To yield with a grace to reason. . . .

I've been thinking this past month. I've tried to write every day. But I haven't been able to produce anything I wish to post. Today I have an idea I hope works for me.

To yield with a grace to reason: that title comes from Robert Frost's "Reluctance" -- a six stanza, twenty-four line poem which captures my state of mind -- or mindlessness -- precisely these days. Frost completes the poem with the following eight lines:

"The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 'Whither.'

Ah, when in the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?"

I read that poem as a college kid. Thought I knew what it meant, too. But I didn't until recently.

Of course I didn't. As a college kid I'd never loved anyone, Never made a commitment and stuck with it for most of four decades. Furthermore, no one I'd been close to and loved had ever died. . .except the older members of my family, I mean. And sad as that seemed at the time, I knew that after all, they'd lived long and well. Their deaths were expected, in the innocent way young people expect their aging relatives and friends to pass away. Like all young people I've known, I knew that EVERYONE dies eventually. That is: everyone but ME! Or, anyone really close to me.

I say this with no particular condemnation: Youth is selfish. And perhaps it NEEDS to be. I speak only for myself. I've been lucky. Good things've fallen my way. And while I've worked relatively hard most of my life, I've been virtually showered with good opportunities. I make no apologies: good breaks are the American Way! Or so I've come to believe.

Only in America:

A poor kid works his way through college.
He rarely stops to realize the gift of publicly-funded education
AT EVERY LEVEL!
He tests well and gets a scholarship.
He rarely stops to realize that public-school tuition
already constitutes a scholarship-of-sorts.
AT EVERY LEVEL!
He graduates. Feels competent.
Chooses a job. Works hard and learns what's required.
Contributes and advances.
Becomes a valued employee.
Good things happen in his life.
AT EVERY LEVEL!

And why not? That's the American Way.

BUT! Even in America, age comes to us all. And now it's my turn at last. My turn to yield with a grace to reason. And bow and accept the end of a love [and] a season. And I thought the good life was demanding and difficult. Makes me laugh at my incurable Romanticism.

I've been struggling this past five weeks. For the first time in my life I got really sick. Nearly died, in fact. Everything happened sorta by accident. My doctor of the past thirty-five years retired. My new doctor wanted some tests to establish a realistic base-line for my continued good health. First I had a tight pod of large polyps removed from my lower bowel. Benign polyps. And why not? Cruel statistics aside, that's Bob's luck. . .his particular American Way.

However! My new doctor discovered some suspicious signs in the stress test she ordered. A heart-catherization discovered three serious blockages on the left side of my heart. An angioplasty cleared out the plaque. Three stents were strategically placed. Before and after pictures were impressive. New lease on life!

But then, the blood-thinner Plavix washed the "scab" off my bowel, and I lost more than two pints of blood. Touch and go, flat on my back in the hospital for more than two weeks. Yet, Bob's Luck prevailed -- as usual.

Home for the holidays! Wonderful holiday with family. A gillion gifts under six decorated trees. Two of my grandchildren here in the house are avidly learning their Grampa's American way.
And, all things considered, it has been a joyous season.

But here's the whole truth. I'm currently participating in a vigorous heart rehabilitation program. I'm feeling progressively stronger, and I'm told I'm making real progress. And while it appears my blood-level is increasing, and my hemoglobin count is rising, I'm experiencing dizziness. I move quickly, stand-up, sit-down, roll over in bed, and I get dizzy and (sometimes) nauseous. Getting better every day, though.

Worse: I'm missing Nancy. Four years she's been gone. Still, I wake up feeling her warm form in my arms, despite her absence. And I momentarily forget. I listen for her in the kitchen, or perhaps in the bathroom. Not all bad, actually. For those few moments she feels alive to me. A good thing. . .though perhaps it makes moving-on into my new life somewhat difficult.

I can't be certain. But perhaps Robert Frost is not entirely correct in Reluctance. Perhaps it's not entirely good to yield with a grace to reason. . . .

And bow and accept the end
of a love or a season.

The Powers of Christmas. . .and Tara!

Be wise!

Never doubt the uplifting power of Christmas! You don't even really need to believe: not in the power of the Christian Christmas story, nor need you live and exercise its basic faith. All you need to do is participate in the generous tradition of Christmas. That's what makes the difference. . .the way its Spirit of Generosity lifts our spirits and guides us more securely into the arms of those we love.

No story illustrates the power of generosity -- the true spirit of Christmas -- better than does Dickens' Christmas Carol. When we think of true passion, we often think of romantic or erotic love, that love which ties us to our wives or husbands. But it's well to remember the deep passions that tie us securely to our best and most endearing ideas -- like love of friends, family, and country, for instance. Eros is surely passionate. But so too are Agape` (the idea of passionate celebration) and Filos (the passionate love that ties us together across generations) . While husbands and wives love and celebrate each other with great passion, we are also driven by our love of family, love of country, and by our love of traditions which tie us together. No love is stronger than a true Spirit of Generosity, that spirit which ties us to all those we love and all ideas we love.

Indeed: for many of us, Santa Claus truly IS coming to town. . . .

For instance: this weekend we've spent several hours together, putting up six Christmas trees in various rooms of our home. Five of them we decorated. The sixth tree we saved for the boys to decorate when they return to us from their father's house.

Six trees. Pretty strong come-back. In the good-OLD days, Nancy usually decorated ten or twelve trees. During Nancy-Time, one twelve-footer soared toward the ceiling in the living-room across from the fireplace. The remaining nine trees -- six-to-eight footers -- occupied most of the main rooms of our home.

Incidentally, PLEASE! Don't think so-called artificial trees can't be strikingly beautiful!

To begin with, they're perfect in shape, no bare spots turned to the wall. No dried-up, dropping needles and related fire hazard. No steadily drooping boughs as days pass. And while they're expensive initially, they serve faithfully season after season. Some of our present trees are by now thirty-plus years old. And over the years we've acquired large plastic boxes of specific decorations, each neatly designated for it own special tree: the Santa Tree, the Snowman Tree, the Aunt Tree and so forth. Each year the the trees acquire more specific decorative items, each year they get more beautifully expressive of the season. We are truly passionate about them.

My wife Nancy was a wonderful artist with a special knack for creating and acquiring beautiful things that made our home increasingly beautiful and welcoming over time. That was true of any season. But Christmas -- the Season of Generosity -- inspired Nancy especially.

For three years following her death I stumbled gamely through the decorative Christmas process. All was not lost, because my clumsy efforts brought Nancy back to us, as I struggled to live her spirit best I could. But it wasn't until this past summer when our daughter, Tara, and her two sons moved in that our home began to express again the joy that Nancy once brought to it.

Tara is so much like Nancy: the same knack for laughter and happiness, for gentle-firm-handed leadership and full-hearted loving. Simply put, Tara is like Nancy in that she somehow knows all the important things to do. . .and how to do them. She has the same special artistry in everything she does. Then, when Jon -- Tara's new love -- arrived on the scene, all the ingredients were present that made this whole house sing.

The trees are every bit as beautiful this year as were Nancy's!

More than that: Tara's very presence has changed everything in this household for the better. Tara and Jon made this past weekend a joyous time. They've recaptured for us all a wonderful spirit of generosity. (Nor does it hurt that Tara is a magnificent cook!)

Evidence of Tara's creative spirit, the beauty she projects, are present throughout the house. The trees and mantle-pieces are stunning. The entire house has come alive with beauty. And I have no doubt she and Jon will add still more beautiful elements as time passes and Christmas approaches.

We wish you a MERRY CHRISTMAS!
We wish you a MERRY CHRISTMAS. . .
And a Happy New Year!

Yoga: Get WITH IT, or Get LOST!

Happy Birthday to me!
Happy Birthday to me!
Happy Birthday, Dear Bobby!
Happy Birthday to me. . . .

YEP! I'm beginning my 76th year this morning. Can't believe it.

As the day began this morning, I lay still for a moment beneath my quilt and ran an inventory:

Quick head-turn?
Still makes the room spin.
Ooops: blood supply still low.
Blood pressure prob'ly still low, too.
I'm still recovering from recent illness.
What else?
Aching knee: needs second replacement!
Tiny roll around my middle:
I need to re-instate vigorous exercise.
But NO!
Not until blood-level and blood pressure are restored.
Brief pause for yawn and
BIG luxurious stretch:
lower back and hamstrings tight:
unwise four-day holiday from yoga.
Costly laziness!
Low-grade pain between my eye-sockets:
too much celebratory wine last night!

But then a guy's gotta celebrate his birthday with friends and family -- doesn't he? After all, one never knows when the present birthday celebration's the last one. Due attention must be paid!

Okay: on to yoga. I hate that final moment each morning before I force myself to begin my morning yoga ritual. I don't want to begin stretching. But I know I have to start, and know also that I will be glad I did. I take a deep breath, gather my knees to my chest. . .and begin.

