rest in peace, punk rock mommy

There's a blog I read, one I found a while ago and have never commented on, it's been a one way relationship, she fed me with her strength and beauty and love and I gave nothing in return. Somehow it felt intrusive, her life was coming to an end and to inject myself seemed inappropriate and unfair so instead I sat silent, rooting for her every single day.

She lost her battle today, this brave and brillant woman who's endured so much and now her loving, amazing family is sad and suffering and again there are no words, they are strong and beautiful and broken hearted and cancer is horrible and I am so, so sorry for your loss.

Rest in peace, Andrea, I hope you are finally resting in peace.

the last american cowboy

Some of you have posted beautifully lately on hearing the wisdom of those you've lost after they've gone. It's moved me, so much so I can barely get through your posts without breaking down crying. It's moved me because my grandfather see, I always thought he'd come back for me too.

I loved him fiercely. In a broken extended and dysfunctional family he reigned supreme, with a quick and fiery mouth and for most of his life a ready fist for anyone who got in his way (women and children excluded of course). His family was the most important thing to him on earth and never found the words to express it, he'd show it by giving everyone a hard time in an incredibly funny sort of way. He grew up rough, 11 brothers, poor, the bluest of collars. He had my mom early, he was sixteen years old and as such she grew up inside pool halls, watching his hands gripping a pool cue and a wrench with equal acumen.

I was the oldest of a mess of grandkids and we were closer because of it. I loved him fiercely, even as he made mistakes I only saw the grandeur of his honesty, the raw authenticity of a man who grew up in the streets. As I grew older we'd made our own way, I'd spend hours with him in his old barn, sharing a beer and pawing through endless miles of acquired junk. We'd talk about how much he loved his family. There was no bullshit between us and he was indefatigable, this man who could kick everyone's ass and as he grew older mellowed a bit but never really all the way.

When he was diagnosed with cancer we were all in shock. It came violently and without mercy, stripping him of his vigor in a way none of us could have imagined. One of the last times I was alone with him in the barn we talked candidly, him giving me a hard time for not settling down and telling me that was one of the reasons he was still hanging on, to make sure I didn't settle for a piece of shit. By some divine intervention and not too long after I'd met J.


His wife called me one day and said she didn't think there was much more time. She said it would be a good idea to make the long trip back and to do it soon. By then I'd only known J for a few weeks but I invited him to come and I was honest, I don't know where this is going but it seems pretty good. I want you to come and meet the old man. So we travelled a long road trip and climbed to the top of his dusty mountain and when I introduced him to my grandfather I said the same. It's not been too long yet but it might be something and I need you to size him up. And I knew he would too, there was one guy deep in my youth who he met and actually threw out of the house, the poor guy wasn't doing anything wrong and yet my grandfather had a sense, he actually opened the door and said you can get the hell out and you need to stop seeing my granddaughter too. At the time I was pissed and a few months later I'd realized exactly what he was trying to tell me that day and he was absolutely right.

The day I brought J to meet him my grandfather did something he hadn't done in months, he pulled on his cowboy boots and hat and enormous belt buckle and took J for a long walk, they scoured the property and my grandfather showed him all the things that were most important to him from his homemade cemetery to the cross on the top of the highest hill. My grandfather as was his way made no pretense I'm seeing if you are good enough for her, because I'm going to be dead soon and no one else here will kick your ass if you aren't so I'll have to do it before I go. But when they came back several hours later my grandfather looked at me, he's alright, girl. I think you might be right about this one. He's better than all those other dumbshits you brought out here. And I remember I started crying, not because of what this might mean in terms of me and J but because I knew he'd be dying soon, one less thing to keep his stubborn body alive.

He died a few weeks later and I've never heard from him since. I always thought he'd come to me, our love was so fierce and long I had assumed it would transcend death. But I still can't hear him and I wonder if I ever will. I've got no doubt he's busy, there are probably fights to be had and darts to throw where he is but I wish he'd let me know he's still paying attention. Because every day, old man, every single day of my life I still miss you and wish we could have just one more day in the barn.

and the sky opened up

I've talked about my uncle once before, his life and his death both. But Jessica's post on understanding death made me remember it again. As I wrote before, I cut my teeth on his doctrine, the original Jesus Camp. He commanded your attention and would then reward you with scripture quoted in a booming voice that meant no fidgeting, no looking away and you damn well nod your head and you damn well better never say damn. He commanded his church with much of the same tough love: you can come in but you better find a bible. You can do drugs but you better be praying. You can sleep on my pew but at 6am you better be on your knees.

Because of the nature of his ministry he had a tremendous following, people who truly felt he'd saved their lives. Folks that ended up serving the church in a variety of ways, their gratitude almost cultlike, Pastor, they'd say with reverence and hands outstretched. Pastor, and he'd touch their hands or heads and they saw it as being blessed.

