missing

Loss is difficult. Just when I think I'm in full acceptance, the grief of my late friend hits me in the most intimate way, and it's shocking. I guess I still have a lot of growing to do, and that's life. Sometimes I savour the evolution of my inner world, and other times I just want the pain to go away.

Yesterday I was driving home and the emotions of the week were swirling in my head. Nothing major, just little things that Cindy and I enjoyed discussing. It would be, "I want to tell you about this," then we'd say the story and then the other would ask, "okay, and how are you doing with that?" or "how did you feel about it?" Our own private therapy session that we both relished and saved up for when we had time to dig in. Those talks were often when she was in her office and I was driving home from work on Friday afternoons. That's when the tears still come, driving home on Friday afternoons.

My favorite times were when one of us really needed the talk, some small crisis would arise and the other wouldn't really have time to talk about ourselves. Those were the times that our connection kicked into high gear. The love and support was so deeply felt, the vulnerability of sharing simply melded our hearts. How rare is intimacy such as this! When it was my turn to have a melt-down and our time would run out, I'd apologize for hogging up all the conversation and she'd say, "no, I'm okay, I'm just glad I could talk you through this." And it was mutual when she needed the time. I always felt so honored to be her sounding board and confidante.

I'm looking forward to seeing Bruce's and her friends and family soon, but I guess it does remind me that I'm missing a major component in my life. "We have to lose people we love in life, how else would we know how important they are to us?" It was in a movie not worth watching, other than for that quote. It's true I guess, especially for people like me who learn the hard way. But I'm grateful to learn.

update on Mani, therapy dog

Mani the Chihuahua and I have been volunteering at our local hospital for the last couple months now, and what a gift it's been! As it turns out, CHOC was not the place for us. The minimum hour requirement was more than my schedule would allow, especially since they didn't get back to me until after I made a commitment to Anaheim Regional Medical Center. This is the closest hospital to Disneyland, so if someone gets hurt at the Happiest Place on Earth, they'd end up here. It's also the closest hospital to my house, and although it was the last one I contacted, it was the first one to take us onto their team.

We have seen patients with varying ailments and traumas, mostly adults. There are many who don't speak English, but the universal language of dog love cuts right through it. We check in at the nurse's station and then begin our door to door visits, asking each patient if they'd like a "dog visit" today. Sometimes they just don't seem to have the energy, some don't have the affection for critters, but when I see that familiar twinkle in the eye of the patient and a nod of the head, I enter.

Mani prefers to visit up close and personal, lying on the bed and snuggling into the patients. The 2 hours we spend usually allows us to see over a dozen people, and individual visits last anywhere from 1 to 20 minutes, depending on the sufferer's needs. I try to let the patient set the tone whether it's small talk or just quiet time. Mani figured out his job pretty quickly and relaxed into it after just a few patients. Some of their stories are heartbreaking and I have yet to leave without shedding tears, but it's strangely fulfilling and rewarding despite the sadness and suffering. Just seeing their faces light up when they see this little love bug is enough to melt away the isolation and hardship. It's quite miraculous, and reminds me how much richer my life is because of my four-legged companions.

People often ask me if the IGs are jealous because he gets more attention. Bernie and Rocco give Mani a major sniff-down when we get back, but the treats they all get make everything just fine. I think they assume he's going to the vet, and they're okay with letting him go alone, as long as they have each other.

birthdays

Being the youngest of such a large family, I was given an unrealistic and fantastic standard each year on my birthday. That's me on the left with our resident clown Bill and my late sister Kristie. I think this was my 7th birthday. I was always made a big deal over and lavished with everything I could want, which proved to be a hurdle to jump in my adult years. Many people close to me have had to deal with my ridiculous expectations, and for that I apologize.

As it turns out, I still have plenty of people in my inner circle to spoil me rotten, and I'm so very grateful.

This year was particularly difficult with the absence of Cindy (who always spoiled me), but with the love and support of my husband, family and dear friends, I once again was indulged.

This August 11th I received an incredible massage, and just before we started I noticed a hummingbird outside the window. Similar to the hummingbird who visited me the day I got word of her passing, and again after spending time with her closest friends, this bird sat on a tree and hung out for a bit. I was thrilled and my birthday was complete!

