Sometimes, It’s the Most Unexpected Things

Posted on June 2, 2014 by edcol52

We have a small guest house attached to our home. Jake lived back there on and off during various phases these last several years. When we went to collect his belongings from Palm Springs last December, we just put everything in the guest house because we couldn’t deal with it. Boxes of various possessions, duffel bags jammed full, a lot of clothes and miscellany that he left when he moved to Palm Springs. We have to clear out the guest house, and have been going through those things trying to make some order of it. Last weekend we took care of a lot of the mostly what we thought would be impersonal hardware, but as we discovered, all of his belongings, anything he used or made has a very, very personal meaning. This week we have been trying to organize the closet where the last of his things reside, mostly clothes, shoes, and a cabinet full of papers and files.

We moved a lot of those things directly into our overstuffed garage, to be dealt with later, but we did go through some of the clothes. Oh, my. I knew it would be fraught with peril, but wasn’t quite prepared for how hard some of it hit me.

The faded maroon Columbia shirt of mine I gave him when he visited us on Thanksgiving. The shirt he wore constantly during the last month of his life, the one he is wearing in the last photo taken of him, on the road. It still had his scent on it. The green and white striped polo shirt he often wore when we golfed together. His chef’s whites and checked pants. The floppy toque he always wore when he worked in the kitchen. His white Italian loafers he acquired during his sojourn in Bologna. These were just a few of the things that brought us to tears again and again.

We discovered a briefcase I had given him. He had a few of these over the years, swag from various vendors I used during the time I had a business. This was one he used during the last months he lived here. We went through the pockets discovering innocuous pens and pencils, bits of paper, and ironic notes. I pulled four bus schedules out of the outside pocket and broke down weeping. Jake hadn’t had a car for years. He used the bus to get around. (Along with various friends whom he had taxied when he did have a car, now returning the favor.) These four schedules of the main lines he rode frequently spoke so clearly to me. I could see him waiting on a corner, looking at his watch, consulting the Venice Blvd. line schedule. I could see him. And along with that, I could see him making his way through the world. Never letting the absence of a car, in this town which depends on the automobile, hinder him. He always managed to get where he needed to go. The most resourceful of people, he was undaunted.  I wept because he had so many more places to go, so much more to do. I wept because I would never see him walking down the street toward our home, never hear the sound of the side gate banging shut, the sound of the guest house door closing, the fan in the bathroom, the running water – the sounds of his life with us; the sounds that let us know he was alive.

We got to a point where we just couldn’t take it anymore. Zipped the duffel bags shut, tossed the bus schedules in the recycling and called it a day. But the point, I guess, is that it is the most unexpected things that open the floodgates of emotion, that spark the memories which swirl around us every day. They tear away the soft scab and reopen the gaping wound that is my heart. Those things are everywhere. We can’t avoid them, and I don’t want to. Sometimes I just give myself up to the sorrow, don’t try to ‘control’ it. I bathe in it, in the memories that bring it, looking for the beauty in what was his life, the fun we had, his aliveness, and I try to summon him to my side. Sometimes it works, sometimes I just sit there and cry. But it is the minutia, the million details that make up a person’s life that we have left, that we hold on to; we are unable to cast off these physical manifestations, the evidence of his existence.  We have all of it right here, both in the physical world, in our memory and hearts, and in the memory and hearts of those who knew him. All of people whose lives were enriched by his presence, however brief or peripheral it may have been, have a part in those memories. As long as we all remember him, hold onto those pictures of Jake in his world, he will always have a place in ours.

