The sun still sets in the west, it appears. In fact, these last few weeks are the spectacle that makes New England famous. The rose highlights on the clouds cast by the setting sun almost seem like a reflection of the maple trees and the burning bushes.
Over a year ago, as a housewarming present, Laura bought me a sculpture by Brian Andreas. It was a strange thing that sort of looked like a horse with 8 multi-colored legs and 2 heads with human-like faces. Hair of twisted copper wire flying back suggested movement. I hung it on the wall in our bedroom; you can see it in on the wall in the photo of the girls jumping on our beds. On it was printed, “feels like some kind of ride but it’s turning out just to be life going absolutely perfectly.” I finally took it down tonight.
I’ve wanted to get rid of it since last July, but it seemed disrespectful. The irony is more than just that Laura had cancer. It is that despite odd twists in our life together as we jumped around the country and the globe from one place or career to another, everything has always seemed to be just the right thing at the right time. There is almost nothing that I regret in the 19 years that we were together; one of the few exceptions, and I’m not trying to be sappy, is when I selfishly broke up with her for three months in the summer of 1991.
Moving to Ashfield seemed to be the last part of this perfect ride. At first Laura thought I was having a midlife crisis when I talked about moving to the country, learning to farm, selling what we grew at farmer’s markets. She was happy in our quaint yet cosmopolitan little town with her new friends and didn’t like the idea of being alone in the country. She imagined bears stealing our kids. Over time she realized that I really was having a midlife crisis, but that I was serious. And after a long while she became fully committed, partly because she started to think about what she wanted to do with her own life after the girls started school. Finally when we found our place in Ashfield it seemed that the stars had aligned and there was no doubting what we should do.
So in this spirit of enthusiasm for the next crazy move in our dog-legged course we began a new chapter in a new home christened with a new sculpture proclaiming that all is right in this mysterious world. And that was when Laura was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer.
…
It has been almost two weeks since Laura died. There’s not much feeling since the funeral a week ago, which disappoints me. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been taking the time to just sit and reflect, but instead I’ve been keeping myself busy with projects and kids. Maybe I’m just exhausted emotionally and relieved mentally and physically from the daily challenge of taking care of Laura, the girls, and keeping everything together and everyone informed. Whatever it is, there’s this strange, unexpected emptiness. I think I have more anxiety about my future right now than I have grief! I plan to look for a bereavement support group, if I can find one. I want to hear someone say, “Oh yeah, I remember that stage. And for me, a month later…” I also want to hear how other people dealt with all the stuff. I now have clothes, books, jewelry, letters, crafts, decorations, and so on that need to be sorted, saved, shared, donated, or thrown away. No rush, I say to myself. But I think about it frequently.
I’m not all composure. Today, when Janice left another comment on the Fade Away post, the faucet turned on again, at last. Everyone should read all those comments again to feel a tremendous breadth of emotions and know how deeply Laura touched so many people. And I’ll just add that when I look at that photo she says, “I love you,” so honestly. So sadly. I would reply, “I love you,” and she would quip, “I don’t know why,” in her self-deprecating way… I also see her wordlessly say that there is so much between us that can never be condensed into words, that things are the way they are — just so — because we literally grew up together, from 19 year old children to today, forever on a winding ride.
There’s something particularly moving about still pictures and sometimes songs that speak to us more poignantly than movies or memories alone. And there’s something deeply comforting in collectively responding to our shared grief. I found that to be so with this website as with a funeral. Indeed, it occurred to me last Saturday afternoon, as I looked across my front yard at hundreds of friends and family, that Laura’s funeral might not have been so big without this site. I know that sounds arrogant and disrespectful, but hear me out. I am not saying that it is my writing, instead of Laura, that brought people together. I am saying that this site allowed many more people to follow Laura’s suffering and death much more intimately than would normally be the case, and I suspect that created a sympathy that called us all to come together.
Whatever the reason (and I apologize if my argument was rude) last Saturday was a beautiful, great day and I believe part of its greatness was the presence of so many people from so many parts of our lives. At least for me there’s nothing that could more concretely convey how great a woman Laura was, for one is not great by personal success, but by the love that is returned in multitudes that was once given away.
