We’d just begun a new chapter of being just the two of us again, children grown, new challenges and opportunities… after 34 years together, like young newlyweds, the world would be our oyster again hiding the pearl we knew would glimmer and shine its lustrous colors upon us. I’d rushed back from an overseas trip only to find myself now in charge of your healthcare.
And then you were gone.
So abrupt, from diagnosis to death in less than three months.
Crushed, angry, resentful for you having left me right when the adventures were getting even more interesting than the 30+ years before!
I restarted my studies, knowing that if I just immersed myself in the work I could hide away from my grief, ignore the wound in my heart. But by Christmas, I sat crying on the side of the bed…
I just. want. a hug.
I’d tried a dance class, a restorative process where I could lose myself in the movements, and connect to my grandmother, a dancer in her own day. You never wanted to dance with me… though there was that one last time. But still, the movements and the music began to heal me.
I don’t bite except on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
The dreams were so vivid that I looked forward to your visits. But the loneliness wouldn’t go away. Perhaps, if only there was someone, not one of our children, or friends, or anyone who knew you. Someone I could talk to who didn’t have your ghost to guide the conversations.
And then he reached out and I ignored him. Each week he’d check in. “I don’t bite except on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he wrote. And I finally couldn’t stifle the laugh. The nerve, I thought. So we wrote to each other, first just a couple of times a week, then every day, and then we’d talk all night.
“I wish I could dance with you, ya know,” he wrote offering to join me in a dance class when he visited. It became our connection. He was awful at it, and I loved him for it anyway.
As we shared our stories with each other I realized it wasn’t just my tears that were falling for the one I’d lost. He cried for it, too, a life of wonder and adventure that he hoped to build with me.
And then… we did.
The above prose was written as part of a 13-minute writing exercise during a six-week workshop offered by @LauraLentzWriter and her Literati Academy. The writers participating in this series are exploring their way through grief and the hero’s journey.
Happy times. Me and Steven were wandering the wineries of the Mission Peninsula in Traverse City. June 2019
Before grief, I spoke the language of we. What were we doing today? Even if we were working separately our days rotated around each other like two stars in synchronous orbits, each shining our light upon the other with love and kindness.
Before grief, I still grieved for my first love. But you stepped into my life, two roses in hand, with a smile so bright it still makes me laugh when I think of it… Memories can be both healing and hurtful in their teasing. But I’d rather the smile, than the tears.
It was always like that with us, my sesame chicken to your homey meatloaf. The doctor and the hillbilly, the designer and the maker. We were in sync in this third chapter of our lives and I was looking forward to a long one together. But it wasn’t meant to be, I guess. The dogs sleeping on your side of the bed has a way of reminding me of that.
So now I speak of possibilities, though I am charting a new path without a roadmap to guide me. No late night nudges to ask you “Is this possible?” And for you to answer me “of course it is!” I miss that. But grief can’t take away my dreams, not completely anyway. They have shifted, adapted, and are still remolding themselves.
[A]fter grief, I’m learning to believe in myself again.
I’ve been through this before. And I know that it can only lead to something bigger than myself. That my life is not just a big empty house in a forest filled with darkness.
After grief, I’m learning anew. You always knew that I was a lifelong learner. Back to school again and again and again. But now it’s not what I know or who I love that matters. It’s what I believe. And after grief, I’m learning to believe in myself again. To apply the lessons of the before-times to a party of one with room to invite fellow believers.
That’s harder than it sounds. But I’m working on it.
The above prose was written as part of a 13-minute writing exercise during a six-week workshop offered by @LauraLentzWriter and her Literati Academy. The writers participating in this series are exploring their way through grief and the hero’s journey.
Artwork I was creating recently for a book cover inspired by Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde, apropos of my recent anaphylactic experience.
I promised myself I’d go to sleep at a reasonable hour tonight. But obviously I’m failing that to the extreme since it’s now after midnight as I write this. I’ve had trouble going to sleep the last three nights, in spite of exhaustion, taking Benadryl (per ER doc), and Melatonin.
Part of it may be the stress from a perfect storm of mid-semester student neediness, an extra load of orientations to attend and conduct, launching the second-half semester course, prepping classes for Winter, and all the while just wanting to spend time hiding away in the studio sorting type and playing with printing. The escape, the meditative aspect of exploration without expectation, the lack of emotional drain from, well… just about everything.