Posted in Daily Ramblings, Grief, Honoring Jake, Jake Colman, Jake's Spirit, Memory, Sadness | Tagged , , , , | 10 Comments

Twenty-one

Posted on May 27, 2014 by edcol52

It has been twenty-one weeks since I heard those heart-stopping words over my cell phone that bright Saturday afternoon. Nearly five months, and yet, it was at once, but a moment ago, and an aeon ago. Twenty-one Friday nights, twenty-one Saturday mornings bereft of happiness. We once looked toward the weekend, and the day of rest that is Shabbat, with eager expectation. It was a respite from the hectic daily grind. A day to unwind, a joyous day, the domain of the Shabbat Queen. Now, I look to it with trepidation and dread. There is no happiness in Shabbat for us now. It was in our synagogue that we got the news, and  I no longer go with the same happy anticipation, my daily visits are more of a chore than an act of faith. I still drag myself out of bed every morning to say Kaddish, but that is the only reason I go. The words of the service mean less and less to me each day. It is as if Jake’s passing sucked all the joy out of our lives. Not that we don’t laugh, enjoy a moment, have good times with our family and friends, but the purity of a deeper, truer joy is absent. It is the same for the holidays. We show up, discharge our obligations, but don’t really ‘celebrate’ them any more. I am not sure if we can ever rekindle that same delight, that same expectation of fulfillment of our plans and dreams we once anticipated. All of those dreams are dashed to smithereens, whether we can bring ourselves to dream again remains to be seen.

It is Monday, Memorial Day here in the USA, and although this particular day is dedicated to our Veterans who served in the armed forces, every day is memorial day for me. Jake’s memory is ever-present, the physical signs of his life surround us. Memories of past events surface, sparked by an object, a piece of art, the simplest of things, yet these simple, random artifacts are fraught with such import and significance, they bring complex remembrances right to the surface. There is no escaping this, those triggers are everywhere. Especially around our house, the home in which Jake lived his life, the repository of his “stuff”. We have been going through his belongings, trying to make some sense of the boxes and boxes of things he accumulated. He had far-reaching and eclectic interests, and his possessions reflect this. We have the task of sorting through these reminders. There is so much  random miscellany; boxes of electronic parts, collections of culinary tools, computer hardware, audio cables, paperwork, hundreds of LEDs, plans, half-finished projects of all kinds, drawings, notes, thousands of photographs, clothes, shoes, books, audio and video tapes, and on and on. Each object has a story behind it; some of the stories we know, some we can only guess at. He comes by this honestly, both Terry and I have the same inveterate bent for collecting, my dad was a master at it. Jake joked a few years ago that he, “must have inherited the collecting gene”. If there is such a thing, he got it from both sides.

Yesterday, we had a yard sale. We needed to divest ourselves of some of Jake’s more impersonal stuff and some of our own ‘collectibles’, in order to bring some order to our garage. Going through Jake’s things proved to be a dangerous minefield. Hidden amongst the cartons of power supplies, old mobile phones, car chargers, printers, car parts, drawers filled with switches, connectors, wires, buttons, tools and toys, were little memory bombs that detonated without warning. A car charger to which had been wired a little circuit board with a few IC’s, a couple of capacitors, resistors, and switches. I had no idea what it was for, what it would do. Something he designed and planned, but never completed. We could see his hand and mind in the construction, and it brought tears to my eyes. A pouch containing a small fishing kit, one we had assembled for the final camping trip we would take together last June, had me sobbing. A simple strip of metal from a long abandoned construction with markings for connectors never attached was enough to stop me in my tracks. Looking at the evidence of his workmanship, his writing, I could see him in my mind’s eye laying out the design for some invention, some bit of electronica he fabricated, projects he would never finish. Such innocuous objects, such powerful emotions. They illuminate the labyrinthine workings of his mind, the enormous capacity for thought he possessed. His ability to envision some new device, machine, or way of doing something was unique. For years as a child he would describe some invention he was thinking of and, after detailing the concept, intent and construction, he would say, “and then you push the button …” If only there was a button I could push to bring him back.

It seems as if my emotions are undergoing a shift. The volatile rawness of those first few horrible months is subsiding and a deeper more abiding melancholy has moved in. My emotions, while still perilously close to the surface don’t go through the uncontrollable pendulum swings as rapidly as they did. It is not so much acceptance as resignation; this is how it is going to be from now on, and I damn well better get used to it.

