How We End

Someone I love has been told they only have a matter of months to live. It is unlikely they will see the year 2025. They may not even see summer.

Many of us have played the hypothetical game in our head of what we would do if we were presented with such news. I have a feeling it's one of those scenarios that is not what we imagine. I remember thinking vaguely long ago that if I ever had a miscarriage that I would probably accept it logically and move on. Two miscarriages taught me otherwise. I also remember being in a gut wrenching situation with one of my kids where I pictured myself at one point being a weepy mess over a particularly hard decision, but when the time came I was simply relieved. When my grandmother died, I was incredibly sad, but I was also surprised to discover that I was set free from holding onto the idea of her as someone crippled by dementia. Since all of her lived in memory I could remember her at her best without betraying reality, and there was joy in that. So I have no idea what it really is to be told you have little time left on this earth.

My first thought about what I would do if given only months to live, has always been something like "Stop doing dishes." But maybe not. Maybe in reality I would embrace the ability to do that while I could. 

Would I focus on myself or others?

It seems like the most appropriate time to be selfish because who would judge you negatively for it? And yet the first thing that pops into my head would be to finish projects for my kids while I could. I've made a violin for both of my older girls, but the one for the last daughter is still in pieces on my bench. I think I would feel desperate to get that done. Along with photo projects, and letters, and making sure they knew the stories behind things I want to leave them. But maybe those pursuits are selfish in their own way.

In the past, I would have said the thought of being faced with a terminal diagnosis would inspire me to travel somewhere. To see something I've put off and always wanted to see. I've never been south of the equator. I've never been to Africa. But would I want to use a small amount of time to do something new or something I already know I love? I think I might resent every minute that I'm stuck in a plane on a runway if I could just be home.

I suppose that's a good measure of how well you're living your life, if you'd be happy with an average day as your last.

I love my life. I like the house we live in, even though there are still a million projects to do in it. I'm happy crawling into bed every night between my husband and my dog. I think at this stage in my life, I would be content to spend my last days at home, or maybe at our cottage my grandparents built. I know my grandfather in his final months spent as much of it at the cottage as he could. My grandmother died in a nursing home, but the last time I spoke to her, in her mind we were having that conversation on the cottage porch. It's a peaceful place.

I've often thought that if we won the lottery (somehow without playing) that I would keep my job. I love my job. I think I might stop doing cello work or bow rehairs, though, since those things tend to provide me with more frustration than joy. (Not because I don't enjoy doing them, they just both take up all my bench surface, which I can't stand. If I had a dedicated cello workspace, and a bow bench where I didn't have to put all those supplies away each time I switched back to instrument work, then I wouldn't mind it. So maybe I should be doing that now somehow?) If I were dying, would I keep working? Possibly. Some of my happiest moments have been spent sipping a cup of hot cocoa on a cold morning while sitting alone at my bench, looking out the windows, and deciding which repairs to tackle first. But maybe I wouldn't get that anymore even if I wanted it. I'd have to help figure out how to shut it all down or pass it on.

Part of me thinks I would like to scramble to put out whatever novel I'm working on. But I also know how much that takes me away from time with other people. That would probably be too big a sacrifice, unless I could convince people I love to hang out near me while I do it. I would hate to leave my books unfinished.

I know sometimes when you're sick, it can actually be harder on the people worried about you. No one likes to feel helpless. No one enjoys survivor guilt. How much would I get to selfishly be as angry and in pain as I really feel, and how much would I choose to spend my time and energy comforting my family and friends instead?

I think about how much it would mean to me to see this person one more time, and accept that the situation is complicated enough that such a visit may be too much of an imposition. They are not obligated to accommodate anyone at this time. I just want them to have whatever brings them comfort.

I like to think it's better to be given time to say goodbye and wrap up any loose ends that need tending. An unexpected end seems crueler. I remember when I was in violin making school, and I had a long commute every day, seeing a story about another driver dying on the freeway, his car crushed between two trucks. It really shook me. I kept thinking about how he likely had food in his fridge he had planned to eat, and maybe a book on his nightstand he'd never know the end to. What if you die wearing an outfit you can't stand? Sounds stupid, but I'd rather go in my favorite cozy sweater.