Another long yawn, accompanied by stretching-side-to-side rocks which press my lower back deeply into the hard mattress. Knees tight to chin. Satisfying pops and slippery squeaks, signal that wayward vertebrae are slip-sliding softly back into place. I roll gently to my feet beside the bed, extend my legs one at a time, stretching my calves and hamstrings, extending my arms, reaching far as I can across the bed, feeling my spine and shoulder joints awaken with numerous grinding pops. I raise my head, rising to my elbows, making wide-slow neck rolls, which effort yields strange sounds, vaguely reminiscent of squishing a sacka marbles with both hands.

Next, a series of long one-legged squats followed by deep-low knee stretches, both of which produce a series of thrusts which slowly propel me to the furnace room at the far end of the finished basement. Good balancing exercise, too. Once there, I hang for three minutes from my overhead bar listening to a veritable symphony of joint-pops and related skeletal complaints. Then six painfully slow, straight-legged lifts, followed by seven inverted-hand pull-ups -- which usedta be a whole-lot easier. And a whole lot more than seven, too. Next, I hoist myself up above my parallel-bar-pipe-rack and produce seven grunting dips. . . which usedta be much easier and more numerous, too. My upper arm and shoulder strength are not what they once were.

Advancing age demands its due respect. I'm always trying to establish how much I can do well, while still avoiding the possibility of over-work injuries. Two relevant questions: how much work is enough to maintain my strength? Where is the precise margin between maintenance of health and debilitating injury?

By now I'm loose enough for an easy yoga sequence. Slow, easy downward dog. Upward dog. Next, long, gliding thrusts which force balance and alternating quad-stretches. These lead to upward-twisting pyramid, both sides. I hold each posture through three prolonged breath-cycles, all the while maintaining an easy flow through my favorite postures, working muscle-groups firmly against each other. Finally, standing easy, shoulders squared, I execute a series of long-reaching bends and stretches. Gradually I feel my balance and strength returning. Halfway through, my body's taut and supple, slender and exultant.

Soon I'm fully awake and functioning like a boy. Deep breathing cycles. Easy does it. Slowly taking command of my body, feeling the sweet pain of deep stretches that test and strengthen and restore flexibility. This is my every-waking-day ritual that sustains my sense of physical power while simultaneously restoring my sense of personal discipline. I may not be youthful anymore. But it helps me beyond measure to ACT youthful.

After all, what is youth, if not to respond creatively to physical and mental challenges?

So my every day begins. Soon my body begins to sing its old youthful song. Seventy-Six, your ASS! I can't put a year on it. Even though I start my every morning yoga and stretching regimen somewhat more slowly than I once did, my body's still mine. It still does my bidding. And while my body initially complains more at the beginning of my morning yoga ritual, it nevertheless responds bravely, performs proudly, springs quickly back to life. Invigorates me. In some ways I feel more disciplined, stronger than I ever was. Every morning yoga session seems a major victory. Victory over a growing tendency toward laziness. . .a growing tendency to turn my back on the very discipline that is yoga. Yoga, the discipline that puts me in charge of my every day.

Every morning, my body's like a separate thing, bent first upon defying and disappointing me, then upon pleasing me. Hard to tell. Maybe it pleases itself. Performs as it always has. Sets and meets its own healthy standards. On the other hand, I realize my body performs as it does because I've paid close attention to it for decades, have loved and cared for it well. I've trained it well. It demands of itself . . .once I get it going. And once I get it going, yoga rules my mind and rewards my best efforts.

Yoga is not about living forever. It's about living every moment as well as possible.


Still, I confess this past month has frightened me some. When two necessary surgical procedures backfired on each other and nearly bled me out, I felt suddenly and unexpectedly vulnerable. Suddenly, nearly seventy-six, felt really old. And I began to wonder fearfully: Is this the beginning of the FINAL decline? Doubts began to sneak in and unsettle me.

It wasn't like I felt I might soon die. Or had even seriously considered the possibility. But in that unsettled state I began to speculate. . .about the quality of my life: looking backward over the long haul, then forward considering what may be left, and how I might meet the challenges remaining -- such as they might be. Mostly: what AM I determined to do with the precious time left? First thing? An unyielding demand that I continue my morning yoga ritual. I felt that if I could still do that, my weaknesses would be temporary. If I could do that, I knew I would remain in charge of my life. That ownership of self is one of the many gifts of yoga.

But: yoga aside -- and its positive impact upon my body and state of mind -- recently I lay there in that unfamiliar hospital bed, nine long days and and ten nights, mostly waiting and wondering. I drew some conclusions I hope are sound. I made some plans.

First: I've decided NOT to go back to teaching. Been there. Done that. Loved it. But I feel the need to go forward. That is, I'd like to do something different, introduce some new challenges, change the patterns of my weeks and months.

The most obvious thing I might choose to do is re-establish contact with some of my earliest friends. At my 55th High School Class Reunion, two years ago I was shocked -- indeed, we all were -- to discover that the memorial table recognized nearly half our graduating Class of 1953. Of 134 graduates, slightly fewer than half attended. In fact, counting spouses, fewer than 134 showed. Makes ya think!

Most came from far away as California, a few from foreign countries. Several were among my old football buddies. Some of them've become globe-trotters. In fact, we've made tentative plans to meet in Greece this coming March, then jump off on a tour of places they've visited already and are certain I'll like. Long before then, I should be fully recovered -- my blood and hemoglobin counts fully restored -- and I'll be runnin' on full throttle. I'll maybe go early, visit my Peace-Corps grand-kids in Romania for a week, then fly to Greece for our hook-up and subsequent travels. Should be a fun extension of our recent class reunion.

So that's one sort of thing, one sort of plan I have to establish and then force myself to follow-through upon my plans. Like quite a few of my classmates, I've had a wonderful life, a great marriage and career. Like several of my old classmates, I've recently lost my beloved spouse. Great though my prior life has been, what's left of my life is a new ball-game. It's now time for me to start over, to make this final quarter of my life as fulfilling as I can.

Maybe I CAN find and win a woman, a new friend I can love as well as I did Nancy for nearly four decades. Risky and challenging, YES! But a worthwhile endeavor nonetheless. One thing my long and idyllic marriage to Nancy taught me is that the best of men prosper when they have a good woman to live-UP to. It's no small or simple task to love well, to put another first, to earn and hold the love of a best friend.

Nevertheless, the process of loving someone well is always growth-producing. The good life always demands stimulation and growth. I've always been a learner and teacher, lived the sort of life that demands I pay attention and constantly learn how to live in richer ways.

I don't always like the demands of such a life. But I remain disciplined. My life is something like yoga. I hate it but love it much more. Still, I refuse to give in to laziness. What are those nearly lost lines from some old Emerson poem I read all those years ago in high school? Something like:

So nigh is grandeur to our dust.
So near is god to man.
When duty whispers low, thou must.
The youth replies, I can. . . .

To the degree I live those few lines, I remain youthful, at least by that standard.

Every living moment demands one's very best effort. My recent ten-day hospital sojourn was a perfect example of what I mean. It's no easy challenge to remain your best possible self when you're accustomed to a vigorous life from which you feel temporarily removed. There you lie mostly flat on your back, through long-idle days. Nurses, doctors, and support staff wander in and out every hour of the day and night. Your best self demands interest in these visitors: you set aside your book, produce an authentic smile, a bright greeting, a willingness to present a well-punctured arm for still more blood samples and the like. These health-care workers deserve at least an Up-beat manner, even when they suddenly awaken you at 2:00am in the morning. You're not in control of anything except your reactions to the demands and challenges of the moment. Their job is to get you well. Your job is to treat them well.

No excuses! That's what I mean by insisting upon producing one's best self at the worst of times.

Here's the point I'm coming to: the good life is largely a series of challenges that force continuous RE-inventions of the self. Illness or exhaustion are no excuse. I know I need to be aware that my very best self is always there awaiting my summons. I'll either get with my best self, or risk losing its magic -- and the joy of my life. The message?

Constantly re-invent oneself. . .
Or lie down and die!

Blue-Day

Gray-day actually. Somber.

He lay back quietly, hands crossed high upon his chest beneath his chin. Flat on his back on the long leather couch, ankles crossed, he gazed out the kitchen window into the bare tree-tops. Thick masses of black limbs against gray, late-fall sky.

In fact, most of the window was hidden behind the high back of the couch and the large conical shade of the reading lamp which rose at the corner where the two lengths of couch formed a right triangle. A thin sliver of sun burnt through the gray overcast, penetrated the limb-mass, and outlined the bottom curve of the lampshade.

He lay there, his mind empty, his chest quietly falling and rising beneath the few panes of the sliding glass-door that framed the gray sky. No moan of wind. No movement among the tightly interlaced branches. His eyes focused there, upon the mass of high trunks giving way to the top-most branches. Black against gray.

Still early morning in the silent house. He'd risen at first light -- restless, but lazy. No plans until early afternoon when the entire family'd assemble and rush the Peace-Corps grand-kids off to the airport for their flight back to Romania. First, two hours to Chicago, then a 12-hour flight to Munich, then a short wait for their connection to Timisoura, Romania. . .their home away from home for some seven months more. A twenty-hour trip. Tiring. Still, the kids had each other.