Thank you dear friends, for the birthday wishes, gifts and presence in my life. I love you!

stories

We all have stories to tell. Sometimes it's hard to listen to others because we're so ready to tell our own. Any performer will tell you that the audience is the most important part of a performance. After all, what's the use in telling a tale if no one cares to listen?

I've noticed my own taste in plays, movies and art relies on whether or not I relate to the storyteller. Those playwrights, authors and artists who tell a personal story are so much more impressive than the ones who have a message. It's much more frightening and vulnerable to write about a personal flaw than it is to address how we can better the planet. That explains why I like Ingmar Bergman and not Michael Moore.

One of the things I love most about my job is getting to hear others tell their stories. Although they often have to listen to mine, I truly enjoy that exchange. Seeing my friends grow is one of my deepest joys, and when someone sees me evolve, all the better. I guess that's why it's so important to keep people in our lives whom we know well. We can reflect each others strengths, weaknesses, arcs and resolutions. It's also why when we lose someone close to us, a part of us is lost.

I've been predictably low lately. I seem to have been replaced with a more somber, irritated version of myself. It makes the writing stagnant and stilted. I know intellectually that it's all a normal part of grieving, but it doesn't change things. I'm still in this place, walking through the mud with weights on my ankles. It's not a wasteland, just a bog with an end. On the other side are flowers, solid ground, clear streams.

I recently attended a Broadway musical, a senior citizen variety show and a children's ballet recital all in one weekend. I was struck by our symbolic need to tell our stories. While most of us are stage shy (myself excluded), our stories are important and become more intriguing the more we live our lives to the fullest. While it's not without pain and suffering, it is full of miracles and beauty. The tricky part is identifying the wonders.

hoarding and other obsessions

Lately I've been addicted to the tv show, "Hoarding, Buried Alive." Although those who've seen my house may laugh , I can identify with the hoarders. While I don't have a lot of clutter, I have come to appreciate "bonding" with inanimate objects. Having a touch of OCD (self-diagnosed, of course), I have compassion for those with extreme cases of any kind of obsessive behavior.

Inheriting things that were important to my loved ones has changed me. I used to get so angry with my mom for her clutter and inability to discard items she never used. Going through all the paperwork was not a one-person task, but there were some gems. The one that really stands out to me is my grandfathers baptism certificate from 1898 Herzegovina.

When I was 22, I moved to Baton Rouge with everything I owned in my Daihatsu Charade. Now I'm double that age and I've a acquired a bit more than a carload of items. Most of what I own is functional, but there are those things with which I just can't seem to part. A good example is the collection music CDs that I've either already downloaded or have no desire to listen to again. That alone takes up 3 file boxes in my office closet. And don't get me started about paperwork!

Then there are the "Collection" items (I've lovingly come to call Cindy's things) that I saved for her nearest and dearest. It gave me great joy to make sure her friends received a keepsake of hers. But it still wasn't easy. I have thoughts of hoping they know how precious these items are, and that they'll take good care of them. That's where I can relate to the hoarders. I know it's dysfunctional thinking, because the truth is, it doesn't really matter what becomes of stuff, only what becomes of people.

I remind myself that if I had nothing from the long list of those who went before me, it would be irrelevant. What I DO have are habits and traits I've picked up along the way. Grandma Blanche's love of baking, Gladys' commitment to family, Dad's tender heart for animals, Kristie's desire to be a better person, Judi's humor, Mom's assertiveness, and Cindy's joy of life. What a rich inheritance!

Heroes

Last week I spent the day at the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center, a hotel-like facility that performs miraculous surgeries every day like the one my brother just had. He's had these done before and it shows. No intrusion or discomfort seemed to phase him, he just took everything in stride and cracked jokes and reminisced about mom's hospital experiences.

My brother has been dependent upon a pacemaker for some time now. It started with a defibrillator but soon his heart needed more help. As with anything bionic, its battery needs replacing after a few years, and so a new unit is installed. He's very young to have had all this experience, but his diabetes and sarcoidosis (a rare auto-immune condition) have compromised his health and complicated his surgeries. He must be watched for any kind of infection and thankfully my sister-in-law is always at his side playing health advocate.