…all the while I just wanted to spend time hiding away in the studio sorting type and playing with printing. The escape, the meditative aspect of exploration without expectation, the lack of emotional drain from, well… just about everything.
But I also believe it’s due in part to fear. Fear of waking up (or not) the next morning, reliving my early Monday morning discovery and calmly, methodically, calculatingly, driving myself to the ER knowing that it was only a matter of minutes before I wouldn’t be able to breath anymore.
That’s how my Monday morning started. Bright and early, I woke up on the dreary cloudy misty rainy morning at 7:55 am. I’d been laying on my stomach and awoke thinking my tongue felt weird. I realized quickly enough it wasn’t normal so got out of bed to look in the bathroom mirror – the left side of my tongue was very swollen, filling my mouth on that side.
Think, Mara, think. Stroke? No. The rest of your body is functioning fine. You bit it in your sleep? No. There’s no pain and no blood. I looked in the mirror again. It was still there and I wondered if I was just imagining that the swelling was beginning to creep to the right side. I swallowed hard. Something felt weird there, too. Perhaps a sore throat. But that didn’t explain the swollen tongue.
“Steve,” I said with the beginning of my garbled lisp. “I have a problem.”
“Steve,” I said with the beginning of my garbled lisp. “I have a problem.” He came awake a bit groggy but knew that when I say things like this, I’m not joking. “My tongue is swollen. We have to go to the Hospital,” I lisped as loud as I could muster, knowing that his hearing also isn’t very good these days, post-chemo. At that he knew I was being very serious and we both quickly began to get dressed. I even brushed my hair and teeth while Steve made two travel mugs of coffee, though I didn’t have the heart to tell him I wouldn’t trust myself to drink it.
All the while, I remain calm while mentally calculating my time… How many minutes has it been since I awoke? How much larger is the swelling? How much time will it take to get to the hospital – which one? The closest is 12 minutes away.
We get in the car and I head east on Perry and then south on Gale. “Where are you going? The hospital is the other way?” Steve asked. I was driving since by my same mental calculations it would be safer. Steve hadn’t driven in nearly a year because of his cancer treatments and pain meds. And he had never driven this Tesla. He was coming along to speak for me because I was afraid I might not be able to by the time we got there.
“We’re going to Genesys and this is the fastest route,” I garbled again finding I had to force the volume past my enlarged tongue which kept me from enunciating my words. But I knew from several years of membership at the Genesys Athletic Center located across from the hospital that this was indeed the fastest way to get there. Steve had thought we were going to McLaren in Lapeer which was 18-20 minutes away. Too far. It would be too late.
As we got closer to where Gale turns south off Hegel we enter a school zone and the speed limit drops from 55 mph to 25 mph since it’s now school drop-off time. I feel myself growing more anxious. Calculating – what if I sped through it and attracted the police? Would it take longer for them to notice my anaphylaxis and take me with lights and sirens to the hospital? Or should I just slow down through the school zone and hope that is still faster than getting into trouble with police?
I tried to slow my heart rate as I slowed down the car. “Breath deep,” I told myself. But I now realized my tongue was too swollen to breath through my mouth. “Close your mouth and breath through your nose,” was my reply in my head. Yes, I could do that and proceeded to try and do both – breath and slow my racing heart as we crawled through the school zone past the middle school, then the elementary school, and finally the high school.
The “End of School Zone” sign emerged and I hit the accelerator back up to 55 mph slowing down for the curves as I held the wheel tightly and kept my eyes on the road. Swallowing… that was getting harder. Damn. Keep going.
The “End of School Zone” sign emerged and I hit the accelerator back up to 55 mph slowing down for the curves as I held the wheel tightly and kept my eyes on the road. Swallowing… that was getting harder. Damn. Keep going.
Now at Baldwin and Saginaw behind one car stopped at the light. No, don’t pull around them on the right. That would be reckless and they wouldn’t understand why you were doing it and road rage would result. Calculating… we are probably only about three to four minutes away.
Baldwin and Holly Roads now. Which entrance should I go to?
Take Holly, you can see the ER sign from there. Pull in, where do we park? Should we pull up to the door? No. Don’t want to leave Steve with having to park the car. Steve points out the turn into the parking lot and I pull into a handicapped spot and he hangs his windshield handicap tag on the rearview mirror. I see my car’s clock as we get out of the car to head towards the hospital ER – 8:26 am. Thirty-one minutes since I awoke. I’m still standing and just need to be seen. Will they make us wait?