For the moment, he lay there waiting. All cozy, stomach fulla warm oatmeal. Mind idle. Could be he'd let go. . .doze off again.

But then the poem popped into his mind. . .e e cummings. Cued by the mass of high branches, the lines rolled out. Just the words. . .came out of his head with little of the outlandish typography so typical of eddie estlin cummings. Just the lines. . .grouped the way they made sense to him:

I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart.
I'm never without it. Everywhere I go, you go, my dear,
and whatever is done by only me, is your doing,
my darling. I fear no fate. For you are my fate my sweet.
I want no world. For beautiful you are my world, my true.
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant.

and whatever a sun will always sing is you.

and here is the deepest secret nobody knows:
here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life, which
grows higher than the soul can hope or the mind can hide.
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart.
I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.

Something like that. Pretty close anyway.

The poem had haunted him throughout the past seven years: the three heart-crushing years of Nancy's long dying and death. . .the four grief-filled years that followed. Right up to this present moment.

He realized she was irretrievably gone. Yet, notwithstanding that irreversible fact, she remained persistently alive. Present, yet elusive. Always actively alive in his mind. . .just as she had always been during their idyllic, thirty-seven-year marriage.

He awoke every morning without her warm form in his arms, or perhaps she was behind him snug and spooned, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders beneath the covers. He'd cock his head sleepily, glance quickly around, squint into the darkness, yawn and grope about. Where was she? Surely in the bathroom. Down in the kitchen? . . Surely somewhere close by.

Then he'd suddenly remember. . .each passing month with less pain, acknowledging, making what peace he could with the stark fact of her absence.

The sudden memory came increasingly more lightly as time passed. At some point in the transformation, he began to think his forgetting a good thing. . .began to think he was somehow conjuring her presence, as if forgetting she had died was somehow a strange way of keeping her alive. . .keeping her present to him.

During the unfolding months of his grieving he had learned to summon her to him, even keenly feel her presence. The process seemed little different than when she was alive. She taught high-school health and coached young female athletes. He taught at a nearby university. In quiet moments during his office hours -- and even in his classroom when he taught -- during interludes where his students were working together in groups. . .during such times, his mind would shift, and he'd summon her presence. And there she'd be: present, real, accessible. Warm and smiling.

True: they'd had a special bond. Paid attention to each other. Worked together. Helped each other with household and gardening chores. Played tennis, skied, biked, took long walks. Theirs had been an extraordinary friendship.

Then came breast cancer that spread to her liver. During those terrible final months she released him: "Find a woman you can love who loves you. Be happy. Loving as you have loved me is the best thing you do."

He promised her he'd try.

But the effort he promised had soon became a fool's errand. During the nearly four decades he'd loved her, not once had he seen a woman like her: warm and loving, brilliant and beautiful, supremely attractive, youthful and compelling. Always interesting. Always interested in him. And he was already 72 at the time of her death. True: all his life he'd been an athlete: had worked-out, practiced yoga, hiked and biked, ate well and sparingly, remained vigorous and healthy. Constantly tested his body. He studied and stayed abreast of research in his field. . .in every way he could think of, he worked hard to live-UP to her, and hold her love.

Still, after her death, he realized that even had he found the woman she hoped he might, it was highly unlikely any such new woman would find him interesting and attractive. He was aging, after-all

The Cummings poem haunted him as much as did she. Her death had shattered him. Indeed, Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall. He fell into a largely solitary existence, continued his physical regimen, read and studied, exercised and stayed physically fit. He traveled to visit old friends.

Best thing: their youngest daughter had a stretch of bad luck. She and her two gorgeous-bright sons moved into his large and beautiful home. Here's my recommendation: you ever hit a hard patch, bring your striking daughter and her five and seven year-old sons into your home. Bring as well her new best friend. Lots of astonishingly good things'll happen, but the laughter alone will save your life.

But in much the same way as when he and Nancy lived together and loved, after her death he carried her heart with him. . .the core of her, snug and safe in his heart. And over time the meaning of those difficult e. e. cummings lines became increasingly more clear to him. He felt and understood those powerful lines:

. . .here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life, which
grows higher than the soul can hope or the mind can hide. . . .

The facts of life are unyielding and immense, immutable and impersonal. Death and pain are real. They come to us all. Life spares no favorites. Nancy lost the life she loved. She was blameless. Yet the cure he hoped for Nancy was not forthcoming. Nor can he hide the fact of her death. Still, he CAN carry her with him safely in his heart.

And though his life as a widower is not yet good.
It's steadily getting better than he had ever dared hope!

Gladta Be Back!

Been in trouble this past 15 days! Sick and in the hospital most of that time.

All started with a series of tests prescribed by my new doctor. Not blaming her! She wanted a series of tests to establish her own baseline understanding of my health.

I think she was right. I've been feeling uncommonly tired after my daily workouts and walks. Found myself thinking:

You're aging buddy! Accept that fact.
Cut back your physical regimen.

But I wasn't sure. And I don't like giving in to changes. Especially when I'm forced to conclude I'm getting seriously old. Especially when I don't have all the facts. Life-changing decisions should demand a closer look.

So I agreed: We should base any decisions on a series of tests.

Two of them nearly killed me. The first was a colonoscopy. My last one was over five years ago. This one discovered five polyps. They sat there like old buddies, all smooth and round, grinning at me in their picture. . .as if the joke was on me. Obviously benign -- as later analysis proved them to be. Lucky me! But they were large, and their removal left a sizable wound in my large intestine. Still, I felt no more stress than had the procedure been a haircut.

The second procedure proved more difficult. My new general practitioner saw some troublesome signs in a recent stress test. So three days after the colonoscopy I took the scheduled heart cath. This procedure discovered that the three major arteries on the left side of my heart were about 95% blocked. . . which discovery led to an immediate, very thorough and successful angioplasty.

The before and after pictures of my heart are astonishing. Before: the three arteries appear much like dried-out and shriveled ends of a dead tree limb. All three arteries show more than a single blockage. How the condition hadn't triggered a major heart attack puzzles me. After: all the plaque had been removed, and three stents were strategically placed. Blood flow is abundant. Completely restored -- an amazing transformation.

In retrospect, the truly astounding thing is that I had been able to continue my usual daily two-three-hour-brisk walks and weight-training regimens. And how had I maintained my balance and strength during my daily yoga sessions? No wonder I was feeling tired.

But the real problem was the required addition of the blood-thinning drug plavix to my daily prescriptions. This drug threatened my life, because it scrubbed the "scab" off the wound in my bowel, and in a matter of hours, I had expelled approximately two pints of blood into the toilet. Or so I was told. . .though the arcane formula by which my doctors determined the actual blood-loss is equally lost upon me.

THAT was scary! It was a serious catch-22. My heart-guy rightly feared that without plavix, the sort of stent he'd employed might be quickly clogged with plaque. My bowel-guy rightly feared that plavix would bleed me out. Where was the middle ground?

As they discussed my predicament, it was first thought it would be necessary to REcauterize the wound in my bowel. But what if this procedure merely enlarged the wound in my bowel and the new scab be washed out by the plavix? Could they then resection the bowel? And if they did so, would this procedure then bleed? Not an easy problem to solve.

And there were other difficulties. My hemoglobin count went down from my usual rosy 12-plus to a little over 8.0. Worse, my blood pressure -- usually 120 over 60 -- dropped like a shot-put. At one point in the midst of the crisis it was like 70 over 20.

Plus I inadvertently made things worse when they moved me from surgical recovery to a private room. I was light-headed. . .kept passing out whenever I raised my head. But I was experiencing pressure in my lower bowel. . .felt like I had to move my bowels.

Somehow I got myself super-wobbly onto the toilet. There I sat, perched on the throne, hunched over, elbows on knees, trying to keep my head from spinning. Bearing down, I felt the tell-tale squirt I remembered from expelling blood earlier.

But I'm ever the incurable optimist. I wanted absolute evidence. By now I was exhausted and light-headed, bent double over my thighs on the high stool. I turned sharply to the left over my thighs, reaching back to my right, the toilet tissue in my right hand. At that exquisite point of extension, my left elbow slid off my left thigh. I fell forward onto the tiled floor and felt my head explode into stars. I blacked out.

How long I lay there I can't determine. But when I woke up, I discovered my nose had bled, forming a big circle beneath my left cheek. My jaw was fiery pain. I had an immense goose-egg on my left temple. It felt like I had broken my cheek-bone and left eye-socket. My head was spinning. My left shoulder ached. I needed to throw up.

My head cleared enough for me to realize I was shut into the bathroom. I needed help. But that alarm-string hanging above toilet-paper roller was too high. Okay: don't panic. . .one thing at a time. . .deep breaths. . .collect some energy. . .open that door. . . slither out where someone might find me. I crawled a few feet to my right, reached up with my last ounce of energy and yanked down on the door handle. Big victory! The door popped open first try. Thank goodness! I was able to wriggle halfway through. I passed out again.

How long I lay there I have no idea. Next thing I knew, hands were all over me. I flew through the air and came down lightly onto a bed. And then it was like one of those hospital scenes in a movie where corridor lights fly by overhead.