That evening driving home from the hospital, I thought about what a gift I'd been given. They both gave me beautiful examples of how to face illness and mortality with courage and grace. We must accept our physical limitations and know that our bodies are not who we are, just one aspect of us. It is my brother's spirit that gives him contentment and humor. My sister-in-law's bravery and unwavering spirit keeps them stable. They are truly my heroes and mentors and I'm blessed to have them in my family.

food

This blog wouldn't be complete without thoughts on food. Cindy and I had lots of jokes surrounding our eating habits, which were filled with delicious dichotomy both within ourselves and contrasting each other's. The most glaring contrast between the two of us was chocolate. I've never met a chocolate (insert dish here) I didn't like and Cindy was quite particular about the sweets she ate (which often omitted my dark lord). For her, the darker the chocolate, the better; for me, anything goes. She'd offer me the rest of her dessert because it was too rich or too sweet and I'd say, "okay Machine, thanks." She once left a few morsels in her purse unknowingly for my dog Bernie to help himself. A few hours later I was inducing the poor guy to vomit the dog-poison (for dogs, darker is deadlier).

Growing up, I confused chocolate donuts with spirituality. Why wouldn't I, since my dad's only trip to Winchell's was on the way home from Sunday Mass? I have always been an emotional eater, and with grief comes bad behavior. For the last 5 months I have not been able to get enough comfort food, only until a couple weeks ago when I finally hit bottom. Spirituality and addictive behavior make strange bedfellows.

One thing I shared with my late friend is a love of local, organic, seasonal super-foods. While I'm not the creative chef, I love packing in as many nutrients in a meal as I can. It's more functional than art, but a meal with greens makes my day. Maybe it's my secret hope that years of poor eating habits will be made clean by the blood of beets. Wishful thinking, I know.

My only question is, if we are what we eat, how come I'm not sweeter?

I don't remember the first moment it struck me, but for at least the last year or so, I've wanted Mani the Chihuahua and me to volunteer at Children's Hospital of Orange County. I guess it evolved from noticing how good the pooch was with kids to hearing stories of friends' kids who were cheered by a therapy dog while they were in the hospital, and finally (after the loss of our dear one) realizing how important it is to make a positive impact on others' lives. At any rate, I'm taking the steps and we shall see where they lead.

This week was another hurdle, passing the Therapy Dogs International evaluation test. The limited information I had received was from their website (mostly logistical info) and I got even less from my trainer who isn't associated with TDI. So I really wasn't sure how it would differ from the Canine Good Citizen test that Mani passed a few weeks prior.

When I arrived, I realized it was going to be outside in the evening on a brisk, windy night. I was nervous. The eight other dogs and their trainers seemed to have a clear grasp on what was to be expected. I later found out that they had all been taking an 8 week course leading up to and training for this specific test. I was doomed.

Mani is 5 1/2 pounds and has a naked bum that does not take to cold ground. Not only would he not sit for me, but the Pomeranian next to us was getting on his last nerve and he wasn't shy about letting her know it. I just kept telling myself, "you've been training him for the last year and a half, you can't let this stop you." The iron grasp of my handshake revealed my nerves to the savvy evaluator. She generously asked if I had something he would sit on and I quickly ran to my car to get his pad.

The commands are mostly straightforward and he flew through heel, sit, come, even an extended separation from me. Then she pulled out the big guns, a warm piece of hot dog. She wafted the succulent treat under his nose, threw it on the ground and said, "now pass him by it and tell him to leave it." I started sweating, no way was he going to listen to me. That piece of meat was his God-given right and he'd suffered through enough in this frigid debacle. The upside of controlling a 6 lb. dog is that it's not difficult to stop a forceful lunge. But it was noted and at the end of the 2 hour test, I was pulled aside. I was given one last chance to prove I could control my Man-ster and I was bound and determined. I growled the "leave it" command in the most baritone voice I could muster and the poor little guy was so afraid of that treat he went in the opposite direction. "Congratulations," the evaluator exclaimed, "you passed!"