Grabbed my purse and pull out my wallet as we’re walking to the door. I hand Steve my driver’s license and health insurance card. “You’ll need this” I try to tell him, but my words come out in a garble, but he understands my meaning.
About four security guards are standing around their little vestibule cubicle since it’s shift change, and one tries to ask us questions. I just point to the ER door in front of us and keep walking. I look to the left and see that there are only a few people in the waiting room. That’s good.
A male nurse who is heading towards the front desk looks at me and asks if we need any help. I point to my tongue and throat and try to speak but he gets the picture. Steve tells him my tongue is swollen and that it’s getting worse.
Without hesitation, the nurse takes us both straight back to the ER exam rooms and tells them “Analphyaxis, urgent!” He points me towards an empty bed and all hell seems to break loose. Three or more nurses and a doctor all converged upon me in this little room, taking vitals, asking questions, doctor shouting orders. And, in what seemed like only a few minutes, I had an IV and was being pumped with Epinephrine, Benadryl, and saline.
I try and tell him “It’s okay. We did the right thing. They’re gonna make it better.” He hears me. But the tears are just too close to the surface to stop.
Steve was being asked questions, too, answering as best he can, handing over my ID and Insurance cards, and otherwise trying to stay out of the way. I see him sitting there during a lull in the commotion and point to him and tell the nurse “Stage IV Lung Cancer”. She repeats it to another and Steve nods his head, the stress showing in his body. It’s not long before he breaks down in tears, the stress of it all just too much. I try and tell him “It’s okay. We did the right thing. They’re gonna make it better.” He hears me. But the tears are just too close to the surface to stop. A nurse tries to comfort him and eventually he regains his composure.
In the middle of all this, and the various rushes of blood draws and IV setups, I tried to text a colleague to take over a Zoom meeting scheduled at 10 am. In a brief lull in treatment, I was able to log into the meeting from my phone – camera off and audio muted – so I could switch it over making him the host.
Soon my head was swimming with the rush of Epinephrine and Benadryl, and I closed my eyes from the vertigo it caused. I was awakened by the vibration on my wrist… It was 11:05 and my therapist was concerned that I hadn’t shown up for our 11 am Telehealth meeting since I’m always very prompt. Once explained, she left me to the care of the ER staff.
Within 90 minutes the swelling was reversing and I could talk better, though sounded hoarse, like a longtime smoker. I asked Steve if he was hungry, again repeating that he had Stage IV Lung cancer in front of a new nurse Traci, who was there to do an EKG. She was on it. After finishing the procedure, she ushered him through the right doors to get to a cafeteria warning him that he would have to take the long way to get back. She came back in to visit me and said she’d gone back to the cafeteria to see if he’d gotten some food and confirmed seeing him there eating. Steve would later come back to tell me that he must have looked pretty rough because another staff member had very kindly bought him his meal.
The swelling was now nearly gone and the Doc visits saying she wanted to check for triponine in the bloodstream which would indicate heart damage from the rapid and irregular heart rate caused by the whole event. So she ordered additional blood tests. But by noon she started talking about sending me home if I felt I was ready. After checking out and picking up an Rx for two new Epipens, we were home and I was back to work in my home office.
…one larger wasp was still alive and hiding among a batch of glass rods I had picked up to clean around. His bite was mean and quite painful…
The diagnosis was delayed onset Anaphylaxis from a wasp bite I’d gotten on Saturday afternoon. I’d been cleaning out the dead bodies from our latest effort to rid Steve’s kiln room of wasps that had moved into the gable over the studio entryway. But one larger wasp was still alive and hiding among a batch of glass rods I had picked up to clean around. His bite was mean and quite painful, more so than the bite I’d gotten two weeks before from one of his smaller cousins. Yes, this was not the first time I’d been stung recently.
My left hand after the second time I was stung in two weeks.
The first time was on my right hand on Saturday, 9/30/23, and it swelled up pretty badly but after about 3 days it went down. Ice and benadryl helped. By Tuesday night, my right foot had swelled up and my left heel felt a bit weird like part of it was numb. Though we initially thought it was a spider bite from wearing shoes that hadn’t been used since last winter, we couldn’t find signs of any bites. After a few days the swelling subsided and I went on with life. Fast forward to this past Saturday, 10/14/23, and that big guy bit me hard on my left hand. He died. But maybe he was trying to take me with him. Guess this time he was wrong.