I woke up sometime later in the ICU. Lotta bustling people, indistinct murmurs, busy hands all over me. . .like that. Friendly place. I passed out again.

When I awoke later, I was told I had been lucky: they had found me. They were now ramming me full of saline and anti-biotics and some concoction I was told would quiet my bowels and counteract my impulse to evacuate my bowels. or something like that. My mind wasn't completely clear. I had this big goose-egg on my left forehead. My jaw was broken, high up near the top of my ear. My left shoulder which had absorbed much of my fall, felt broken. But a series of scans discovered it wasn't. Nor was my neck. . .which felt injured. Tile-over-concrete floors are unforgiving. I had an excruciating head-ache. But: I would recover.

Or so they said.

And, in fact, I had been lucky. Had I fallen flat on my face, I'd have surely broken my nose and smashed my teeth to smithereens. . .and done my cheek-bones no good at all. Nevertheless, years of shaving have made me acutely aware that it would have been at least difficult to do much harm to this face. I felt glad I hadn't done even more harm.

I also felt stupid. Who goes to the hospital with serious difficulties AND MAKES THINGS WORSE? I felt as if I had flunked an IQ test.

I was not made aware of the REAL PROBLEM until the next morning. How to continue the plavix, preserve the stents, AND stop the bleeding? I had lost more blood.

But I'm home after eleven days. . .not bleeding now. I know it's likely I will be back to my OLD energetic self in a matter of weeks. Of course, I would much rather be back to my NEW energetic self . But at my advanced age, that's unlikely.


Still! If you think I've been a little UNlucky lately. . .consider this: about four days before this comedy of errors began, I had been called by our local blood bank. You see: I donate a pint of my blood at regular intervals. Mine is B+. They call me. Anyway, the Wednesday they called me I was crazy-busy with errands. Didn't make it in. Had I made it in that day -- as I had planned to -- I would have been THREE PINTS down instead of TWO. I call that MY good luck. Whoever needed my blood that day, might not have needed it as much as I did some four days later.

I'll soon be back to long walks, weight training, and yoga.
I'm feelin' younger every day. How 'boutchu?!

HURRAY!

Kids're coming home early this coming week.

Couldn't be better timing for me. Every year, this week and next are difficult for me. November 2nd's the fourth anniversary of Nancy's passing. You'd think I could grow-UP and deal with her death and absence better as time passes. Seems to get harder, though.

Simple truth: I really need to get off my butt and find a woman to love. I would, if I could figure out how to do it. What puzzles and daunts me is how to start looking? And where to look. I wasn't really looking for Nancy when I found her. She just miraculously emerged in my office. I turned around and saw her standing there. That was it. I deserve some credit. I never stopped paying attention.

Now I always feel outa step with my life.

It's my own fault. . .at least partly. I mean: my life DOES get better in some ways. Lotsa reasons: Tara&Jon and sometimes Taylor and Konnor fill the house with a sort of loving racket. Also, while it's not that Tara and Jon take care of me exactly. . . I know that they care about me. Include me best they can. I'm sincerely happy for their loving. . .the ways they take care of each other. . .the ways they include me best they can, though I try to stay out from under their feet.

Even though no mature adult would wish to horn in on this exciting time of their early loving, I can't help feeling lifted by watching the experience they're now having. Their love kinda splashes over onto me at times. I mean it's their love. But I can feel it, be glad for it, experience it close-up, be happy for them. Could be true that vicarious loving is better than none.

Plus it makes me remember. Good as that may be, remembering cuts both ways, no matter how hard I try to stop wishing things were different than they have to be. Still, nearly forty years of being loved by someone as wonderful as Nancy -- and loving her in return -- sounds like it should be enough for any man.

But it's NOT! Never will be. Simplest way to express it is I feel as if my life's been stolen!

Does some good to realize that all around me are people who've also had their happiness stolen. Most widows and widowers are within my own age range. Somehow they find each other -- or somebody else -- and couple up. Or not. Some bury themselves in their work. Other's seem to find other healthy ways to go on. I wonder about those I see who appear to deal with the loss so much better than I do. Many find other loves. Almost casually, they go ahead with their lives.

By contrast, on some level I'm always struggling. . .sometimes it's difficult. Sometimes I'm able to shake off the pain and sense of emptiness and loss. . .at least for a little while in the passage of each day. I'm determined to start doing better.

Helps to watch the Gutsy ones. I admire them. I have to wonder what-all's beneath their gallant exteriors. No good telling myself my loss has been greater. All loss is potentially devastating. Perhaps it's true: no living through it. Loss just goes on. Gotta somehow learn to live UP to it. Meet it head-on, face it down. Somehow compensate for it.

I know that! 'Swhy I'm determined to start volunteering immediately. . .knee surgery or not. Could be, I'll just limp around helping do stuff at the hospital right after my surgery. Last time I was able to stand up and move about stiff-legged the moment I woke up after the surgery. Gonna try to do the same this time. Prob'ly drive the nurses crazy. But I'm determined not to let this knee surgery slow me down.

Tara works in the hospital. Until I can safely drive, I'll ride in with her. Gotta be something useful I can do. I'm well-educated and broadly experienced. Gonna find something to do and get with it!


All that aside: what I want mostly to do in this brief posting is share some good news. I feel somewhat guilty, because the GOOD news comes at the expense of considerable BAD news for someone else I care about lots -- Mat.

The SUPER-good news? Marisa and Mat're coming home from Romania for about two weeks. Probably arrive here November 2nd. . .what would otherwise be a difficult day for me.

The BAD news. They're coming home because Mat's mother's companion has died. Mr. Keen has been very ill for a long time. His death introduces a sort of mixed turmoil. Nancy's death taught me the torment of such mixed turmoil. His release from suffering is good. What is left for those he loved, who loved him, is a forlorn emptiness that nags. It's not that I knew him. I didn't at all. Furthermore, I know Mat's mom only casually. Still: her loss reminds me of my own.

Mostly: I adore Mat. To the degree he worries about his mom, I worry about him.


One good thing: this coming Tuesday I'll be busy for sure. I'll be undergoing a heart catherization with the likelihood of at least some angioplasty in the process. As the procedure unfolds, the doctor'll fix whatever he finds needs fixing.

One really interesting aspect of the surgery is that instead of going in through my groin, this doctor employs a technique whereby he'll enter through my wrist. Indications are that this new technique lessens the likelihood of blood clots. So I'm told there won't be so much need for slow recovery with the wrist entry. I like that.

I like it especially because the following week I'm scheduled for knee replacement surgery. As I've probably mentioned before in some recent posting, I anticipate an accelerated period of therapy, too. But one of the neatest things is that Marisa&Mat'll still be here to spoil me with sympathy. . .which I'll no doubt milk for all it's worth. . .with both hands.

My new doctor's at least partly to blame for all this surgery. She's a do-it-get-through-it person. We both agree on that. I'm thinkin' all kindsa crazy-good-stuff like: Maybe I should get new skis and a flashy new outfit and get back to the ski slopes this winter. After-all, I'm in seriously GOOD shape for an old guy. New knee. New craziness. Furthermore, I wonder: if I find a woman on the ski-slopes, she's bound to be adventurous. . .no matter how old. Hmmmmnnn!?

I know I need to start looking. . .or at least start looking forward.


Well. . .bottom-line, I'm eagerly looking forward to Mat&Marisa getting home. The house'll be jumpin'! Good thing I'll have my heart back in shape!

Strange!? Since when has heart surgery seemed so much like a celebration? Feels good!

Gonna be a really good week!
Just wait and see!

A Time of Lonely Challenges

Sometime this coming Tuesday (11-8-10) I'll get my new artificial knee. I haven't yet received the promised call from Covenant Hospital informing me of the time I need to be checked in and ready for the operation.

Hopefully, I'll receive an early morning time. Then I'll be certain my surgeon-friend is fresh and prepared to do his very best work. Last time he did my knee FIRST. One result is that this present artificial knee has performed very well. I've made no excuses for it, have used it fully every day and worn it out. I'm a yogaphile, do vigorous weight-training, and walk long distances at a brisk pace three or four days a week. There are also two long stairways in my home. This daily regimen of exercise is a life-long habit beginning in my early teens. By long habit, I accept no excuses from my body. I make demands.

I've been making such demands of my body for most of sixty years. So, over the past decade, I've been pretty tough on this current artificial knee. It appears the new one will be a much-improved model, more sturdy, new metals, new type of plastic, with a much-longer spike that will seat more securely in my lower limb. One of the problems I'm currently experiencing is that the lower section of my current device works loose. Not convenient or comfortable. In fact, it hurts like crazy. I haven't really enjoyed my exercise regimen over the past few months. But I do it anyway.

Good habits die hard. . .even when those habits cause difficulty and pain.


I also expect a call soon scheduling a heart catherization. My recent stress test, the one that features two-three hundred pictures of my heart -- before and after stress -- apparently indicates I need some further exploration of the major arteries in my heart.

All this new exploratory and surgical stuff gives me the impression I may at last be falling apart. I don't like that feeling. Of course, I'm seventy-five years old. But I just saw my doctor this morning, and she didn't mention having requested a heart catherization for me. But then: could be I was looking at her instead of listening to her.