12 responses so far ↓
1 Eddie Pasa // Oct 18, 2008 at 2:15 am
“Sail on, silvergirl
Sail on by
Your time has come to shine
All your dreams are on their way
See how they shine
Oh, if you need a friend
I’m sailing right behind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind…”
— Simon and Garfunkel, “Bridge Over Troubled Water”
Honestly, the only way I’ve been able to deal with this is through prayer, talking with friends, and music. The songs I have dedicated to Laura’s memory at my open mic and solo shows have been:
“Bridge Over Troubled Water” – Simon and Garfunkel
“Walk On” – U2
and
“Blister in the Sun” – Violent Femmes
She introduced me to that last band, and I’m always thankful for that.
I’m still very sad that she’s gone from here and that no one else besides the people she met will know the brilliance and the wonder that was Laura; but at the same time, I’m very happy that she’s out of her pain and that she’s saving a place for us at a picnic table somewhere, complete with an Atari 2600 and “Pac Man”.
(Ask my sister Cristina about that last bit…)
Love,
eds
2 Irene Bosch // Oct 18, 2008 at 9:24 am
Dear Friends,
I just returned from South America where I was working for few weeks.
The news of Laura’s death was received in México, at the day of her Funeral. When I returned to my family in Boston, I told them about this very sad news.
My daughter Natalia, silently looked into my eyes…”Mom, it is so sad”. She turned her head to the side as to hide her watery eyes. Both of us had a deep concern for this news to come soon and we were so sad to finally hear it. We felt very close to Laura, David, Naomi and Lili while we shared some time in Boston last month.
We were so proud of Laura making new friends with us, sharing and participating in daily activities, although we were sure that just doing simple things it was like running a marathon and a huge effort in her part.
We regret not being able to know her more and we regret we could not offer our friendship in a better way, be more available for her.
The girls are amazing, they can really bring a smile to anyone’s face and fill a house with happiness and warmth.
Even to Jon, my husband, who has been without a job for over six months, who has been inside his worries and troubles for so many days, as he is the one that supports the family financially, called me on the phone a day that girls were visiting with David’s parents, and told me: “The grils are just adorable! What a smile!”
We wished we could have been there at the Funeral too, but I was so far away.
My family and I would like to share with you these very difficult moments, and to assure you that Laura brought to our family the beauty, the love, the understanding and the struggle that life is about, and allowed us to share with her few moments, to learn and to feel a little bit of her wonderful humanity.
The day of Oct 5th I was landing in Venezuela, from a short trip to Cali, Colombia. Cali is a beautiful tropical city, with palm trees and gardens and red roofs of Spanish Colonial architecture.
Once in Venezuela, the road I had to traveled that day was blocked by a truck that crashed and dumped its content on the road. After five hours in the line of cars, people, trucks, buses, I was able to moved towards my next stop, next City, next minutes of existence. Venezuela is a total mess, collapsed in its hypothetical wealth from oil production, it is a poor collection of disasters and desperation. I kept telling myself that I could not see the beauty of the mountains and fields around me, just the inside desperation of not knowing how I could make things change in my own country and with my people. We are trapped, I thought. I am also sure many more there feel the same.
While in México, I experienced the fast growing economy, to new businesses, some argue, the new center of the world’s distribution of drugs. But above all, the kindness and ancient people where civilizations had started and succumbed. That country is magic. It is magnificent and huge in many dimensions, even that which we can not see but just feel.
I went to the top of one of the Pyramids. There, people say you just have to be silent for few moments and connect to the bigger being we all have inside. When I think of the bigger being, the soul and the love we have inside, I certainly think of all of you.
I thank you for letting me be so close to you.
Irene.
3 Aunt Cathy // Oct 18, 2008 at 9:28 am
David,
I have done little else but think about last weekend and Laura. I often feel like nothing I have said or will say will have any effect on you but will be cathartic to me. Therefore, not giving you any comfort. The mother in me wants to be able to take care of you, like many others , I suppose, but I don’t feel you want it. I hope you are able to allow your grief an escape and an outlet. You have carried a heavy burden; so did Laura, but her burden has been lifted. You are still left carrying yours around and are faced with it constantly. My heart aches for you, the girls that will need questions answered and all of us who feel empty. Empty because of loss, dreams not fulfilled, selfishness and sorrow. It also makes me reflect on my own journey and the mistakes I’ve made. I wish I had more of Laura in me that it might be reflected in those around me as was evident last Saturday. I am unable to rid myself of the image of her coffin in the grave. It comes to me in the night when sleep escapes me and scares me with my own mortality. I take comfort that she lies in a beautiful setting, close to all of you. I am so, so sorry. I pray for you and want all the good that God possesses to come your way.