Contemplating death is very different now than it once was for me. There's something alluring about flirting with ideas of death when you're a teenager that doesn't have the same appeal once you have more days behind you than ahead. The list of people I've lost at this point is getting long. There is weight to those losses somehow. There are days I feel that weight, and it's all I can do not to cry at any given moment.

I dread the losses that are still to come. I feel like they haunt me on the periphery of my daily life. 

Because I think often of the days almost nine years ago when my dad was in hospice. There was so much love and laughter and sorrow and grief all tightly woven together, and we all said we would learn from it. I knew better. I wanted it to be true that we would make more time for each other, and not let the days slip by so easily that years could pass without being able to hug the people that matter, but I knew real life wouldn't allow for that. We get distracted. We get busy.

And in some ways that's all right. That's what life is, the day to day bits and pieces. Being able to make your own breakfast and walk the dog and hang out with someone in front of the TV and wearing a favorite shirt and anticipating the comfort of the pillow you like at the end of the day. 

Hug people while you can. Love them while you can. And remember that the little things are actually the greatest things. If tears are how we know we care, at least I know I care a lot.

There's Always One More Thing

Thinking way, way back to when I had my first baby, one of the more vivid adjustments was to how relentless much of the responsibilities feel.

There were plenty of lovely, quiet moments. Moments when I would hold my sweet baby and watch her laugh, and feel her touch my face, and I would try to sear all of it into my brain so I could remember it for both of us. For the most part, she was an easy baby who grew into an adorable toddler and then a charming little girl, and eventually a very sweet teenager.

But at every stage there was always something to monitor, or get past, or solve. There was colic, or eczema, or weird rashes, or hives. Was she getting enough tummy time? There were vaccinations, and ear infections, and wondering if I was exposing her to enough new experiences. Figuring out school for our first child was an ordeal. At some point there were allergies and ear tubes and questions about socialization. There were concerns about how she was handling her dad's deployment. There were concerns about adjusting to his return. There were struggles with certain subjects, and drama with friends, and learning to drive, and cook, and how to frame her passions into something that looks like a future.

Today my daughter is in her last year of high school, preparing to graduate and applying to colleges. She's legally an adult now, but always my baby. There are new things to worry about, and to try and help her solve.

There is always one more thing.

I don't remember when tummy time officially ended. It was a regular real concern until it no longer was. Because whatever the new thing was, it took over, and we monitored and worked on that. And the cycle continues with each new thing, until you look up one day and realize your baby is eighteen and in some arbitrary official sense your job is "done."

But it's never really done. Because there is always one more thing. That's what life is.

And it goes by frighteningly fast.

Parallels: Rivyn and Dad

I have a moment while the nurse is here.  I am tired.  The horror of watching my dad starve to death weighs everything down and makes any laughter we can't suppress at odd moments feel disrespectful.  But sometimes you have to laugh and sometimes you have to cry and it is what it is.

And sometimes you have to write.  I need this chance to organize my thoughts into words to settle me a little.  Or I might go crazy.  My dad informed my mom this morning that it takes great effort to go truly crazy.  I believe it may take just as much effort not to.

So what I would like to write about today are the parallels between my dad at this stage, and my nephew, Rivyn.  The obvious themes of life and death seem to scream at us at every turn.  I can't imagine struggling through this time with my parents without all the kids here to reaffirm what life is really about.  But in particular to have this precious, remarkable little baby in the house---there are no words.  You can't not smile when you look at that baby.  We are all so sad, but then here is this adorable, sweet new person interjected into all of it.  He is a lifeline.  He reminds us simultaneously of what we have and what we will lose.  We're all glad my dad got to meet him.  We are all devastated that they will never know each other.