As if.

I am missing him more each day, finding new implications to his passing that continue to affect our lives. Living with this gaping hole in my being. I may have staunched the bleeding for the time being, but the hurt will never heal. While hearing of something he did for someone else that made a difference to them assuages the grief somewhat, it also brings acute pangs that he won’t be able to do the same for anyone else again. I am still groping through this darkened room, but I am starting to figure out where some of the furniture is. The grief spasms, although more transient and infrequent, have given way to a chronic baseline of heartache. Like a grain of sand in an oyster, I am secreting layers of nacre to coat the intruding object. But as days go by, the irritating ‘pearl’ of sorrow grows larger and larger, and more firmly embedded. Rather than time healing the wound, it only makes it more noticeable. I cannot heal it, I cannot eliminate it, I can only learn to live with it.

 

Posted in Coping, Daily Ramblings, Grief, Honoring Jake, Jake Colman, Jake's Spirit, Memory, Sadness | Tagged , , , , | 11 Comments

Please Stand By

Posted on May 22, 2014 by edcol52

I know the past few posts have been re-blogs of other’s people’s writing. I have been going through a bit of a slump this week; my internal landscape seems to be shifting around. Sharing some of the wonderful discourse that is out here in the blog-o-sphere gives me a little break; I have been pretty lazy in other areas too. Most of what they express resonates with my own experiences and thoughts. There is a multitude of similarity in how we all express ourselves, and yet each of us brings a unique perspective to this dreadful process.

I have some thoughts rattling around on this coming weekend which I will share in a day or two, once I get them straight in my head. As if my head will ever be straight. Anyway, I hope you have appreciated some fresh perspective and insights from other people who are going through this excruciating ordeal. If you are too, remember, always remember – you are not alone.

Posted in Coping, Daily Ramblings, Support | Tagged , , | 1 Comment

“Grief and Loss”

Posted on May 22, 2014 by edcol52

This showed up today from another blog I follow, Grief and Gratitude. I am still in the sleepwalking phase; I can’t yet say when I might make it to the next phase. But I know, intellectually, that there is another life ahead of me, I just don’t have a clear picture of what it will be like. For now, I continue to put one foot in front of the other and “keep living until I am alive again”. Thanks to Robin for this.

http://www.griefgratitude.com/2014/05/grief-and-loss.html

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“Wanna see a picture of my baby that died?” she said.

Posted on May 22, 2014 by edcol52

This is a post from a bloger that I follow, and who follows The Fountain. It is an interesting topic. I don’t yet find myself compelled to share my story as much as this young woman does, but I can certainly understand why she might need to. I still tend to keep it to myself around people that I don’t know, seriously, I don’t really want to bum them out. I don’t usually get into conversations with other parents these days about our children, for precisely the reasons the author writes about. I might progress to this stage, but for now, I just walk around in my mask and smile and nod. In any case, thanks Deanna for a thoughtful and thought provoking piece.

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“Brokenness” by Kelly Farley

Posted on May 19, 2014 by edcol52

Written by another grieving Dad. His story is at once heartbreaking and inspiring. He captures the essence of how the tragic deaths of our children leaves us. “Violently separated into parts or pieces. not working properly: damaged” Yes, we are all damaged to one extent or another. It is up to us to pick up the pieces and arrange them in whatever fashion we can, to get the machine going again. It will never function the same, but it is not yet ready for the scrap heap.

GrievingDads's avatarGrieving Dads: To the Brink and Back

“Brokenness”

After a long winter here in Chicago I found myself trying to get motivated to “do something” but couldn’t seem to find the energy or desire. The bitter cold and constant gray put me on an emotional roller coaster that sucked away a lot of my energy. As part of that, I decided to get out of the house and join a men’s group. It was only scheduled for a few weeks which gave me time to see if I enjoyed the group or not.