When he died suddenly and without warning everyone felt he did a great service by choosing to die away from the church. There was never any discussion, just Pastor decided it was time to go home. Dying away from the church meant no one saw it happen and the shock while brutal throughout the church and shelter was manageable until the day of his funeral.

We got there early and still had to park blocks away. The church was overflowing with scores of street people and the elderly, kids and their moms. Every color of the rainbow and every walk of life, languages from all over the world and the church packed to the rafters. They still had to lodge some speakers in the windows to accomodate the hundred and more people filling the street.

My uncle was laid out up front, his casket closed. Folks were weeping and using their programs as fans. Being family I was in the second row and watched his son give the eulogy, tears coursing down his cheeks. The choir broke down in sobs in the middle of their song. It took forever after the service for everyone to walk by and pay their respects at his casket, lines streaming from outside the church. One woman literally threw herself on the coffin and had to be pulled off and away and I can still recall her wail. Men were weeping. Women were in the basement making a humble meal, a meal he'd approve of because everyone was convinced he was still paying attention. My uncle see, he didn't mess around.

I didn't know death until that day. I didn't know that my heart could feel the depths of sorrow and fear of loss itself, the man we circled our lives around and broke bread with, who ministered and raged and guilted and scorned and forgave and loved and who never, ever would listen to an opinion contrary to his faith. And I cried that day, sitting amongst the street folks and the dealers, the thumpers and the old grandmas with no teeth. I cried great buckets of tears because nothing made sense, the man who spoke to God was dead and I feared him and I loved him and somewhere in between I found my own way.

sounds of silence

it's a long journey, this life we all live. we rejoice, we falter, we mourn, we hope, we believe.

some days are harder than others, and when people i've come to love are hurting my heart hurts for them too. and the futility of this realm smacks me in the face, it smarts and stings, because i can't be who i want to be, to be the friend i would be if we were close. the one that comes round with wine or a soft blanket, the one who would hold you tightly and not try and talk.

Bon and Alejna, for two different reasons and yet sitting in the same center of grief, i am standing here faraway yet next to you. i am holding you close from here.


On Pain - Kahlil Gibran
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.

gently into that good night

From what we can tell he stopped along the railroad tracks on the way to the shelter sometime yesterday. Perhaps he was tired. Maybe it was too early for him to check in. Either way he stopped near the tracks, a slight incline, perhaps it was the warm sun.

He removed his jacket and folded it neatly under his head. He took off his shoes. Naps are always more comfortable without shoes. He took off his shoes and placed them close. Perhaps thinking if someone tried to lift them he'd wake up and notice. Either way he tucked them near.

He laid his head down on his jacket and went to sleep. He was found by one of our staff this morning during the neighborhood sweep. For a minute he thought he was sleeping but up close it was different, a days worth of difference at least.

Sometime between yesterday morning and the day before he died. No one knows why but hard living and sleeping outside takes it's toll. He looked peaceful, his eyes were closed. His head was still cradled by his jacket. A faint smile perhaps but that may just be wistful thinking and the hope for a gentle goodbye

And no one had tried to lift his shoes. Neatly tucked next to his side, his shoes were still there.

Rest in peace, brother. May you forever have soft pillows beneath your head.

norma dies

norma and her mercedes came to us a few years ago. well past 75, norma had lived her life as a wife and mother and when her husband died some years back her son took over. he drained all her resources, financial and otherwise until all they had left was her old mercedes. they were sleeping in it for awhile but it was getting colder so they came in for help.

needless to say, norma's son was a right prick.

so norma and her very adult son moved into our shelter. he had no real qualms about his mother sleeping on the floor. i'd be lying if we didn't do all we did for norma in spite of her son, but they were a package deal. norma wouldn't move into any sort of home unless her son could go too.

her son was able bodied, but hadn't worked in years.

norma and her son continued to live at the shelter. she was terrific. spry and witty, capable and a bit terrified. we helped norma obtain some of her most important belongings from her (foreclosed) old house and put them in storage. she'd lived there for most of her adult life. norma used to paint, her oil works were important to her as were her old photographs. she still missed her husband, she'd tear up talking about his memories. her son would look idly away during our conversations.

i am not going to pretend i liked norma's son.

after some months norma had gotten used to the shelter regime but would still occasionally sleep in her car. she felt safe there and her belongings were inside. she slept in the backseat with her son in the front. they'd do that for a night or two to take a break from shelter life and then return.

norma wouldn't pursue senior housing because her son, while in his 50's, wasn't old enough to qualify. their only income was her social security, so they couldn't afford much. we worked some deals and got her approved for a studio. a microscopic unit with a murphy bed. safe and clean, but tiny for one person let alone two. we encouraged her to take this place and allow us to (grudgingly) assist her son. no doubt she saw right through our lack of compassion for the man who has put her in the shelter and put her foot down.