Seventy-five, and still not grown up!?

The thing I may've confused is her revelation that she is worried about the results of my recent stress test results. No doubt she wants my heart in good shape before she releases me for the knee surgery I would much prefer to have done first. Thing is, my heart isn't bothering me on my long walks and during yoga and weight training. But my knee IS bothering me. Still, I'm fairly certain that my new doctor will say to me: "First things first!"

Trouble is, I'm accustomed to having my own way with such choices.

Still, I imagine that with aging will come some changes in decisions like this. My new doctor took over and has requested a whole raft of exploratory tests. . .one or more each week for a number of weeks. She's attempting to establish a new baseline from which she can determine the true condition of my health. The heart cath is just one more such test. Another aspect of aging, I suppose, is that the results of some of these tests may require further and more challenging tests. Maybe even some necessary repairs. That certainly makes sense.

But so far in my life, that hasn't happened before, either because my old doctor was less interested, or my systems were more solid. Hard to determine which is closer to the truth. Could be a little bit of both. Could it be I'm aging at last, a process which is difficult for me to accept, or even sense accurately. . .perhaps because it's so gradual a process. I've always been a vigorous athlete. By habit I make demands on my body. Could be my present age and circumstance will demand some changes in my attitude. We'll have to see. I wonder: can I adjust to sensible limits?

In any case, I'm unaccustomed to discovering troublesome aspects about my health.


This has been an interesting and difficult decade. First, my beloved wife died. That entire process was difficult enough. Just as important, because of our closeness, I've found it difficult to adjust fully. Nancy was the sturdy keystone in the broad arch of my life. My best friend. My closest and most-trusted companion. We faced everything together with solid confidence. I still find it difficult to accept her death. She's so present to me, so alive to me. . .so essential to my sense of purpose, to the importance I ascribe to my life. As much as I loved my work, only recently have I realized that all these years, the real central purpose of my life has been to love Nancy.

All those wonderful years filled with purposeful work and Nancy. Presently, no work to do. Nancy gone. No one to love.

Leaves me feeling lost and empty.

And now, I'm apparently entering the final phases of my life. Will it be a period of painful and humiliating system breakdowns? A period of illnesses that I will have to face alone? I hope not. How will I find the stamina and courage to struggle alone through what may be so sorry an end to what has been a wonderful shared life?

I'll soon have some choices to make.
I'm not certain I want such a life.

The Changing-Doctors Ordeal

There's always something!

This time it's changing doctors. I've had the same doctor for thirty-five years. He's an internal medicine guy acting as my general practitioner. I liked him and respected him a lot.

But he got on my butt, insisting I begin dating a woman he likes. She's been a great friend of his for years. I never saw her. I suppose I've passed up some latter-day Julia Roberts. But at the time this happened, I wasn't ready to date, and especially not the best friend of someone I once thought of as a valued friend. Blow that: and you lose the friend you thought you had. Besides: the arrogance of his insistence angered me. So I may have lost Julia Roberts. But I certainly lost an old friend. Or someone I thought was a friend!?

Tough-scheidt! This decade -- probably my last -- is turning out to be a challenging time of letting-go of valued relationships. But especially NOW, I won't be told who to love. Nor, at this late period in my life will I permit anyone to push me around. Never did before. Won't start now.
I may be old. But I'm still my own man.


So! I have a new doctor. She's my daughter's doctor. And I really like her. She's wonderful. Bright and competent. Prob'ly mid-fifties, broadly practiced, insightful and thorough. And while I transferred my records. . .hand-carried them, in fact. . .she's running a wide variety of targeted tests to develop her own baseline understanding of my current health. She's studied my most-recent tests, is speculative, and wishes to determine a more thorough course of ongoing treatment for me. I like that.

She does something no other doctor has ever done before. She teaches me what all my tests mean. For instance: we got back this two-page, double-column set of numbers on my latest and most-thorough blood-test I've ever had. And she sat down with me, knee-to-knee, nose-to-nose, and taught me what all the numbers mean. Turns out my sugar's a little high. My father was a diabetic, so we need a retest and a diet-change -- at least. My doctor of the past thirty years must've known that. Why did he never tell me?

She did that also with my recent radiological stress test. Turns out I have some blockage and an abnormality I have been hearing all my life, but never understood. For years I've run long-slow-distance and have been a devotee of vigorous exercise. Why was I never told the risk I was taking? Thank goodness I've now become a long-distance walker.

I suspect this change in doctors is long overdue. I mean: I'm aging. I've lasted a long time. But had I known these things -- and other things my new doctor has taught me already -- I'd have made some changes long ago. Must be true: long-familiar, friend-type doctors get sloppy and over-confident after awhile. Might be why they outlive their friends.


Of course, the second reason I like this new doctor so much is she's so good-looking. Wonderful face, great eyes, perfect teeth. Nice-trim, well-conditioned body. Could be a runner, the way she looks. Smells good, too. She works close-up, face-to-face. I have to discipline myself to listen to what-all she's explaining to me. Because I have this (slight) crush on her, my listening mind shuts down. I like her expressive voice, her facial and body mannerisms, the thoroughness of her explanations, the way she answers questions. . .the way she listens intently and answers my questions with great clarity. She's so bright. At heart, she's a teacher. I see that in her manner. She mesmerizes me. While I know I need to listen to her carefully, my mind wanders.

She stands close to me when we speak. I keep wanting to take her into my arms and dance with her. Or something. . . .

The truth? I'm an incurable Romantic. Hard as I try to focus on our exchanges, my mind strays. I have to try NOT to flirt with her. I don't want her to throw me out of her office.

I keep confusing her interested and interesting bedside manner, which in my drifting mind I deftly convert to an inaccurate and inappropriate let's-get-into-bed-right-now-manner. Could be, I make one misstep, she'll chuck me out the door and I'll be without a doctor again. Worse, she may dump my daughter, too. Then I'll have TWO much-valued and lovely women angry with me and out of my life.

This new life is not easy!

Trouble is, my wife knew me so well. She told me over and over again, during those terrible final weeks of her life: "Find a woman you can love who loves you. It's the best thing you do. . . ." She released me with that project in her mind. Nancy's gone four years now. Notwithstanding I've been unable to get her out of my mind, in the past year, I find myself always searching, always hoping I'll find someone to love. Unattached, attractive women in my age-range are rare. Most are dead. Nor am I George Clooney!

My erratic woman-search is problematical in many ways. I've found a couple of women I really like. But then I can't keep Nancy out of my mind. I don't mean I actively compare them, though they share many of Nancy's wonderful qualities. Of course they do, or I wouldn't find them attractive. But then I get confused. . .WHO am I actually spending time with, actually loving: Nancy or this new woman? Makes me feel confused and stupid! And more than a little manipulative and RUDE. Makes me feel dishonest, whether I mean to be or not.

Makes me angry with myself. Who do I think I am to treat a nice person this way? If a woman chooses to spend time with me, she deserves my unqualified attention. I find myself drifting into seclusion, avoiding situations where I am apt to practice such inappropriate behavior.

Don't tell me I need counseling. I already AM counseling with a brilliant professional. And I sense at times I am causing her a level of exasperation that sends HER to her own counselor.

Counselors DO have counselors, don't they?

Likely they do, if they're dealing with me.

So, anyway, I've in love with my new doctor. But I think she's getting even with me. . .because tomorrow I 'm going to the dread Endoscopy Center for a colonoscopy.

Won't be the most fun I've ever had. But I've earned it. 'Swhat I get for getting a crush on my new doctor. Can't help it though. Since when has a prostate exam felt vaguely like a romantic interlude? Believe me. . .it did.

One more minor detail: my new doctor's married.


Never mind! This noon I'll consume the first of a series of two explosive concoctions designed to clear my lower bowel of unsightly debris. I'll be on the stool all day and into the night.

Tomorrow will be the one day in a long time I haven't been fulla scheidt.

That's why I'm writing today.
Tomorrow I'll have nothing to say!

Darkness and Light

I know it's truthful to say that darkness and light are a matter of will.

Darkness comes so easily after deep loss.

Light is more difficult. You have to insist upon light. Light comes only when you have courage enough to wrestle with darkness and drive it out.

I've been lucky. I've had a long-good life. For nearly forty years Nancy and I had a wonderful life. We worked together. I was a college professor most of the forty years we loved together. She was a high-school teacher and coach. She loved teaching and coaching, and she included me in everything she did, in every way she could. I never did anything really important. I just hung around, doing whatever little jobs for her she could cobble together at a moment's notice.

I did really important stuff like make sure my car-trunk was open, so that her pompon girls could store their coats there while they marched across the campus to the football game with the band, on gusty, frigid evenings. Plus I lugged a few extra pairs of shoes and lollies for any girl who might have forgotten hers. Dumb little custodial jobs like that. I never meddled in Nancy's planning or preparations for the teams she coached. That was HER work. I was her helper. I gladly did what she asked of me. And had fun doing it.