The Good Old Days (Babble)

Years ago, before running our own business, before graduating from violin making school, before children, before 9/11 and thoughts of deployment, Ian and I used to take walks together on the east side of town.  I loved those walks.  We could go anywhere and not have to be back in time for anything or anyone.  We were poor but not in debt, uninsured but healthy, and we would hold hands and talk as we strolled around Milwaukee.

Talking with Ian has always been interesting.  Even after twenty years our conversations surprise me.  I feel on a very basic level Ian and I agree on important things, and our core philosophy about life and our place in it is similar, but the details closer to the surface aren’t the same at all.  We are distinctly different people, and even though we may be able to finish each other’s sentences in regular conversation and can make decisions for one another with confidence much of the time, I am still getting to know him.  He has degrees in economic geography and engineering, and I’m Ms Music and project building person.  We come at problems from very different places.  His ideas and perspective give me much to think about when we’re apart.  He helps me challenge my own thoughts and see things from other angles.


I’m often surprised about where each of us falls on certain issues.  When I recount conversations I’ve had about the war in Iraq to him he usually responds with his own take that is far less diplomatic.  When I encounter people who express discomfort with the whole idea that my husband is in the Army and tell me they hate the war, I generally tell them it’s not a conflict I agree with either, but that simply wishing it away isn’t a solution and that Ian is exactly the kind of soldier we would want there trying to fix things.  Ian’s response is something closer to, “I don’t think you’re mad enough about it.  From what I saw, it was an even bigger waste than you think.”  Ian’s take on things is always informed and seldom what people expect.  I never worry that talking with Ian will be boring.

On one of those walks a lifetime ago in the mid-1990’s, I remember him speculating about the economy and saying to me, “Right now, these are the good old days everyone will look back on later.”  That really stuck with me, and I think of it every time I’m confronted with more news about the recession.  We have been very fortunate that our own small business is doing fine, but I know we are not typical and that fortune can turn on a dime and have nothing to do with how hard you are willing to work or what is fair.

Today when I look back on us holding hands on the east side, it’s a sweet memory, but empty.  I’m in a very glass half full kind of place at the moment.  I’ve never liked the question about the glass being half full or half empty, because in my mind the answer is entirely dependent on what came before.  If the glass started out empty and now has something in it, then it’s half full.  If you started with a full glass, and there is only half left, then it’s on it’s way to being empty.  Ian and I alone were a pretty nice glass, but we’ve since added the experience of building a home together, and I don’t even want to imagine life without my children.  I loved my life back then, but it is so much fuller now I wouldn’t want to go back.

I am acutely aware that right now, these are the good old days.  We are a family with all its parts in place.  We are healthy and busy and together.  I enjoy my work, I love being home, my husband and I are partners in building this life and there is no one I’d rather do that with.  And all my children are here.  When we lie in bed in the morning and listen to them play together, to the amusing symphony of squeaks and thumps and clattering noises that are their improvised games, I am sometimes overwhelmed by the beauty that is this place in time.

The good old days aren’t the big events.  They are the fabric of the ordinary.  The same way my wedding was wonderful but not the best day of my marriage, the birth of each of my children was not the best day of my life with each of them.  It was amazing and life changing, but my best day with Aden or Mona or Quinn is today, because it includes everything they are.  If I get to have tomorrow with them, that will become the best day.  I hope for a certain amount of adventure still to come in my life, but I am glad the baseline of what my life is like is all I really need.  The waking up sleepy kids up in the morning, the breakfast dishes, the nagging everyone about their shoes, the discussions about house projects or bills, wiping down the counters, the bedtime routine….  Just hearing the people I love best in the world moving around the house.  This is it.  I’m not waiting for something else, I’m enjoying this moment, this time, this place.  This place is magic.

Someday having all of us gathered in our home will take a concerted effort, but right now it is our natural state, and it’s wonderful.  My glass is completely full.  These are the days I will look back on and know that I was once the luckiest person in the world.  It doesn’t get better than this and I know it.