This continues my effort at catching up on reminiscences and memories from over the summer and early fall 2025.
Tuesday, 9/9/2025, 1:20 am
One of my favorite tunes came seeping through the haze of my sleep as I napped Monday afternoon, exhausted from being up so late the night before. I really NEEDED that nap.
Peter Gabriel, Solsbury Hill, 1977, hummed through as I caught the words.
“I did not believe the information, just had to trust imagination, My heart going Boom-Boom-Boom”. “Son,” he said, “Grab your things, I’ve come to take you home.”
Yet my dreams were unformed. Just the lyrics and tune floating through them.
“When illusion spin her net, I’m never where I wanna be. And liberty, she pirouette, When I think that I am free.
As the notes wafted through my dream state, my consciousness began to float upwards to just before wakefulness.
“Watched by empty silhouettes, Who close their eyes but still can see. No one taught them etiquette. I will show another me.”
And then I saw him, standing in the woods, the golden colors of fall leaves surrounding him, just as he had been when we went on that hike before we discovered his cancer. But rather than sitting alone in an office chair in the middle of the forest, he was standing, looking back over his shoulder towards me and smiled.
“Today, I don’t need a replacement. I’ll tell them what the smile on my face meant. My heart going, “Boom-boom-boom”
He turned to his left and reached down to a very small child, a little boy, Richard. And somehow I knew it was the brother he’d never met, one who died as a young child, and who we discovered only when we went to write Steve’s obituary when we reviewed his mother Florence’s.
As he looked back towards me, I asked him: “but where is your older brother, John?” The first born child of Florence and Charles James, John had died in an automobile accident when he was only 19 years old and it had devastated the family.
And no sooner had I asked this question when a taller thin young man appeared beside Steve on his right side. Steve turned away and the three of them walked off into the forest.
‘”Hey,” I said, “You can keep my things, they’ve come to take me home.”’
And my eyes open to see his smiling face in the photo across from me.
These next few posts are adapted from diary entries during the final days/hours of Steven’s life. It was a second marriage for both of us, and far too short. I’m playing catch up now and wanted to share some of the moments I’ve written about recently.
Steve’s visions
As I write this, on 5/25/25, I remember something you told me about when two of your children visited a few days earlier. You had described to them that there was a large owl standing on the chair on the deck just outside the French doors of the bedroom. I looked and there was a brown patterned pillow on the chair, but that was all. I wondered if you were mistaking the pillow for an owl. And remembered also that there was an owl decoy on the retaining wall that could be seen out another window but that’s not where you were looking. But I was reminded that in some cultures the sight of an owl was a sign of impending death. In some Native cultures, owls could even be messengers from the afterlife.
It was you who told me about your other vision. You told me you saw a vision of God. He was standing at the foot of his bed. I slowly prodded you for answers to a few questions.
What did he look like? You responded, God looked like he was in his mid-30s. He had dark shoulder-length hair. And most notably, he was wearing a white suit. You also added that he was wearing glasses.
So I asked, could you see his eyes? Were they nice eyes? You responded that they were kind eyes. Speaking with my voice low, I responded to you that, should God reach his hand out to you that it would be okay if you took his hand to go with him.
May 25, 2025
My dearest Steve, I know you’d love the symmetry of the date as a point to mark your passing, your transition to the space of love, light, and free of the bonds of the physical body that has tortured you these last couple of years.
The terminal restless that has plagued us both these last couple of days has been replaced by the torturous gurgles of your breaths, still coming strong and regular, though with a gulping lurch consistent with the 83% blood oxygen levels I measured just moments ago.
Your heart races at 136 beats per minute as that muscle does its darnedest to keep itself going. But, like a runner who keeps going despite their legs collapsing beneath them, you, too, will face the end of your physical capacity. Simply put, it will wear itself out, and quickly.
Steven, yours is a magnificent soul. An old soul craftsman who has lived a life of joyful creation with the youthful exuberance of the 12-yr-old you oft-claimed to be. I wonder how life for you would have been if you’d been able to live with that joyful abandon before I met you.
Father Joe came to visit Thursday morning at my invitation. I knew your daughter would appreciate it and I was so glad you were able to meet him. We’d laughed often at his FB posts about parking in the parrish parking lot. He always wrote with a disarming humor that made it hard to argue with. So I was actually excited and honored that he’d accepted this Jewish girl’s request to have him visit my (lapsed) Catholic husband. Your daughter was even able to get here just in time to join in the prayers. As he left he offered to come back, though I wasn’t sure how I’d reach him over the holiday weekend.