The first meeting was discussion of a book that the group had been reading and the topic was life’s hurts. Of course I shared my story and received the usual “holy shit that’s bad” look from the group, many of which have healthy living children. At the end of the meeting one of the guys who seemed to be really struggling with some life…

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Posted in Jake Colman | 4 Comments

Three Little Words

Posted on May 19, 2014 by edcol52

Today, I won’t go into an exposition on Greek Mythology, no analysis of Modern Art, no philosophy, Natural History, deep insights, happy memories, or photos. Just three little words; I miss him …

Posted in Daily Ramblings, Grief, Jake Colman, Memory, Sadness, Tragedy | Tagged , , , , , | 4 Comments

The Persistence of Memory

Posted on May 15, 2014 by edcol52

The_Persistence_of_Memory

“The Persistence of Memory” is arguably one of Salvador Dali’s best known and most analyzed paintings. Scores of scholars have written millions of words exploring the symbolism of the soft watches, the ants, the cliffs, and the figure in the center of the painting, Dali’s intent, the correlation between the soft watches, the theory of relativity and the destruction of time, dreams and decay. From Wikipedia:  

It epitomizes Dalí’s theory of “softness” and “hardness”, which was central to his thinking at the time. As Dawn Ades wrote, “The soft watches are an unconscious symbol of the relativity of space and time, a Surrealist meditation on the collapse of our notions of a fixed cosmic order”.[3] This interpretation suggests that Dalí was incorporating an understanding of the world introduced by Albert Einstein‘s Special Theory of Relativity. Asked by Ilya Prigogine whether this was in fact the case, Dalí replied that the soft watches were not inspired by the theory of relativity, but by the surrealist perception of a Camembert cheese melting in the sun.[4]

So for all the twaddle, as far as Dali was concerned, it is just a dream he had, some melted cheese and the cliffs of Catalonia, his home, in the background.

But the phrase “Persistence of Memory” takes on new meaning when all you have left of someone are memories. And some of those memories are indeed persistent. Sights, sounds, tastes, touch, smell all possess the power to transport us to a specific time or place in the past to summon forth a memory. For example, there is a particular Doors song that takes me back to a party I went to in Junior High School (now called Middle School) with my girlfriend when I was 16. At the party, we declared it “our song”, and every time I hear it, I remember that night. The Dire Straits song “Why Worry” was the first dance at Terry’s and my wedding. It is our song, and every time I hear it, I go back to that Sunday evening, and can vividly recall the place, the people, the festivities. Other senses similarly elicit other memories, but the sense of smell can be the most evocative, the most powerful.

One of these fragrances, night-blooming jasmine triggers memories of weekendnightbloomingjasmine  sleepovers at my friend Steve’s house when we were in Elementary School. His housekeeper grew the aromatic plants around the house and the cloying smell was nearly overpowering some evenings. The aroma instantly transports me to those Friday nights and Saturday mornings nearly fifty years ago, bicycling into Westwood Village with Steve, eating steamed sweet rolls at Ell’s restaurant, and generally getting into various mild forms of mischief on the UCLA campus. We have a cutting of that very same plant in our backyard, and once planted it beneath Jake’s bedroom window when he was born. Its scent calls up memories of sitting on Jake’s bed as we performed our nighttime ritual of reading, storytelling, music, cuddling and finally sleep. Often at the end of a particularly tiring day, I would fall asleep with him, curled up together as the sweet perfume of jasmine wafted in through the open window. It is a most persistent memory.

