthly plane ushered out by pills, alcohol, and the darkest of moods, pointed out to me (also incidentally) that the search for balance can be the trickiest of things. I'm beginning to accept that this was his decision to make and that my anger is mostly my own selfishness. I had grown accustomed to him being around, coming up with wit, insight, and an occasional magnificent song guaranteed to make me cry. For that matter, I had grown accustomed to being around myself, and was perhaps less appreciative than I might have been. I forgive you, Cam. From my perspective, it was a lousy decision.

Coming from a middle aged man who allows himself to hurtle downhill at 38 miles per hour on an antique bicycle, ignoring the possible ramifications, I call that big talk.