We had a visit yesterday, Saturday, by your ex-wife, along with both your daughters. I have no ill will when it comes to your ex. After all, she let you go so you would find me, and for that I am grateful.
They arrived just as you and I were in a struggle, having wrestled a bit for more than 20 minutes as you insisted on getting out of bed. Your mind was disoriented, oxygen-deprived, and could no longer understand the words I spoke, pleading to you to stay in bed, that the catheter would now limit your movements.
But you looked at me with wild eyes, and a physical strength I would have found impressive at your late stage of dying, that is, if I weren’t trying to keep you from knocking me over, as well.
We stood in a strange embrace, you with the look of a caged animal desperate to leave the chains of your body, and me with tears welling up as I tried to find ways to reason with you on our next dance steps.
Part of me actually was taken back to our first dates together, a dance class you said you’d take with me. It was part of your pickup line. “I wish I could dance with you,” that you wrote when I had shared that I’d started a dance class after Keith had died. I had needed to move, to feel part of the music, to feed my aching soul.
And you willingly put yourself out there, to try and dance with me, sheepishly and a bit out of rhythm and step. But you gave it your best try. You did it for me, to help heal my aching heart while also getting closer to me. It worked.
Now 12 years later, we are standing here in an embrace, your body degrading against your will, your mind disintegrating from the lack of oxygen. And all I want to do is take away your pain.
A moment of understanding happened when I asked you “Steve, do you want your ex and your daughters to see you like this?” No, you shook your head. So I managed to get you to sit and then lie down on the bed. The next struggle would be to get you to a better position since you had ended up too close to the foot of the bed.
I called out for Steve’s oldest daughter who I knew was now in the house with her sister and mom. I called again, but no answer. Finally I went to the bedroom door and opened it to find his younger daughter standing in the kitchen. Her sister had been in the bathroom down the hall. “I need physical help,” I told her urgently. Soon both the girls were in the bedroom struggling to get Steve further up the bed, lifting his arm from each side.
As I stepped back to let them work, I turned around to see his first wife standing beside me. I did what I’d done the last time we’d met, almost exactly 11 years before. I held out my hand to shake hers and said “Hi. I’m so sorry that we keep having to meet around death and dying.” I was referring to the first time we’d met at Steve’s mother’s funeral. Thankfully, she was gracious and responded warmly to thank me for allowing her to come to see him. It had been an interesting turn since I had invited her a week or so earlier and she had politely declined. But apparently her daughter had been able to convince her it was important to them.
The rest of that day, Saturday, was a bit of a blur. The on-call nurse finally arrived again after taking care of another patient who’d fallen. It was Memorial Day weekend and she was the one on call for the weekend. And she’d already been here until 3 am that same day to insert the aforementioned catheter.
Before the nurse had left from that middle-of-the-night visit, and after she’d admonished me to get some rest myself, I confided that I’d need it because Steve’s ex and daughters would be arriving in the morning. “Oh, I want to HEAR about that, girl!” We laughed. So when she’d arrived for the second time, with all of them present, I was very pointed in introducing everyone before she got too far. She met my eyes with a knowing look (so THIS is the ex!) after I’d introduced them all.
Later, after I’d taken the short nap that my favorite nurse had urged while admonishing the girls that they needed to do their part, I suggested to their mom that she might like a tour of the place and a short walk outside. I needed it myself. The sun was shining, though the air was still a cool 52 degrees, rather chilly for this time of year. As we walked around, I shared stories of the property and what we’d done to it. And more than once, and then again in the workshops, she remarked that Steve had found his heaven on earth with everything… the tools, the shop, the playful space for creating. She seemed to understand more about why Steve had found me.
They’d left around 3 pm Saturday to head home, saying their goodbyes to you, Steve, knowing that would likely be the last time they’d see you alive. And your youngest son arrived around dinner time and we began to trade shifts through the longest night.
The Last Hours
It’s 9:50 am on Sunday now and I’ve been writing and listening to music, your favorite tunes, as I try and capture my thoughts during these last hours.
Your breathing has gotten “jerkier”, for lack of a better description. The gurgling is a bit louder, deeper in the chest. I checked your O2 and it briefly showed 60% with only 40 bpm. But when I checked the left hand, and then again your right, I could get no reading at all. The line that indicated your pulse rate would only occasionally show a blip. For a moment I was fascinated by this data-informed visualization of your impending departure from this earthly plain.