Thing was, though: I was a university professor who taught undergraduate and graduate courses for wanna-be and practicing teachers. Working with Nancy kept me involved with her students and colleagues at the school. Many of her colleagues took graduate courses from me. . .some of her administrators, too. So I had ready access to her school and had access to so many of the extra-curricular activities. I may have been one of the few education professors at my university who actually worked in a public school among busy teachers, and developed a feel for what went on in such a place. I knew and liked her professional colleagues. And I got to know many students really well. . .how they felt, what they knew, what school had come to mean to them in good and troublesome terms.

All that hands-on professional experience with Nancy was a great advantage to me. It helped me better judge the value of what textbooks and professional articles had to say about good classroom teaching and school leadership. I dealt with high-school kids every day. I liked them and developed with them the best relationships I could. All this made me a better, more minutely informed professor than many of my colleagues who rarely saw the inside of a school and never worked with teachers and students every day. At least I should've been better.

And I hope I was.

My wife's pompon squad was made up of two dozen or more really bright and skillful young women. At any time over the years, her team members occupied almost every student leadership position in the school. They worked in the offices. They were class officers at nearly every grade level. They were the bright and eager kids in every classroom. They worked for teachers at stenographic and teaching materials development tasks. They were prob'ly the nicest and hardest-working kids in the school. Beyond that, their parents were usually occupied with Nancy and me in developing and working at school fund-raising activities. Over the years I became a sort of universal grandparent to Nancy's pompon squad members. In some ways, we often came to feel like family.

Some families produced two or three daughters who went with Nancy through the pompon team experience. Most younger daughters followed their older sisters into poms. We went to camp together in the summers. We washed thousands of cars raising money. We inaugurated an elaborate series of challenging fund-raisers over the years, and a whole series of generous parents supplied wonderful leadership for those activities. Now, years later, many of those activities have become traditional. . .stuff like elaborate craft-shows that featured the same artistic vendors every fall, for instance.

Good parents are hard workers and skillful leaders. Good parents produce wonderful kids. Good parents make great friends, too. Nowadays I frequently run into these parents and/or their now-full-grown pom-kids. Usually these once-young pom-squad members have their own beautiful kids in tow. And, believe me, the old saying is true: "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree!"

And it touches me to hear them say how much they miss Mrs. Meadows. Most of these new parents have enjoyed wonderful university experiences, have married well, and remind me so much of their parents (who are now happy grandparents) that I have trouble separating out the generations. I'm now seventy-five. In a short while, I expect to run into second -- maybe third -- generation pom-kids whose daughters have followed their mothers into rich pom experiences of their own.

I guess I should expect that. Most of Nancy's original poms were kids who had begun dancing lessons when they were maybe two or three years old. There is little else a growing teenager can do with a dozen years of dance lessons. Few become professional dancers. Many performed on Nancy's pom squads. Sometimes two or three sisters in a row. Sometimes two or more sisters on the squad at the same time. Older sisters help the younger. This sisterly help gives them an advantage at audition time.

Pompons is a challenging combination of dance and gymnastics moves. A three-minute competitive routine involves a long sequence of single-beat rhythms, incorporating several moves per beat. . .specific head, arm, leg and torso moves combined in such challenging ways as to be thrilling to watch. Soaring toe-touches and a wide variety of challenging jumps abound in a typical routine. Formation changes are continuous throughout the routine. The moves are performed in unison with great precision. Movements snap individually. Yet a routine soars to exciting music. Formations change and flow continuously. The girls are crisp and lovely, their hair done up tightly in trim braids, their uniforms colorful, trim, and modest. No doubt about it: pom-squad members are beautiful young women, practiced and masterful, proudly representing their schools.

Okay! I know. The truth? You have to SEE and HEAR a pompon routine to realize what it looks and feels like.

But about poms: you work with kids like this, you're apt to love school in general. You learn to appreciate how talented young people can be. Not just poms. . .all kids. . .because youngsters are so talented in so many different ways. After years of such work I've developed a different sense about teen-age kids and school. Even now, despite Nancy's absence, I thoroughly enjoy interacting with school-kids. I like those moments when I meet ex-pom kids in the grocery store or the mall. . .wherever. They've grown into remarkable people, energetic and responsible. . .good parents eager to introduce me to their own children.

Meeting these old pom-kids helps me. Seeing them, interacting with them, makes me know I'm making progress overcoming the emotional turmoil associated with Nancy's death, nearly four years ago. I know it for several reasons, but especially I realize it when I run into Nancy's pom-kids, engage them in conversations, learn about their careers and growing families. For months after Nancy's death, seeing old squad-members, catching-up with their lives, remembering the good times Nancy and I spent with them. . .all this made me sad. But increasingly, such meetings and remembering make me happy, make me laugh out loud. At least there's more joy than sorrow in such meetings as time passes. More light than darkness.

Emily Dickinson has a poem I've long-since learned by heart. It reflects the progress I'm making as I resolutely work through my grief. It goes something like:

We grow accustomed to the Dark--
When Light is put away--
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye--

A moment--We uncertain step
For newness of the night--
Then--fit our Vision to the Dark--
And meet the road--erect--

And so of larger--Darknesses--
Those Evenings of the Brain--
When not a Moon disclose a sign--
Or star--come out--within--

The Bravest--grope a little--
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead--
But as they learn to see--

Either the Darkness alters--
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight--
And life steps almost straight.


I think EmilyD used the dashes to mark the halting progress made through hard work with grief.

Emily helps me grapple with my sadness. I slowly come to recognize the truth of her words: darkness alters, though terrible loss remains. Perhaps, as EmilyD might say: though terrible loss remains terrible, perhaps even terribler. . .we somehow discover ways to adjust our sight until "life steps almost straight." and we can continue on, proud and "erect." The burden grows no lighter. Yet we learn to balance it more lightly. With strength of mind, we become grateful at last.

When sadness descends, I have learned to ask myself: "What if I had never met Nancy, had not known her at all?' It helps me to remember that for nearly forty years we lived together, worked together -- loved each other and the shared work.

My friends assure me: "You were lucky. Few have enjoyed such a rich and loving life." And when they say that to me, I think to myself: "YES! We were lucky!"

But I also know we were always mindful. We realized what we had together.

And we took pains to live together
with generosity, artistry and skill.

In Praise of Tactility

I've always been a touchy-feely kinda guy.

For almost forty years, my beloved wife and I lived in each others arms. We walked close together arm-in-arm. We bumped along hip-to-thigh through household tasks. She had great piano hands, and we bounced around on the piano-stool, sang and danced through our days. We slept in each others' arms.

Nancy was striking. A beautiful and magnetic person. She was five-foot-seven, hundred-twenty-five pounds, blond hair and green eyes: an athlete with a brick-house body. Most of my adult life I've been barely six-foot tall, a trim 175 pounds. By accident of nature, our bodies slid together and moved as one. Body and mind, heart and soul. . .we were a perfect fit. In fact, in the first year of our so-called courtship we slept single-file on a narrow couch-bed in what we fondly termed our INefficiency apartment.

And she was brilliant. In fact, my best friends said that to their knowledge she had only made one mistake in her life. (I never could figure out what that mistake might've been!) But she was the keenest listener, the quickest seer and thinker I've ever known. . .a natural-born leader. People always looked to her for decisions and approval.

She was warm and winning, approachable, a perceptive listener with a reassuring presence. Part of it was her wonderful face, the way she focused her eyes -- her entire attention -- upon those who approached her with questions or seeking directions. She cared so much, had such personal warmth, wielded such gentle power. She cared about the people around her. She helped them. She was a virtual fountain of creative energy, and she used that energy for others.

She touched people. . .literally and figuratively, she touched them. She worked close range. Her so-called social distance might've been no more than three feet. I mean, a teacher approached her with a problem, a need to discuss and share a situation. Such a person might stop four or five feet away. But Nancy was likely to reach out gently, place a hand on the other's forearm or hand, then step in close. People didn't step back. There they stood, face-to-face, speaking quietly, richly present to each other within a circle with a diameter no longer than two-three feet. Nancy's circle was a close, safe, and creative place.

She was, as I've said, a reassuring presence. She looked good. She was attentive. She even smelled good. She took control of so-called "problem-exchanges." She asked questions, identified and clarified problems. Like all good leaders, she involved people in the problems they brought to her. And such were her skills of shared problem-solving, so clarifying was her approach, that within that small circle, the person often came up with his or her own solution.

People loved Nancy. She helped them be more productive, more competent. Her special gift to others was largely this: she taught people they had the power to make their own lives better in myriad ways. It's a good thing to have the power to help people. It 's even better to teach them they have the power to help themselves. Such an approach to leadership is truly UNselfish.


As I said: those who worked with Nancy loved her. I certainly loved her. . .instantly.

I met her in July, 1970. I had left my university professorship to take the principalship of what was then one of the largest integrated high schools in the state of Ohio. It's now easy to forget how back in those days diverse settings were difficult places. Even today, without good leadership people with largely different economic and social backgrounds are apt to find life troublesome, filled with needless conflict. Nancy was by nature a healer. During her first year on our administrative team we became inseparable teammates, then deeply committed friends. We believed the same things and lived the same values. We thought alike, felt the same way about important things.