I love you.
Aunt Cathy
4 Mary Beth // Oct 18, 2008 at 11:35 am
Dear David,
I realized after you left yesterday that I never even asked you how you were doing.
To be honest, it seemed like a pretty dumb question. Or maybe that is an excuse, and I really didn’t know what to say to you that would be even remotely helpful. Anyway, your eyes tell the story for you.
I loved having the chance to be with Naomi yesterday. Watching Meghan and Naomi jump so joyfully into the leaves on such a beautiful Fall day, I couldn’t help but think about Laura and how much she would have loved this kind of day. I just can’t believe that she’s gone and would never again share in these small but perfect moments. It feels so completely unfair and wrong.
I think Meghan expresses best how many of us feel right now when she sweetly suggests that all of you just come and live with us, and then happily goes back to her playing relieved that she has found a way that might “fix” all of this. I think many us would like to scoop all of you up and protect you from the long road you have ahead of you.
In our music class, we have been singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow. I have always found that song to be sweet and a little haunting. I find myself thinking of Laura when we sing,
Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly.
Birds fly over the rainbow. Why then, oh why can’t I?
If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow
Why, oh why can’t I?
5 Karuna // Oct 18, 2008 at 12:09 pm
Dear David,
Like so many of your friends and family, I have been thinking about you so much these past two weeks, especially. You have given so much of yourself to Laura and your girls. It is quite normal to feel empty and numb at this time.
I took care of Charles (my husband) for almost 2 years before he died April 12, 1990. We were not together nearly as long as you and Laura, nor did we have children, so there are many differences (as there will be with everyone who experiences the death of a spouse). What I can offer, if it will help is some way, is that I too was numb and empty for months after his death, with many periods of my heart being broken open again and again, at expected and mostly unexpected moments.
I was so consumed by Charles’ daily care for a long time, that when he died it was like I had been running so fast for so long and suddenly there was no path anymore. It seemed I had run off a cliff, without knowing it and without the fear of falling (ok there was some fear, but it was a different kind of fear), and I didn’t know how to find my footing again. The things that had defined my life while he was alive were suddenly gone – the daily vigils, the hyper attention to: everything he ate, or didn’t eat, drank or didn’t drink, elimination, pain, sleep (his and mine), smells of every kind, noises, silence, others who came in and out of our home, work, and so much more that has seemed to have settled in some other place in my brain. For months after his death I didn’t even move his clothes. I didn’t know what to do with them. I knew that I would eventually. I just gave myself time, even though it was not a conscious gift. The definition of who I was while he was alive was completely gone, and a new definition was emerging and unknown for a long time. I moved through life sometimes on auto-pilot. And sometimes I didn’t move at all. Pictures, friends, work, and the natural rhythms of the seasons comforted me, and held me for a long time (and still do, though in different ways now).
There isn’t a prescribed path to this grieving thing. In fact, I was told (to my horror at the time) that I would be grieving for the rest of my life. That is true, but the quality of the grief and the intensity change over time. And, the experiences then are so entwined with my life now, that it’s hard to even know when that entwining happened or even started. It just is.
“It feels like some kind of ride but it’s turning out just to be life going absolutely perfectly.”
I do remember thinking the morning after Charles died that I needed to know where he had gone. I knew he was not in pain, or suffering anymore, but I was oddly obsessed about his location. It was then that a minister who supported us so much through his illness said to me, not that he was in heaven (I knew that, even though I didn’t really know), but that he was always with me, in my heart, in the sunset, in the changing leaves. At the time I didn’t understand, but in my exhaustion I trusted that wisdom. It was a long time before I did understand.
The day Laura died, I was so sad. I never got to see her again after you guys left Berkeley. I reveled in every correspondence over the years since your moves. I have every card and every picture of the girls. I so hoped to see her when she was planning to come to California the last weekend in September – the week before she died. And it was not to be.
“It feels like some kind of ride but it’s turning out just to be life going absolutely perfectly.”
The day Laura died, my sadness was sidled by so much gratitude for you, David, and for the website. You brought so many more people into your journey, so many prayers, so many thoughts, so much more love to be expressed and shared. While I often curse this technology that has so permeated our lives, this time I am grateful! There is no other way that so many people could have been involved and could have stayed connected without your efforts and generosity on this site. You gave all of us an enormous gift, and you gave Laura and your girls this gift of expanded Love and connections that will remain forever.