But then my own heart began to ache. Your phone had been dinging, messages from a close friend. She was desperate to hear from you, to get comfort for a difficult diagnosis she was facing. But I’m concentrating on you, my dear love. Do I bother with the last dose of morphine? You’re not in pain. So maybe it’s best to leave that alone. You’re done being the subject of medicine.
It’s time to release your soul to the other side… a place of peace and love. Part of me envies you that you will find peace while the rest of us deal with the pain of missing you.
Go with love, my sweetheart. Go with love and peace.
I play the Beatles for you. I’d bought tickets to Rain, a Beatles-tribute band, and you absolutely loved every minute of it. Finding our shared joy in music was another thing that brought us closer.
It’s 10:19 am. The Beatles music ended with “Shake it up Baby”. And so did you, and so will I.
Love you, my sweetheart. Go in love and peace.
Preparing for the Public Goodbyes
It’s 1 am on 5/31/25, nearly a week after you left this earthly plane. I’ve been keeping busy… making your final arrangements, researching and ordering up the hourglass urns, navigating the conflicts arising from my inability to please everyone all the time.
A couple of hours ago, I glanced at the clock and it read 11:11 pm. The angel number that may mean you’re trying to send me a message, that everything is anew… for you in the afterlife… and for me here in among the living.
The associative memories are powerful, yet remade in a new context. I sat in my leather chair in the middle of the living room, Steve lay sleeping on the couch with his back to me, the hum of the oxygen generator filling the space between us. Sunlight shines outside and the room feels light as air, yet my heart feels the aching weight of loss.
So this is how it’s going to be, I’m thinking. This is how it will feel when I’m living alone, the last one standing in this giant house.
I look down at the laptop where I’m catching up on emails and making final tweaks on the syllabus for a summer course. It’s busy work, the kind that distracts me from that sinking feeling that comes with grief of anticipated loss.
But when I look up again at the dark blue sofa, it appears empty and I hear only silence.
So this is how it’s going to be, I’m thinking. This is how it will feel when I’m living alone, the last one standing in this giant house.
I remember sitting in this chair in the living room at Jerome Lane, attempting to do my doctoral studies at a rolling desk while Keith lay on the couch in pain. But I couldn’t do the work. I quit for that summer of 2012, unable to mentally process a null hypothesis in the quantitative research methods course that began just as Keith was being diagnosed. I later finished that doctorate – with Steve’s emotional support. He made it possible to push forward, to concentrate on all the things, including making sense of the workshops and property on Perry Road.
Together we would make a life – for me after Keith. And for Steve it was after his divorce. Together we could heal each other’s pain.
But now, in the living room of this new home we built together on this special property on Perry Road… after losing Keith beforehand, then my mother before it was finished, and my dad at the start of Covid, all of them gone… I try to prepare myself for losing Steven.
He’s still here, yet consciousness is an evasive state of being.
I sit here in my leather chair, my laptop open, but I’ve given up on getting any real work done, and scroll through social media instead.
Same chair, different space.
Flowers that dear Steve asked his son to arrange to send to me on Mother’s Day this year. My birthday was just a little over a week before but life was too hectic with the end-of-semester rush and Steve’s 24-7 care to coordinate. Yet during one of those quieter times, out of my earshot, Steve had the presence of mind to ask his son for this favor. Love finds a way.
Warning: This post includes a reference to my own political views. If any criticism of the recently removed occupant of the White House, aka #45, will upset you, please go elsewhere for your reading. That is, unless you are truly interested in learning about the pain this has caused within families and would like to try and heal that rift. Thank you. – MJF
I often wonder how our conversations would have gone if my Dad were here to have seen how the past 10 months have panned out. We had come to agree not to speak politics, especially at the dinner table. I still remember the day more than four years ago when he asked me why I was screaming when he kept dismissing my concerns about then candidate tRump. I told Dad it was because he terrified me. I could feel the evil he, tRump, was projecting, the cold heartless disregard for others, the narcissistic boasting of lies that his speech pattern revealed, unable to string together a coherent thought while weaving in complete and utter nonsense soaked up by his base who somehow thought being tough meant beating up the opposition. All critical thinking having been abdicated in exchange for a toxic masculinity in what became the cult of the schoolyard bully of tRump.
Mom and Dad in happier healthier times. Summer 2010 visiting the Detroit Zoo as part of a family celebration of their 50th Anniversary.