I was washing dishes the other night when another aroma hit me like a Peterbilt. For many years while Jake was growing up, we spent a couple of weeks every summer on the north shore of Kauai. Our annual family vacation, one which we always looked forward to with eager anticipation. We stayed in a ’60’s era condo steps from the sea. This was a special place for us. We went there for our honeymoon. We went there just two months before Jake was born, Terry hugely pregnant. We went when Jake was only a couple of years old. We went throughout his elementary and middle school years. We went there just 6 weeks after my bypass surgery. We went there halfway through Terry’s The Beach Hutchemotherapy, a midpoint goal for her and a reward for enduring the misery of the treatments; that was the last time we would spend there. We forged our family bonds in the heat of the tropical sun and the cool silky caress of the Hawaiian ocean. We recharged and renewed ourselves under the Hanalei Moon. So many beautiful memories. Every year we built a ‘tiki hut’ on the beach made of driftwood and palm fronds washed up on the beach and spent many lazy afternoons lying in the dappled shade and dreaming about the future. Dream building. We would have our own home there someday; Jake would have his house, Terry and I ours, a guest house for visitors, with the swimming pool in the middle, a tennis court, gardens and fountains. We had so much fun together.

The condo was fully supplied with everything we needed, comfortable sleeping arrangements, living room with picture windows looking out on Haena Bay, and a full palmolive1kitchen, complete with green Palmolive dish soap. Recently, Terry changed our brand of dish liquid to Palmolive with its distinctive smell, and when I squeezed it onto the sponge, the fragrance instantly transported me back in time to those many idyllic summers. And a sharp pang of longing struck me. Longing to go back to that carefree time, when the most momentous decision we had to make was to which beach would we go that day. Or to no beach at all, and just sit on the lanai and watch the cobalt blue breakers froth and foam and roll hissing over the golden sand. I can’t go back of course, and the smell of that damn dish soap will always remind me both of those blissful days and nights, and that I can never have another day at the beach with my son. All those dreams shattered forever.

There are millions of triggers for me now. Each one, whether a sight, sound, taste, touch or smell evokes a memory. These memories often come upon me suddenly and unbidden; sparked by one of the senses or just a random thought or mental image. The memories are not all pleasant, we are not perfect, nor was Jake by any means; that is part of life, but they elicit bittersweet nostalgia. Sweet for having had the years we did with our wonderful son, all the beautiful memories we made together, and bitter for something I cannot have – new memories that will never be made. Bitter because I will never see him again, hold him, laugh with him, splash in the ocean, sit with my family together in easy silence as we watch the waves roll in. So I am left with the memories that I do have. Persistent memories that will never fade away.

Posted in Daily Ramblings, Grief, Honoring Jake, Jake Colman, Jake's Spirit, Memory, Sadness | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Think of the “Like” button as a “Support” button

Posted on May 14, 2014 by edcol52

While it may be difficult to “Like” posts about the death of a child, the grief of a parent, the difficulties we all face while living without our children, I know that when you click “Like”, you let me know that you are there. And I like that.

Posted in Friends and Family, Grief, Healing, Jake Colman, Kindness, Support | Tagged , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Ojai Vignettes, Part 2

Posted on May 12, 2014 by edcol52

On Tuesday, once again, we made the trip north from Los Angeles to the beautiful Ojai Valley. We are blessed to have a friend who makes our sojourns possible by allowing us to stay at their lovely home here. It is our third visit this year, and this time, Spring is fully evident everywhere. Trees adorned with bright new leaves: yellow-green sycamores, feathery acacia, the glossy green leaves of the towering oaks. Tiny birch leaves twinkle in the soft sunlight as gentle breezes waft by. Yellow-orange orioles, red-headed tanagers, rusty towhees, little spotted thrushes flit by, rustling the underbrush, singing from the highest branches. The incessant coo-COO-coo of nearby doves, the WACK-a, WACK-a, WACK-a of the acorn woodpeckers, chirrs, whistles, and peeps (along with the occasional leaf blower, passing siren or beeping trash truck) provide the soundtrack. Wind chimes tinkle merrily amid the rustling leaves. A lovely idyllic setting, and yet we can never be truly at peace here, or anywhere else.