I hope you do find a bereavement group (Hospice should be able to help you in find a group. That’s part of what they do for the family after the death). And when you do, I hope you find comfort in the sharing, while seeing the beauty in the difference of experiences.
You and Naomi and Lily are held in so much Love.
Many Blessings,
Karuna
6 Tom // Oct 18, 2008 at 1:43 pm
David, I knew Laura through Mary Beth, through visits during birthday parties or when I was home on the day their mothers’ group met, and through Loose Strife (when I could summons the courage to confront the deep, sometimes bittersweet, sadness I feel each time I read the postings and ponder the photos). By so beautifully and openly sharing your experiences on the site, you invited all of us to feel Laura’s tragedy and to celebrate her wonderful life. You also made it possible for so many of her friends to express their love for Laura by helping out in her care and the care of her family. I marvel at the way you were able to share so many intimate thoughts and moments in your lives without ever compromising Laura’s dignity or your own. I hope your girls will someday be able to read what is posted on this site and understand how deeply you loved their mother and how hard you worked to make sure that the people their mom brought into their lives could stay involved. I am sure Laura appreciated that and probably took comfort knowing that so many people would still be out here for you after she was gone. You are right about the ceremony, it was beautiful. I found myself standing at Laura’s gravesite lamenting that such a solemn event was taking place on such a vibrant day. It was so very sad, but fitting. I wish there were some way to speed the healing process for you and the girls, Joe and Natalie, and the rest of Laura’s family. In the interim, know that there are a lot people out here who still want to help.
7 Rocky // Oct 19, 2008 at 4:10 am
David,
All I know for sure is that life is a very different journey for each of us and grief happens in its own time and we simply follow.
The grief process is different for everybody and unfolds on its own timetable,most often at unexpected times. Be patient,kind soul,for you have been through SO MUCH. Of course you are somewhere adrift right now. Time is a great healer and revealer.Hang in there! Sincerely,Rocky
8 Eileen Shacochis // Oct 19, 2008 at 9:51 pm
Dear David,
I heard someone say last Saturday that it was a day that Laura must have ordered as so many people would be around to help you and the girls get through the day. It was a Laura kind of day. I smiled to myself when I heard this comment as I felt she was looking down on all of us and sending her hug of the beautiful warmth of the sun shine and the vibrant fall colors.
Norm and I are pround to be part of your very extended family and admire you more than we can express. We are here for you if you ever need us, just give a call.
Love to you and the girls,
Gramma Eileen
9 Vesper White // Oct 19, 2008 at 10:16 pm
Arrogant? Hardly! David, I have been with you and Laura constantly all this time in my head — I’ve been meaning to write more comments, or drop you a note, but as usual haven’t done anything other than mourn and cry in class and
and brood and wish I knew magic spells. Thank you for writing so soul-baringly on this blog. It’s a gift to Laura and to all of us.
10 Janice Everett // Oct 20, 2008 at 12:46 pm
David, hopefully there will be a time when you can hang this sculpture again…and it will bring a smile and have meaning for you, like the one Laura envisioned when she bought it. I can see her wishing that for you, Lily, and Naomi. Although she can’t do anything to take your loss and grief away, she would certainly want it to be lifted from you…. Post us some photos of your glorious fall colors and scenes from your slice of paradise. With much love, Janice
11 Suzette and Jen // Oct 21, 2008 at 11:44 am
David, throughout the course of Laura’s illness many people have posted love and concern for Laura, you and the girls. Please know that we are all still here and would do anything that we can for you. Let us help if we can. The love expressed in the comments are for you as well as Laura. You are an amazing man and I know that it will be hard and painful journey but I know you will be able to take the journey.
Take time for yourself. I know how important this time is for the girls but don’t lose yourself in them. Take care of you too.
I hope you will continue the blog. So many of us are too far away to visit alot but we want to continue to be in your life. Post crazy pictures of the girls. Notes about loosing teeth or carving pumpkins. Important days at school. A walk in the woods.
We love you all and we are all with you.
12 Elizabeth Crone // Nov 2, 2008 at 1:25 am
Dear David,
I reconnected with Tedd Roseberry (though Facebook) about a year ago. He pointed me to your blog last month. I am sorry to have found you in such a sad way … but thank you (and Laura and your daughters) for sharing your incredible story.
Hang in there, and good luck with everything that comes next.
Elizabeth Crone
(W&M 91)