I remember tearfully and loudly exclaiming how could Dad even consider following him after the toxic expressions of anti-semitism, the admiration of dictators and despots, the complete disregard for human decency and process. My dad dismissively waived off my concerns saying it was just his candidate being boastful, that it would never get that bad. And maybe, I hoped do, too. That the checks and balances of government, and that the fourth estate would be enough. But then came COVID19. And he became so adept at the flippant lies that the cultish base he dog-whistled to had finally been fully brainwashed. And the evil we saw spread in its rabid attack on democracy had reached its peak.
Dad passed away May 1st, 2020 after a brief and ugly battle with cancer, and full of the awful indignities that go with it. And I did my daughterly duties and cared for him, cleaning him up, feeding and bathing him when his body turned against him. As his body began to degrade around him, I remember Dad asking me “What happens after you die?” And it crushed me. Raised Jewish, there is no hell or purgatory. But there is guilt. I chose not to add to his pain. Instead, I asked him questions that were meant to help him reflect and guide him to his own conclusions. He was in a room filled with books that explored this very thing…my mother, who had passed away nearly four years earlier, was a voracious reader of all things spiritual. Yet he had never picked up a single one of these books except to place them on the shelf. So, after a few bits of back and forth that didn’t seem to satisfy him, I simply responded “You’ll be with mom once again.”
The writer of the article linked below is hoping to find his lost (to the cult of tRump) parents long before they die. I hope he is successful.
The past two weekends brought three mass shootings (yes, technically Gilroy didn’t result in enough deaths to be classified as such… don’t care… it was intended to cause terror and death), and I’m left shaking my head in an attempt to try and make sense of it all. But who can make sense of this insanity? It’s like a group of Americans are suffering a shared psychosis of hate and paranoia, and, combined with access to high capacity weapons, are acting on it.
While I continue to process the horrific events, one of them in the state next door to where I live, and in an area I just drove through about 5 weeks ago, I instead will share the impassioned and thoughtful words of a person I have called my spiritual friend.
Nan O’Brien-Webb wrote the following and shared it this morning on FaceBook, and she captures the outrage, anger, and demand for sensibility that I feel but cannot yet describe in my own words. These are hers and she has given me permission to share it here. Being a former radio professional, she recorded her response and I encourage you to listen. The written word cannot capture the pain we hear in the sound of her voice, a pain that we’re all feeling as we try and make sense of the chaos that has been growing around us.
People enjoying a summer night (Dayton) and families shopping for back-to-school supplies (El Paso). Two mass shootings in two cities almost 1,600 miles apart. These law-abiding citizens who were doing nothing more than going about normal daily activities have now joined a club to which no one wants to belong – “I was at the scene of a mass shooting.”
Just one week ago, on Monday, July 29th, the Garlic Festival in Gilroy, California, was the site of yet another shooting spree, where three people – six-year-old Stephen Romero, thirteen-year-old Keyla Salazar, and twenty-five-year-old Trevor Irby – were killed, and another sixteen people were wounded. Amazingly, the Garlic Festival deadly assault is not considered a “mass shooting” under the FBI definition of mass shootings, because Legan was “successful” in “only” killing three people. The FBI benchmark for the moniker “mass shooting” states four people besides the shooter must die in order to be classified as a mass shooting. Tell that to the people who were there. Trust me; it absolutely was a mass shooting, FBI definition be damned.
Here are some facts to consider:
– The public carnage in Gilroy was carried out by 19-year old Santino William Legan, who had legally purchased the SKS assault-style rifle he used in the attack, on July 9th in Nevada, a neighboring state that has a history of gun laws that are far more lax than those in California (for more independent information about Nevada gun laws, please visit https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gun_laws_in_Nevada).
– The Dayton shooter, twenty-four year old Connor Betts, reportedly used an assault rifle, as the bullets found at the scene were 223 caliber, commonly used in rifles like the AR-15 assault rifle that has been a favorite of other gunmen in previous mass shootings. There is no up-to-date information on how he was able to secure his weapon.
– In El Paso, twenty-one year old Patrick Crusius, opened fire with what witnesses say was a rifle, with the rapidity and amount of carnage supporting the theory that it was an assault rifle, too. There is also no up-to-date information on how he was able to secure his weapon.
Investigations as to what weapons were used in Dayton and El Paso are still ongoing. That said, with the number of deaths in the shortest amount of time before being stopped, the body counts at both scenes tend to support that assault weapons were used. In addition, the “convenience” and appeal of such high-powered assault weapons to those with such heinous agendas is historical and sadly obvious.