her son goes with her or she wasn't going anywhere. he looked idly on as she declared this and we had no choice but to agree. shin kicking came to mind but i kept my feet to myself.

so they moved into the tiniest of places, sharing the murphy and putting it back in the morning so they had a place to sit. norma's fixed income covered the cost. they lived like this for over a year.

norma died last week and her son still has no income. once things are sorted out her social security will cease and he won't have a way to pay the rent. the unit was under her name, the qualifications made on her credit and income. with her gone there is nothing keeping him in the unit. he's let her handle (aside from spending her money) all the arrangements regarding her rent and utilities and housekeeping.

norma's son has got to go.

i'd like to feel worse about that than i do, but sometimes, and to be honest hardly ever in situations like this, i really just don't.

rest in peace, norma, you good old girl, you. it shouldn't have been your lot in life but it was and you put others first until the bitter cramped end. i hope there's extra room in your murphy bed in the sky and the sheets are the finest cotton you've ever touched.

a safe place to kill oneself

We are fortunate that we both work in non-profit, with human suffering. If only because when one of us is wounded, the other can very much understand why it hurts.

A long time client of J's died while we were out of the country. He learned of her death this week and has been deeply saddened. It's not often I see him like this - he sees a lot in the course of his work, and generally is able to reconcile his role in it, but sometimes, it's too much.

And sometimes it should be. A came to J's place years ago with a long and horrible history of sexual abuse, psychiatric disorders and anorexia. It was the latter, no doubt fueled by the former, that finally killed her.

Months ago we sat outside on our porch and debated the treatment decision J needed to make. A was in and out of his facility and others for a number of years. It had become increasingly evident that all of her dependence on the system itself was hurting more than it was helping. They ended up making the difficult decision of denying services to A, and J was to be the one to tell her. I remember him telling me that he would do this, that he knew she was going to die one day, that their decision might facilitate that, and his team struggled long and hard with it and still knew it was the only therapeutic decision that could be made. I am summarizing a lot of conversations - the situation/decision was much more complicated and full of history than I can do justice here. Suffice to say it was a long and winding road.

He sat with her one last time and explained why they had made the decision they had, and typical of J, tried yet again to reach her on a deeper level. He told me he said A, let's cut the bullshit. From one soul to another, from someone who cares for you very much, you have to believe all we are giving you is a safe place to kill yourself. And that is not enough. If there is anything I can do, it would be to make you believe that this world is a beautiful place, that you have so much left to see, to feel, to do, that life is so much more than how you are living it. That you can choose something different.

A listened. She made the decision to check herself into residential treatment the next day, and she never left. She made terrific strides in the past few months, gained some weight, seemed to be improving. But it was already too late. A heart can only take so much.

I asked J last night if he feels responsible for her death. He said he didn't, and I almost believe him. Because while I know he wasn't responsible, I also know how hard these decisions are and how hard it is to watch someone's path unfold, even if you saw it coming.

The problem is we are still idealistic enough to believe that we can help people. And when we don't, it's hard not to wear that around our hearts.

I can't believe it's almost time for our third Just Post Roundtable. If you have a post of yours or one you've appreciated that was written by someone else, please send them my way (to girlplustwo (at) yahoo(dot) com) by March 8th and I'll send you the button. Go on. It's good for the soul.

We'll link all posts and anyone who refers one (or more) in our Just Post Roundtable on the 10th. If this is new to you, please feel free to check it out here.

on the other side of things

Sorry, friends - J wasn't feeling me posting before and after pictures. That's just the way he rolls, keeping things under the radar. He's hot like that.

On other fronts - I've managed to tackle the ER Discharge Planner Situation - got the results of the investigation yesterday, where they tried suggesting he was medically stable yet crashed and burned when pressed and admitted that they really didn't know what the hell to do with the guy. She was sheepish, almost. I stood my ground though, and while I think I was being vaguely patronized I went with it anyways and tossed out big words like inhumane medical treatment and unethical behavior and respite care legislation.

So they have agreed to meet and discuss lines of communication about who we can manage and who we can't. Baby steps.

And the unhappy ending - a client of ours died in his sleep yesterday. He was found in his bed by his best friend, another old timer rounding out his last days in a shelter. He was favored among the staff, a dignified and kind gentleman. It was suggested that I call the next of kin, and there was concern for how she'd react, as they were close.

But not close enough to not allow your relative not to die alone in a homeless shelter. Perhaps it was the wrong decision, but I declined in favor of having the police going over in person - because if you can't make that call wholeheartedly, then it's not yours to make.

Am I an asshole for that? Perhaps. I don't know her story and there are usually many layers to this sort of thing. It just didn't seem right. May he rest in peace.