However, the ER Doc figures that the next time won’t be two days later with anaphylaxis, but more immediate. So now I am the proud yet wary owner of two Epipens. Just carrying them around makes me anxious.
I am the proud yet wary owner of two Epipens. Just carrying them around makes me anxious.
So I guess all of this explains why I lack the emotional energy to deal with students who are confused, stressed out, and hitting the mid-semester emotional wall.
Steve must have noticed how weary I’d become because I hadn’t really stopped working since coming home from the Emergency Room on Monday afternoon. He took me out for a lovely dinner tonight. And while it was a bit distressing to see the dark circles under my eyes, I tried to clean myself up and look decent enough as we headed out.
It’s 1:13 am as I finish this. I don’t have a meeting tomorrow until 11 am. Maybe I can find a way to sleep until at least 9 am. Wish me luck. My eyes are dried out and wide open. Oi vey.
Sarah said I have a type. And then I as we hugged in pain from the news, Steve said the same thing, “you have a type.”
I guess by that they meant that I loved sharing my life with a partner who also shared my curiousity, creative sense of play and exploration, and whose work complemented my own as we supported each other’s pursuits. The implication, however, was that they often worked with materials that were toxic, or shared the habits of their generation such as heavy smoking and drinking, suffering the consequences of the indiscretions of youthful hubris.
The sad part is that there are no guarantees on longevity. None of us gets an assurance on how long we have on this earth, on how much time we have to spend with our loved ones. And no amount of love, no matter how deep, will keep them here on this earth if their fate is meant to be somewhere else.
[N]o amount of love, no matter how deep, will keep them here on this earth if their fate is meant to be somewhere else.
Not Again
Steve had been feeling sick since late September and was finally able to get a telehealth doctor’s visit in late October. That lead to an immediate trip to the ER due to pleural effusion and three days in the hospital. More follow-up doctor’s visits and then another visit to the ER and a week in the hospital, collapsed lung, more thoracentesis, CT scans, pathologies, and finally a confirmed diagnosis – stage IV non-small cell lung cancer adenocarcinoma. Followed by biopsies, colonoscopy/endoscopy, and PET-CT and finally a meeting with the oncologist.
Treatment would be palliative to keep the cancer from spreading further. Depending on the analysis of tissue from the biopsy, it would include immunotherapy, or a combination of immunotherapy and chemotherapy. Prognosis was dependent on the outcome of that treatment – months or years.
In dark times like this, sometimes a morbid sense of humor results. “I thought I had a 10-year warranty on our marriage!” I said to Steven as we shared a quiet celebration of our 8th anniversary this week. “And I intended to renew it with another 10-year extended warranty!” Geez.
Preparing for the holidays…
This past weekend Steve was able to fit in some moments of normalcy between naps and directing from his stressless recliner as visiting family members helped with chores that culminated in decorating a much smaller Christmas tree that I’d ordered. At half the size of the 12′ tree we’ve had the past few years, the smaller 6-1/2 footer allowed me to manage its assembly and grandkids to help with decorations without a ladder. The job was done in a matter of hours instead of days. Although not the grand tree we usually had, it put a smile on Steve’s face and that’s what mattered to me most.
The new 6-1/2 ft tree was decorated with help from family including grandchildren. It replaced the 12-1/2 ft tree that normally fills the room but that takes two adults on ladders to do. This smaller tree was put up and decorated in a day and still managed very nicely to make everyone smile with gratitude and appreciation.
And an anniversary
When we first started dating, he’d show up at my door with two roses in his hand and a silly grin on his face. It always made me smile in return and lightened my heart. Steve gives the best hugs and so it has been my goal to return those hugs and their healing power as much as I can and he’s willing to accept them as his body fights back.
Copper orange roses for our 8th anniversary.
So on our 8th anniversary this week, I brought him a dozen copper orange roses, a box of chocolates, and a Hallmark card. These were what he would have brought me but driving hasn’t been his option for the last two months. So I did it for both of us. His lip quivered a bit fighting back tears as he read the card and saw the roses. I split them up – 8 in one vase for the years we’ve been together, and another 4 for blessings going forward.
Dinner and The Voice
We sit here and watch the finale performances for this season’s The Voice. We’re in the new bed I bought, a split adjustable king bed that would allow Steve to raise and lower his back and legs to help him breath and get a bit more comfortable.