Friends always stuck their tongues in their cheeks and asked me: "Where did you find this woman? What's she doing with the likesa you?" I'd always laugh and say: "I didn't find her. She just walked into my office one day."

And it's true. In July of 1970, I took the principalship of this big and troubled integrated high school in Dayton, Ohio. I was working twenty-four hours a day,

Building my team.
Identifying strong faculty leadership.
Writing new administrative policy.
Meeting students and their families
at large picnics throughout the attendance district.
Learning the community.
Writing new policy and programs.
Making friends.

I was in the midst of writing a new health education program that involved a large community-service component. The program was necessary, in part, because a scheduling glitch had developed in the curriculum several semesters before I got there. Therefore, I inherited about six-hundred juniors and seniors who had not taken the state-required Health-Education class. And they couldn't graduate until they took the class.

Sometimes, a problem like this becomes an opportunity. Troubled schools often develop a pattern by which they export their problems directly into the community. I saw in this health-class dilemma a chance to export useful student-service instead.

As I discussed this program with my superintendent and assistant superintendent for curriculum, I said what they realized: in order for this program to work, we had to have a special sort of supervisor:

one who knew and was committed to the community,
one who knew and liked the merchants and service agencies,
one who was known, admired, and trusted.
A person of real strength and substance.
In short, a bright, energetic and winning person.

As we spoke about the program, my two buddies brightened up. They liked the service-learning idea. More important: they said the very person we needed was already on the faculty.

We had been discussing the program around lunchtime one Saturday. So I whipped out my pocket calendar and said: "Okay! This coming Tuesday is Bastille Day. Have this person meet me in my office at 6:o0 that morning."

Wayne looked shocked: "Bob! This is summer vacation. What kinda teacher'll show up mid-July for an interview at 6:00 in the morning during vacation-time?"

I winked and responded: "The only kind I'll consider hiring for a job this important!"

That Tuesday morning I came in around 5:30 and began sketching the program on the twelve-foot green chalkboard I'd had installed on my office wall. At about 5:55 I heard a kick-stand quietly squeak down. I turned around and saw Nancy standing there with her hands on the handle-bars of her bike. (This was inner-city Dayton. You leave a bike outside, you lose it.)

She was tall and tan and striking in a cute cotton tennis-dress. Long, gorgeous legs. Tiny footies in tennies at one end. Close-cropped golden-blond hair at the other.

She ignored me, her eyes fixed on the chalkboard. I was transfixed!

I had left three sections of the outline largely blank, knowing that the right person would surely understand how those sections might be written, and would appreciate being included in the creative process. I reached out and grabbed my empty coffee urn, tried to clear my throat, and barely squeaked out: "Coffee's gone. I'll get some more."

She shook her head side-to-side signifying no-coffee-for-me, her eyes studying the chalkboard. She still hadn't looked at me. Like all confident women, she stood there ignoring me, letting me look at her.

I'd consumed six cups of coffee. I needed to pee. I was smitten and speechless. Close to wetting my levis. I had never before seen such a striking woman that close-up. To say that I was totally disarmed is a massive understatement. I felt my reaction to her appearance was totally inappropriate. She had me back-pedaling. I was struggling for composure.

Finally, she approached me, still studying the chalkboard. She still hadn't even looked at me. As she stepped past me, she held out her hand, palm-up. I dropped the chalk into her hand and started for the door: "Some ice-water? Tea? Soda?" But she shook me off. We hadn't even exchanged names. In retrospect, over the years I came to know that such behavior was typical of Nancy. As a professional, she had the power to focus upon and study a problem. And later, as we spoke about the project she hoped to lead, she always said something like: "Sure I was interested in meeting you, in getting the job the superintendents spoke to me briefly about. but my major interest that morning was seeing your idea and judging your competence." Oooops!?

Believe me, this was a woman -- a person -- I soon learned I had to work hard to live-UP to.

Anyway, that morning we met, she focused all her attention on the green chalk-board. Not until we began discussing the project did she look at me. Which was a good thing. . .because I was in shock. I never really interviewed her for the job. Instead, we discussed the project and developed a deeper shared understanding of how it might work, and how we might make it work better.

And as the years of our friendship unfolded, whenever we discussed our first meeting, I would say to her: "I fell in love with you instantly that morning. When did you begin to like me?" She would always grin and say: "Well!? I saw your picture and the announcement of your appointment in the paper the week before. I thought you looked nice." Then she would laugh and hug me all-big. And kiss me. But she never gave me any further reassurance about that first meeting.

I didn't care. Over the four decades of our rollicking and adventuresome marriage, she gave me an entirely new and wonderfully challenging life. I'll TAKE IT! In my sanest moments I know she loved me. And of course she often told me so in the passage of a day. Mostly, Nancy acted out "I love you."

But that day of our first meeting: in a split second, she began to write in the open spaces on the chalkboard. I had to get out of there. I headed for the cafeteria for more coffee. . .for a chance to collect myself. When I came back to the office about fifteen minutes later, she had completed the diagram. Immediately, she fixed me with her eyes and began discussing the program: the things I'd written, the things she'd added. I was mesmerized.

And as she spoke, raised questions, problems, and solutions, I thought: "Geeezus! She's smart, too. . . ." And it's true: she was always the quickest and smartest and kindest of the two of us.

Still, that Bastille-Day morning. . .that was the morning I met and hired the woman who freed me and helped me grow the rest of my life. . .the woman I later married and loved more each day for nearly forty years.

Now, nearly four decades later I think of those final terrible weeks of October, 2006, when breast cancer spread to her liver and killed her. Be assured: those weeks we spent like every other week of our long-shared life. . .in each others' arms.

And since her death, no other woman has ever really touched me. . .or even acted as if she wished to. 'Sokay. I know I'm mostly an aging wreck of a man. I know that. I also know I've been well-loved by Nancy my entire adult life.



But I remind you the title of this posting is In Praise of Tactility. I began this posting with the sentence: "I've always been a touchy-feely kinda guy." And that's true. Still, since Nancy's death I've come to feel outcast. . .untouchable.

BUT! Just lately something really good has happened. My daughter has moved into this big gorgeous house with her two wonderful young sons. Taylor is seven. Konnor is five. They are truly lovely, smart, and delightful boys. Tara is much like Nancy. She has taken over and improved the household. Believe it: we three Lost Boys romp around and make a ruckus that nearly clatters the house down. They like to wrestle me down, dive onto me. . . . It's like we're right out of some loud and robust sword-fight-scene from Peter Pan:

ShiverMEtimbers!
TakeTHATmatey!
AvastLUBBER!
I'm gonna getcher GIZZARD!
Touche'!
GOTCHA!

And I get 'em screeching to my lumbering Tick-Tock-Crock and wild-One-Eye-Hook who're gonna GET'EM real good in just one second. We whack away all-wild with swords, just short of knocking the house down.

But really: it's the wrestling, the ARGHH'S and MATEY'S, the growling hugs, the way they pounce on me and drag me down and jump on top of me. . .the laying-on-of-hands: that love-touching is what has brought my rambunctious and rollicking inner-boy-child right back to life. . .long after I had come to think him dead. And along with all this shared boyish delight, there has also come rushing back much of the joy that Nancy and I so patiently built over the decades of our loving.

In those terrible final weeks of Nancy's life, she said to me again and again: "Find a woman you can love who loves you. . . ." I know that was the final gift she wished to give me.

But I'm aging. And I've learned over the passing years that I'm no longer attractive to the sort of woman I might wish to choose. In all these years of heart-break and struggle since Nancy's death, no female outside my family has ventured to touch me.

But that's okay. I know I can be happy. . .maybe even productive. Tara's come home for awhile.

And she's brought me my grandsons. ARGHHHHH!
The little pirates have touched me and stolen my heart.

Turmoil!

Konnor went to bed last night coughing. Big, rasping, loose-sounding, shoulder-wracking whoops. He was so miserable. All dizzy, hot and feverish, scared and upset. Finally fell asleep late.

But he woke up even worse early this morning. I had forgotten how miserable-sick kids can get, and how difficult it is to watch them suffer. His fever's down around 101 this morning, and the cough persists, though it's intermittent.

Right now he's quiet. . .messing-around with his didj, watching Cat-in-the-Hat, rolling around all cozy on the bed I made him down here on the couch just outside my office. I think he's on the mend. Got some oatmeal down for breakfast -- and kept it down. Feels cooler, too.

A Grampa's work and worry are never done!

I saw this coming late yesterday afternoon. Tara and I took the boys back to school after supper to a preliminary meeting about organizing a new Cub-Scout grouping for Handley School for the Gifted.

Two old guys showed up in Boy-Scout garb. The brochure had said: "Bring your sons for a quick parent orientation. Fun activities will be provided."

Nothing of the sort happened. One Old-Scout addressed the parents. The other one asked me to go with him to supervise "activities" in the gym. Off we went, with about 35 boys. The "activities" were one large ball and a madhouse of energetic boys. I quickly organized an impromptu kick-ball-softball sort of game, and they responded nicely to the directions I gave them.