I knew it was well earned when I saw 4 of the dogs/trainers walk away empty-handed. Almost half the class failed. It wasn't just my imagination, it was difficult!

Now we both will go through medical checks, I'll have a background check and I have no idea what CHOC even needs as far as volunteers for therapy dogs. I just know I'll follow this path until the doors stop opening, and then who knows?

The funny thing is, volunteering at a hospital is my parents' legacy. Dad wore his blue St. Francis volunteer smock proudly for a good part of my childhood. After Mom retired from the Engineering Department of the same hospital, she made weekly visits to administer the eucharist. I hope I can make them proud.

I'm sure there will be more on this later.

namaste

This month marks a year that I've done yoga as my main source of exercise. It started as an experiment and quickly became a passion. Doing yoga full time (about 5 times/week) has not only improved my relationship with my body, but it's also carried over into other aspects of my life. If I've had a good yoga session, my energy is up and my attitude is improved. Even on those days that I'm frustrated with a pose and my inability to get into it, I try to accept my limitations, literally and metaphorically. The studio I attend has many great instructors with all kinds of varying backgrounds.

I love having a little taste of all the different types of hatha yoga, but occasionally, when I attend a class like the Ashtanga workshop I just finished, I feel orphaned. I chatted with one of the beautiful women near us in the class (who happened to be a teacher herself), and when she discovered my lack of an Ashtanga teacher, she looked at me with compassion and pity. It's the curse of being a Jack of All Trades. I am master of none.

I envy those who've had one mentor all their lives. I've had so many from so many different backgrounds and philosophies that I often feel wishy washy. On the other hand, I love nothing more than getting to the heart of a person's passion, and so I must remain open. What I get out of practicing so many kinds of hatha yoga is a deep appreciation of all I can do when I am open and accepting.

Yesterday was humbling because I was one of the few in a class of 70 who couldn't do full lotus, let alone all the acrobats involved with Ashtanga. But what I came away with from David Swenson's teaching was that I must nurture myself wherever I'm at today. Pushing and driving myself will only bring injury, defeating the purpose of exercise.

As for my homogenized practice, I am grateful for my many different teachers, experiences and options for what my body needs in the moment. Sometimes it's vigorous, sometimes it's passive. Wherever I'm at is where I need to be.

tsunamis

Recently, the coast of Chile was hit with a tsunami due to a massive earthquake of 8.8 magnitude. The news of this taps into a deep fear of mine, tidal waves. I have a general fear of the water of which the symbolic significance is not lost on me. Water is a metaphor for emotions, and while my well runs deep, it is not always calm. My phobia stems from 2 separate near drownings, so it's a reasonable fear. But I'm pretty sure it's more than that.

I've had many a nightmare involving tsunamis where they've taken me under, even when I'm on dry land. One counselor offered some insight noting, "it's a wave so big and overwhelming that you're forced to deal with it." When Cindy went to India, she had taken lots of shots of the coast in Chennai, which was devastated only months after her trip in 2004. When she showed me the pictures of the beautiful children on the beach, we both wept wondering how they fared through such a catastrophe.

Early this morning, the tidal wave hit me. The dogs awoke Tim and me and as we were working out an issue we'd been trying to resolve, it dawned on me that my natural course was to run it by Cindy and come back with objective insight. The loss hit me hard, taking my breath, spinning me every which way. I was disoriented, sobbing, unable to breathe. Tim stayed with me through it, as did my trusty dog Rocco who had been curled up at my belly and did not budge, even with all the thrashing and heaving with grief.

There is a strange calm after a storm. I hadn't cried since the house was emptied and I knew this week would be tough, so I'm relieved to have ridden the wave and come out breathing again on dry land.

Earlier this week I had a beautiful dream that started with me feeling distressed when Bruce appeared in his leather chair, which now resides in my living room. He gave me words of reassurance and hope in typical Bruce fashion, pragmatic, stoic and logically sound. I was instantly grateful and told him so, and he just smiled. It's going to be okay.

from doing to being

I have been trying to write this blog for a week now. Last Wednesday, I helped Cindy and Bruce's families empty the house. One of the most difficult things about this for me is letting go of my role in this tragedy. It became clear to me shortly after losing my friends that I had a job to do in assisting the families as much as I could (which didn't seem like much, but it was a job nonetheless). As long as I had this task at hand, I could focus my energy and grief on taking care of things. Watering plants, checking messages, little things.