This afternoon, while I was in online meetings and student reviews in my home office, Steve was riding the tractor down the hillside out back with John following so they could hook up the plow blade for the inevitable snowfall we anticipate for the winter, yet haven’t seen much of yet.
I was part horrified when I learned of his joyriding out back while holding back my critique as he looked at me painfully while trying to eat his dinner. He’d been asking me to make this dish he saw on Facebook – baked honey sesame chicken which was basically a sweet and sour chicken – and so I made it. But that pained look told me he was struggling to eat it – not because he didn’t like the taste, but because as soon as he starts to eat, his stomach says “no more.”
“Did you feel almost normal when you were riding around on the tractor?” “Yes, almost.” “Then it was worth it.”
“How have you been feeling?” I asked. “Crappy all over,” he replied. “It’ll be okay,” I replied. But he broke down. He didn’t like this crappy feeling, he said between tears. “Did you feel almost normal when you were riding around on the tractor?” I asked him, touching his arm gently. “Yes, almost,” came the reply between the slowing sobs. “Then it was worth it,” I whispered.
But deep inside, I wondered how many more of these “close to normal” moments there would be in his future.
Silken Windhounds, Louie (white and tan) and Ralph (dark grey and black) curl up beside Steve as he watches the singers on The Voice between short naps.
As I write this, Steve munches on some Lays Waves potato chips, craved from the power of suggestion as The Voice’s Blake Shelton did a shtick where he steals the Voice award by swapping the award sitting on a pedestal rigged with an alarm with a bag of Pringles. Steve looks happy. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say all was normal as both Ralph and Louie are curled up with their heads against his side. How I long for this moment of normalcy to last.
Dear reader: I know it’s been more than a year since I’ve published anything. Let’s just say my attentions have been elsewhere. But I’m hopeful that with this post, the ice jam has been broken and I’ll be writing more again in the future. In the meantime, I hope you appreciate this brief entry below. _____________________________________________
Fog rolls in on Lake Superior sunset.
Ten years today you left this earthly plane, you left your cancer pain, and you left us heart-broken.
But time hasn’t faded my memory of you – and of us – because still, I can see your smile, still hear your voice, still feel your kisses, and still know the warmth of your caress.
And I know that you’ve been watching over us, too, in spirit. I can feel your presence, and occasionally hear your commentary, as if you were walking beside me. We talk that way, too, you know.
We have so much to be proud of since you’ve passed over in spirit. Two grandsons to start with! They are the light of my life and they talk to you, too, grandpa! Especially T.
Family preparing for sunset photos as the fog rolls in on Lake Superior.
And I know you were there in June up in the upper peninsula when our youngest daughter, now in her early 30s, was married to her own love of her life. We all felt your presence there… the fog rolling into the harbor as we started to gather for pre-wedding photos at sunset. Then there was the bald eagle flying near the window as we enjoyed families together for the rehearsal dinner. It was an interesting choice, Keith, since previously I’d seen your animus in the form of a Great Blue Heron. But the Eagle is a bird of the north and so it was right.
At the ceremony, we knew you were there smiling when your name was mentioned in honor, as Stassia wore the necklace with the cremation diamond you and she helped plan, as the sunshine and blue skies blessed the day on the shores of Lake Superior, and as our grandsons played in the pebbles picking out the pretty ones they wanted to keep as treasures.
But today, this morning, on the tenth anniversary of your departure from this physical plane, you had to have been so proud of Sarah, our first born, who was honored with the college’s President’s Award of Excellence. Five years ago she joined the college (where I work) as a temp and then as an independent contractor taking on special design projects. She has comported herself with humor, professionalism, and patience even while dealing with the challenges that were thrown her way.
When they called her name, Keith, I nearly jumped out of my seat! Our baby girl (now in her mid 30s, of course) was being recognized on this very day, the tenth anniversary of a very painful dark day. But on this day, today, she was given a bright light to shine on the legacy you helped create.
I miss you dearly, Keith, and I feel your love every day. I have discovered that a heart can grow to love more, to make a new life with another partner, even when my heart had been badly broken. The scars are there, still. But they are worn lines now, serving as symbols of strength and resilience. Today, on this tenth anniversary of a dark day, Sarah accepted this special honor in your memory. Today was a day of light.
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.
Mara Jevera Fulmer's Blog 