Kinda worked. But just barely. . .if no blood and broken bones count as worked. But I figure I used-up a lifetime of gently-persuasive, but firm discipline to avert mayhem.

Meanwhile, Konnor seemed listless and quiet. He was hot and sweaty. Irritable, too.

I felt itchy to get him home. Wished I had stayed home with him and let Tara go alone with Taylor. Plus, all the while he seemed to get sicker.

And I was progressively more disappointed with the so-called fun activities these two old codgers had provided. I had to ask myself: Does this total lack of organization and supervision auger well for future scouting activities? When Tara and I shared our experiences an hour later, I found her disgusted and distrustful of the Old-Guy-Scout who made the classroom presentation, too.

He gave no handouts about projected objectives or schedules. He gave a garbled presentation, then asked for volunteers. No takers! Parents were all confused and disappointed. There was apparently no explanation of WHAT they were volunteering for. Meetings a month? What sorts of activities were expected? No answers of any kind to all sorts of questions. Frustrating.

Worst sort of leadership I ever witnessed. Send my grandsons into the woods with matches, scout-knives, and hatchets with two bewildered old guys like these two? I don't think so!

Worst part was that many of the boys were expecting some sort of meaningful learning activities. Taylor's disappointed. Tara came home disappointed and even a little angry. I don't blame her.

UNINSPIRING. . .to say the least. What made the experience even more disappointing was that we had just spent an hour after school at the most disciplined and minutely-organized hockey-team practice I'd ever seen. Three coaches, eighteen kids, and clockwork-precision activities. Impressive. Then this scouting muddle.

Tara had to sooth Taylor, telling him we'd "investigate further."

Investigate she might. But I can't imagine she'll discover anything worthwhile. A lifetime of competent school-teaching and management have spoiled her. . .and me:

You can't promise kids something good,
and then fail to deliver the goods.

I LIED Before

I truly did. But I didn't mean to.

In that earlier posting, when I said the move was (mostly) completed. . . . Well!? THAT turned out to be a lie. I think it's prob'ly true that a move is never completely over. If you're lucky, a move is prob'ly something you spend your entire life doing. But then, how did I know that Tara would

completely reorganize our every cabinet,
vigorously clean stuff I had been content
to let languish in dust and debris,
alter and improve household processes, and
otherwise engage me in endless tasks
designed to improve the house,
while exhausting me.

Never mind: I like being told what to do, and doing things I know please Tara. She's my daughter -- TRUE! But she's a bright, fully-grown woman. And she's in charge around here now.

A grown-up daughter is a complete fascination. She surprises me every day. . .creates a swoosh of energy that sucks me in, wakes me up, and engages me in useful tasks that energize me.

I'm alive again. Could be she'll work me to death, though.

For some time now full boxes of non-essential items have been accumulating in the garage. Shoved aside-stuff. Stuff we haven't needed yet. There those last few boxes sat, no doubt feeling sad and neglected. Yesterday was a shoved-aside-stuff day. . .kids' outdoor toys, for instance. Even some stuff the kids've kinda outgrown. Stuff that prob'ly should go into storage, or better-still, to Good Will. We'll see just where it all goes in a week or so.

All day yesterday, Tara worked like a banshee in the utility room. Just outside in the garage, I was breaking into boxes, finding surprises, cleaning out cabinets, throwing out stuff, and reorganizing new space for things I found. Sad thing: I was forced to clean off my work-bench, put away dusty power tools I hadn't used since early spring. What can I say: I like clutter. It creates for visiting friends the erroneous impression I'm a busy and handy person. . .which I sometimes am, but not mostly.

As the day wore on, and things got accomplished, I also rescued and cleaned the dirt-clods off my gardening tools. Poor forsaken shovels and trowels, shears and a variety of cutting tools. They had not engaged my spring-busy hands all summer.

God-bless perennial gardening. Once you get things organized in the spring, perennials take care of themselves. With sufficient water and short periods of vigorous trimming and weeding, they make the laziest gardener look skilled. . .even artistic. I never quite admit to myself I'm a fraud. But lately I've gotten suspicious. Yet, who knows? Maybe, over years of avid gardening I've become adept. A good eye for plant-spacing and color-mixing. Mostly I have good luck with weather and timely puttering, pruning, and weeding. I've learned how to get a lot accomplished with the least effort. Gardening rightly done, need not be frantic. In fact, it should produce beauty and peace.

I like to think my lazy nature works well. Lotsa lazy. And an easy hand with nature. That's me. One reason I love gardening is I somehow acquired as a boy my sainted grandmother's easy-does-it approach. She and her garden lasted well into her seventies. And here I am myself, well into my own seventies. But then she trained me well with the grunt-work. Mostly she had a good eye, an easy hand, and a grandson who worshiped her and liked doing with her the things that made a garden beautiful.

And then, of course, I also enjoyed nearly forty early springs and summers with my wife in our gardens. Two good women in a row for most of seventy years. As I remember saying in an earlier posting: ". . .you are nearer to peace in a garden, than anywhere else on earth." More exactly, I s'pose I'm nearer these two wonderful women I've loved when I'm puttering easily in my gardens. They speak to me, help me cut corners, see clearly and quickly how things can be made more beautiful.

I guess that's what love's s'posed to do: make things more beautiful.

Anyway: spring was yesterday. Now, suddenly the air's full of footballs. Gardening's mostly done. Just the cutting-back and mulching left to do.

And this morning, the garage is finally empty of boxes. They're now cut up and tied, ready for Thursday's trash collection. The moving part of our recent move is complete.

Now we move into our new life. Exciting prospects. Continuing changes. Moving forward.

Things're put away. Now I'm spending good-time doing home-improvement chores for Tara and sword-fighting with my grandchildren. Could be I'll never fully grow-up.

Now there's something good to hope for.

Peace is No Full Boxes!

Got up early this morning. Saw Tara off to work, the kids off to their first day of school.

Been wandering around the house tryna find something to do. But FINALLY: everything's done. No more moving-boxes to cut up and tie into secure bundles for Friday's trash collection. No more shelving to design and install anywhere in the house. No pressing moving-related tasks.

I took a relaxed walk around the house when Tara and the kids pulled out the drive. Felt all proud:

new storage shelf under the kitchen sink,
tied stacks of cut-up boxes ready for Friday's trash,
a dozen plastic boxes stacked and ready for the storage unit,
kitchen completely reorganized,
internet guy coming today to improve reception upstairs. . . .

But the move's mostly accomplished.

I really like my new accommodations down here in this PLUSH basement apartment:

moved my Keurig coffee-maker down into my office
here beside my bedroom,
built a nifty four-shelf oak unit into the alcove in my bedroom,
moved my School-Marm's Bell and Kalaidoscope collections there
along with other favorite antique tools and other nice things.

All my stuff's been thinned-down and has a new home in my two closets and the huge antique cherry chest of drawers Nancy and I used for years. We cleaned-up and reactivated my old 12-drawer bed-stead. Bed's high. But just right. Meets my butt perfectly without bending my legs. It'll take me awhile to memorize what-all's stored in all those drawers. . .mostly sweaters.

I think the best change may be in my outlook. For the first time in nearly four years I'm looking joyfully into every present day. . .and into the future, too. I love our evening meal ritual. Even more fun is the bedtime ritual with the boys. I love the happy sounds of family in the house. I also love the peace of my quiet days here at home in my office. Pretty soon our new daily rituals will form an accustomed and happy groove.

Things're good. Better than I ever dared hope they could be since Nancy's long dying and death. I can feel her bright smile in my mind and heart.

Some plans for the near future:

I've decided to have my eleven-year-old knee replacement REPLACED. I've walked and bicycled and yoga-ed it into near ruin. Hurts all the time again. I've put off the decision, thinking the knee would surely outlast me anyway. But now I'm thinking it's likely this new life will last longer than my old solitary life might have.

I'm also a couple months past my yearly physical, and I'm feeling tired and sluggish. A recent blood test showed my cholesterol higher than I can remember it ever having been. In 1995 I had an angioplasty. At that time I experienced a new burst of energy. Could be it's time to have another look at my heart and circulatory system.

A radiological stress test will certainly determine the state of my arteries. Tara's cooking will help lower my cholesterol, too. I keep forgetting to take my evening-meal Zocor, which is supposed to keep my cholesterol-count down. I feel a necessary diet-change coming, even though my weight's well within its normally low range.

I'm into my 76th year. My brother died this past spring in the middle of his 79th year -- the first clue I had of my likely longevity.

My new plan is to live at least 90 years, or more. New joyous life. Improved health habits. New hopes and plans. I'm giving-a-damn-again! Reminds me of those lines in the first stanza of "Casey at the Bat:"

A straggling few got up to leave, the rest
Clung to that hope that springs eternal

Within the human breast. . . .

Three evenings now we've performed the boys' bedtime ritual together as family. Feels really good.

Today I'll fold some laundry, cut the lawn, run some errands, return some emails, and count my blessings.

Believe it! I'm not about to leave just yet!
Things're finally breaking my way again!