This past weekend we came especially to escape. To escape the incessant reminders about the impending Mother’s Day, the media blitz, the card displays in the drug stores, the barrage of advertisements on television. To escape, for a moment, from our home, the house Jake lived in, filled to overflowing with memories, photos, and belongings, the constant reminders of a life not fulfilled. To escape from the sorrow that covers our lives like a harsh, scratchy blanket. This last is impossible of course; we bring our sorrow with us. Sometimes it is less immediate here, we can temporarily lose ourselves in the natural beauty that surrounds us. The solitude is a welcome respite from the daily demands, the minutiae that fill our lives. But even here, amid the quiet, sorrow interrupts the tranquility.

•  •  •

We spend most of our time on the property; we did most of the Ojai Tourist activities the first two times we stayed here, with a few exceptions. On Thursday, we went to a nearby winery for a tasting. We checked them online, and were advised to bring a picnic lunch, as it is situated in a picturesque spot. We wound the few miles through the forest, past fruit orchards and newly planted gardens to the end of the road, the Old Creek Winery. The wines were okay; we were there mostly for the scenery. We bought a glass of their passable Syrah and settled down on the deck overlooking their property for our turkey sandwiches, huge salad, and chips and salsa. There were a few other people enjoying the glorious vista, sipping wine, chatting and laughing in the perfect warmth of a California spring afternoon. Sounds lovely, right? Well, it was and it wasn’t. No matter what we do, where we are, how much we look for enjoyment, and make no mistake it was very enjoyable, there is always a little hollow place where Jake should be. Jake loved turkey sandwiches, enjoyed wine tasting and liked looking out on fruit orchards and flowers, but that wasn’t what got me. It wasn’t that he would necessarily have been there with us if he was alive, but knowing he is not, carved out a space in my being that will always be empty. There is a continual longing for him, missing him more each day. Sucks, doesn’t it?

•  •  •

Sunday we wanted to lay low most of the day, but Terry is an inveterate Farmer’s Market junkie, so we went to the market to get a few vegetables and check out the local scene. Mother’s Day, or as a friend of ours who has also lost a son calls it, Effing Mother’s Day. We bought some fresh asparagus, sugar snap peas, a couple of yummy tamales, some delicious local grass-fed Jersey cow cheese and butter and tried not to notice all the moms with their families. The accomplished trio of Irish musicians I saw the last time here was nowhere to be found. In their place, at the shadiest corner of the market, perfect for temperamental instruments, a young girl and her younger brother stood playing fiddle duets and singing while accompanying herself on the ukulele. They had a fiddle case open into which we dropped our donation. So far so good. But suddenly, out of the blue, a small child, about three or four came up shyly and dropped a handful of coins into the case with a squeal of delight and danced away into the shelter of her mothers shadow. Just the kind of thing Jake did when he was a kid. Fortunately, I was wearing my sunglasses to hide the tears.

His memory is everywhere. I wouldn’t have it any other way, but everything, and I mean everything reminds me of him. There is an ebb and flow throughout each day. Some days more ebb and some more flow. It can be something as innocent as a child dropping coins into a musicians hat, or a piece of smoked trout, or a passing Ford Mustang that evokes the vivid picture of my son from another time, enjoying his life, laughing with his friends, laughing with us. A friend of mine wrote “The very, very last thing on earth that you need worry about is that anyone who knew Jake will forget him.” That is so true. What hurts so much is that is all we can do with him now, is remember him. We can’t have pastrami sandwiches with him, I can’t play golf with him, Terry can’t go shopping with him, we can’t go to Hawaii with him ever again, we can’t go trout fishing in the Sierras together, we can’t make pancakes with him, we can’t watch him grow into the wonderful man he could have been, we can’t play with his children; we can’t do any of the million things that made up our lives together. All we can do is remember him. I am sure that anyone who knew him will always remember him too.

Posted in Daily Ramblings, Grief, Jake Colman, Jake's Spirit, Memory, Sadness | Tagged , , , , | 8 Comments