Now, the house is empty and my own house has pieces of Cindy and Bruce throughout. I love having some of their things, not only because they're nice things, but because I'm reminded of who they were and what they meant to me. But my role is finished now, and so I must just be and not do.

When I think back on all this tragedy, I am amazed at how quickly I have bonded with all the important people in their lives. Part of this is because I've heard so many stories about them, I feel like I've known them before I ever met them. Part of my bond is because we are naturally drawn to people who are like our loved ones. That's why Cindy was so at home with my mom and family. But there is also this part of us that learns how to be better when we suffer and endure, and that breaks our walls down and allows the love to flow.

My own family had a rare moment of genuine laughter shortly after my mom passed, and we were watching an old family movie that my brother made. I think about that night fondly, because our defenses were down and we were just sharing the moment, however bittersweet.

I am grateful for the tight bonds I have in my life. Those nearest and dearest to me who have seen me through the best and the worst. And I'm also grateful for the new friends I have because of our shared loss. What a gift!

long time friends

I spent last weekend with my girlfriend Carol, whom I met in the 8th grade. I had no recollection that we had met at a roller rink the year before we actually went to school together, but my 9th grader self wrote it in her freshman yearbook to enlighten me.

The thing about spending time with someone you've known all your life (or most of it) is that it doesn't matter what kind of life philosophy, political opinion, or religious views you have, you can still giggle and confide and find solace in knowing someone and being known. I spent time with her family and got to witness first-hand what a great mom she is and how amazing her kids are (and hubby too).

For whatever reason, I haven't kept many friends from my childhood so I always give her credit for keeping us connected. I've gotten better about it over the years, but in the early days I was not easy to contact.

Honestly, I have not had a good record of spending time with my girlfriends. I've always got some project, degree or dog event going and my down time is spent with Tim. I have one of those rare husbands who likes to do things I like to do. Hiking, yoga, museums, plays. I'm not bragging, I'm just saying it doesn't leave much time for the girls. My last conversation with Cindy was about this exactly. I was frustrated that every time she tried to plan something with me, I had something else going on. I REALLY wanted to do all these things she was suggesting, Japanese spa, movie, marathon. I just had something else on the calendar.

I really am blessed to have this life. I want to do so many things, go so many places, hang out with so many people, there's just not enough hours in the day.

Movies

This time of year is normally a busy movie-going time for me. While I have seen some of the major ones this season, my normal passion has temporarily left me. Part of my joy of going to the movies was going with my movie buddy, Cindy. Our taste in movies was close to identical. Not many people I know can take the dark and brutal independent films that I love so much, and still enjoy a light-hearted throw-away chick flick. Not to mention being available on a weekday morning when we'd have the theatre to ourselves.

One of our favorites was the documentary about legendary photographer Eddie Adams. Cindy had actually met a friend of Eddie's, Nick Ut, who was famous for the photo of the little girl running in the street with napalm burns.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1226261/

The last movie we saw together was The Invention of Lying, which was a fun throw-away with Ricky Gervais. The thing we both loved about going to the movies was the shared emotion. We'd learn things about each other that we may not have known otherwise. I had no idea she was reading the article about the LA Times writer who developed a relationship with a homeless person until Robert Downey Jr. played the journalist in The Soloist. Never before had Cindy cried more than I did. She had no idea I was a fainter until Salma Hayak got a morphine shot in Frida and I had to leave. I still don't know if she ever saw the last 10 minutes of that movie.

As I started writing I realized I didn't even know when the Oscars are going to air, so imagine my surprise when I found it's actually on Cindy's birthday! I guess it's a reminder that everything is a reminder when you miss someone close to you. When she got to shoot the Oscars a couple years ago, she was more excited about making connections with people than seeing the big stars. We shared a passion for the heart connection we get from films.