I am not attacking the Second Amendment here, so please – don’t start posting about the right to bear arms! My legal background always rises to the discussion of such situations from a legal and intellectual standpoint more than an emotional one, and I will defer my comments on the creation, intention, and interpretation (both sides) of the right to bear arms contained in the Second Amendment for another post – I try to be fair when I’m on my soapbox, and right now I’m not in a mood to be fair at all. I’m angry. My heart aches for those who were at the scenes of these shootings, and for all Americans who now hesitate when attending the most “normal” of places.
My anger is rooted in what I see as the ripple effect of events like the Garlic Festival, Dayton, El Paso, and too many others to list, though were I to do so, you would know and remember well the events. I’m angriest because whether shootings occur or not, the unease of wondering “what if” is now so deeply ingrained in our culture. It affects us all, though we may not realize how much. I didn’t, until just two months ago:
My husband and I were in Atlanta awaiting the birth of our second granddaughter, and our family attended a summer weekly outdoor festival. I noticed a man standing on a balcony overlooking the children playing in the large water fountain, the parents enjoying the outdoor concert, everyone happy on a beautiful summer’s night. He stood alone with a large black bag at his feet. It seemed odd he was on a second floor balcony of a closed office building at the edge of the park, not with everyone below, and so I watched him. I watched him, his manner impatient, his constant scanning of the crowd nervous. I watched to make sure he wasn’t going to pull a gun out of that black bag, and start shooting. And I decided that if I saw him move toward that black bag, I had already planned out where the safest place for my family to run would be. He stood there for about ten minutes, then raised his arm and showed a wide grin, when he spotted a group of people who had just arrived at the park. But those ten minutes were a lifetime for me. The uncertainty, the fear, the anger at myself for being suspicious, all combined in an uncomfortable mix of emotions that are still hard to shake. And the black bag? It had a blanket to sit on, and some drinks to enjoy, while they, too were at that concert. How do I know? I kept watching him as he came down the stairs from the balcony and walked over to his friends, who took a place right next to where we were sitting.
I can’t help but wonder if the alarming rise in the level of people with anxiety disorders, and acts of domestic terrorism (let’s call it what it is – violent behavior intended to inflict the most physical and emotional destruction), is related or coincidental. Another issue that needs independent inquiry and research; but not today.
Today, it seems to come down to one simple question that isn’t even a question, it’s a mandate: When does the insanity stop. When does the country come together and forget party affiliation, seeking the highest standard of commonality and humanity, as well as simple common sense. I can’t imagine any sane person advocating such violence, so do we not all have the same need for a sense of security and peace in our lives?
And if we as a nation are going to speak to the vision of our Forefathers in their creation of the brilliance of the United States Constitution (signed on September 17, 1787), defending at least parts of it with every last breath (do you know what the Seventh Amendment says, and how it is routinely ignored because of its inapplicability to modern times?), should we not first look to the reason our Constitution was necessary? I’m speaking of the document that predates the Constitution, that sets forth the reasons FOR our newly formed government to create the legal mandate for our country: the Declaration of Independence. Whatever happened to “the unalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” that is the core of our Declaration of Independence? Are those rights not being infringed upon on a regular basis, by those who successfully take advantage – no, who cowardly hide behind – the protection of the Second Amendment?
Today we should not be talking about defending the rights of these mass shooters to kill innocent people because of the right to bear arms in the Second Amendment. But we arguably should be talking about the need to protect the American public from weapons that were created for battle conditions in war, and not for attacks on innocent people shopping for back-to-school supplies at Wal-Mart. We should be talking about the Pandora’s Box of public pronouncements inciting and promoting divisiveness and hatred, that emboldens those to act. We should be talking about the role of fear on many levels – fear to be in public places that normal life requires (restaurants, movie theatres, concerts, and yes, Wal-Mart); fear to be unarmed; fear of those who ARE armed; fear of those who are different; fear of those who have mental illness; fear of those we think want to take from us; fear of change; fear of the unknown, when the unknowns we bear witness to on a regular basis are so horrendous, so terrifying.
We need to argue less and talk more. We need to listen to all views with respect and not engage in pissing contests. We need to rebuke the fear and get to the commonalities between us. And perhaps most importantly of all, we need to evolve beyond our current circumstance.
I choose to believe it can happen.
My heart goes out to all of those personally affected by the most recent shootings, and to our country at this solemn moment in our nation’s history.
This is an icon I created when working in Fiji. It was one of 24 icon-style illustrations with Pacific themes. Being my favorite, I adopted this one as a psuedo-logo.
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