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.
This continues my effort at catching up on reminiscences and memories from over the summer 2025.
8/19/2025, Tuesday, 8:50 pm
It was a big day in the print shop. I worked with wood. Does that make me a woodworker? Dunno.
But… I faced my fears and actually used the full-sized table saw, not just my smaller type saw that I like to use. More power tools and experiments with a Vicks bit to countersink some screws and nuts into a board.
The day’s results – I turned an old crappy bench into a rolling table to put beside my presses. AND even made a carry board for another letterpress tool. And better yet, I still have all ten fingers! I’d call the day a success!
Figured it might help to add context on that “overcoming my fear” thing regarding the table saw.
At around 7 yrs old, I remember my dad – a concert pianist – was working in his wood shop which was in the lower level of the house. He came upstairs and had blood around his lips and his hand wrapped in a bloody rag. He grabbed the car keys with his good hand and told me to stay with my friend and tell mom (who was out with her friend) that he went to the hospital. Turns out he’d nearly cut off his left index finger with the radial arm saw. The entire episode pretty much traumatized me for life, and ironically probably helped steer me towards marrying men who could actually WORK around these tools without losing pieces of themselves.
Although radial arm saws are rarely used these days, the closest I have feared as a result of this is the table saw with its blade that sneaks up above the surface, out of sight for a brief moment just before it can cut your hand in half… if you do something stupid like my dad tried to do. So ever since that time as a child, I feel this irrational fear that immediately takes me back to that time.
So… I have to thank my husband Steve for encouraging me with the purchase of Hamilton Glider type saw that is basically a very small table saw (with a guard). I love that little saw and have used it for far more than type. It gave me a bit more confidence for being around such blades.
I know this is all entirely ironic since with the passing of each husband, I have become the sole owner of a huge woodworking shop, and have always been around large and dangerous power tools. When Keith or later Steve would be using those tools, I’d wait just outside of their view until they hit the red “stop” button for fear of distracting them and possibly suffering the fate my father did.
BTW, dad’s hand DID heal… though he never fully regained feeling in that finger, he still managed to play a mean piano.
So today, well, I marked up the board but could not fit it on the little type saw. I finally decided the time had come. I could do this… and I did! After nearly six decades.
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.
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.
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 