I will find my passion again. How can I resist with movies like The Young Victoria and The Hurt Locker beckoning me? And I will be eating popcorn, watching the Oscars, ooing and aahing at the dresses and the hair, and I'll be thinking of Cindy.

deconstruction

Last weekend I began the difficult process of clearing out my late friend Cindy's house. This is the 3rd time I've been involved with a task like this, but experience only seems to muddy things. Letting go of material things is a step toward accepting the finality of the situation, so the mind begins to play tricks. "I can't let this go to good will, we bought it together the last time we went shopping." I begin to find significance in every little item. Holding on to the open bottles of vinegar in her pantry, my brain argues, will help me make better salad dressing. The kind she used to make.

The other thing about deconstructing a household is that our homes are reflections of who we are, how we lived, what was important to us. Which begs the question, how does my life look according to my home? Mine immediately says animals live here and all animals are welcome. Hopefully no skunks are reading this.

My home also says I'm not much on design--my spin is that I don't care much about material things. Truthfully, I'm lazy about measuring and hanging things and matching things. It all sounds a bit overwhelming. It's not that I don't appreciate the effort other people make to improve the looks of their houses. I just can't seem to make a decision (and haven't for the last 8 years) on what kind of curtains I'd like in my bedroom. And so the ugly mini-blinds remain. I have plenty of function, not a lot of form.

The best thing about my house is how much art I have hanging on the walls. I have a few pieces of Cindy's work, a few of my friend Leslie's and most of my husband Tim's. I always wished I could paint a canvas or take great photos, so I'm in awe of those close to me who are so very talented.

The worst room in our house is our bathroom. While I have a quaint 1945 ranch style home, the bathroom was redone during the style-abomination 70s, explaining the faux-marble sink top and the drop ceiling with neon lighting. Hideous. I know a woman who almost single-handedly redid her bathroom, which I never knew was possible, and it looks amazing. I would no more trust myself to pick out a sink than to drive a bus through Manhattan. And so the sea horse-tile remains. I still bathe daily.

I am forever grateful to my friend's family and her husband's family for allowing me in to such an intimate, grievous, profoundly life-changing event. I know she would hate to see her families whom she loved so much in so much pain. But she'd also be very proud of how respectful and generous they've been with each other and with me.

p.s. A quick update on my neighbor whose family lives in Haiti--all are accounted for and while they've got plenty more than remodeling woes, they are thankfully alive and safe.

Help for Haiti

My next door neighbor has a lot of family in Haiti and she has no idea about their well-being. Talk about bringing it close to home. Maggie is one of those rare individuals who seems to have an endless amount of love to give to her family and patients (she's an amazing nurse). The very least I could do was donate to one of my favorite non-profit orgs, "Doctors Without Borders." If that's not your thing, go to the weather channel for a list of other non profits and act on your compassion.

https://donate.doctorswithoutborders.org/SSLPage.aspx?pid=197&hbc=1&source=ADQ1001E1D01

http://www.weather.com/outlook/weather-news/news/articles/haiti-quake-charity-info_2010-01-13?from=hp_news1

Tribute to Cindy

I'm not much of a diary keeper, but after ordering Cindy's Blog in book form, I realized how important it is to share of ourselves. I love documentation, although consistency is challenging for me. So forgive me if my blog is sporadic, but I must at least try to share a little more of myself. It's how I can keep a little more of my beautiful late friend Cindy Schafer, who was taken from us much too soon.

I've been hoping for a dream with Cindy in it. When I lost my best friend Gladys at the age of 20 (she was 22), I dreamt about her all the time. For some reason, I haven't had one dream with Cindy in it directly, although the content of my dreams has been about the loss. Last night I dreamed my father-in-law wanted to go fishing at a trout farm that was charging $35 per person. The man taking the money let me go without charging me because he thought it was good that I was indulging Henry in his request.

See? It's still about Cindy, because life is short and we need to be kind to each other. I don't have that natural temperament that Gladys and Cindy both had. I tend to be intolerant, hot-headed, judgmental. But I'm working on it. Yoga helps. Eating healthy helps. Getting rest, keeping short accounts with family and friends. Setting boundaries.

I'd like to live every day like it's my last. Then I won't have regrets.