Kaanapali Maui

It's nearly a year since Geoffrey left us so suddenly and without warning; doesn't seem possible.  The chaos of my daily life continues against a background of remorse.  All those things I should have done or didn't do while he was with us haven't faded in my consciousness but at times seem to be screaming for attention. I know enough about cancer and Lymphoma to question to the point of distraction "Why" - Why weren't additional tests done as followup to his care for Hodgkin Disease?  Why didn't Geoff let the paramedics take him to hospital when they visited the house a few days before he died?  Why did the doctors jump to the conclusion he was suffering from Mononucleosis (Glandular Fever) in the face of his known history?  In my 59th year I am fully aware that there is no answer to the questions that begin with Why; only justifications.

When Geoff was barely a year old Robin and I met up with her sister, Maggie, in Maui.  We stayed in a unit right on Kaanapali Beach in a condo development named "Kaanapali Alii".  We all had a wonderful time and indulged Geoff in his love of water with days spent in the swimming pool and the ocean.  At times I've wondered if Geoff must have been born with set of gills as he loved so much being in the water .  Some of my fondest memories are of him at various stages of his life wading, swimming (for fun and competitively), body surfing, boogie boarding, water skiing or just walking along the beach. 

During this particular trip I remember vividly a bright, sunny morning we spent at the condo's beachfront pool. Geoff spent as much time in the water as we allowed between our constant admonishments of "Don't drink the water" because that's what he seemed compelled to do.   At the point where it was apparent he was nearly exhausted we decided to freshen up and head over to a Mexican restaurant (no longer in existence) in the nearby Whaler's Village, only a few steps from the condominium property.  Once we ordered our drinks and lunch the waiter presented the mandatory basket of tortilla chips and salsa.  Geoff (like most toddlers) loved the crisp and salty chips and made a habit of inserting them into his mouth like a factory worker on an assembly line; left, right, left, right, between parental instructions demanding a reduction in the speed at which he was consuming the appetizer.  Fellow diners would nod our way their approval of our way too cute son as they passed by our table or glanced in our direction from seats nearby.

As Robin, Maggie and I continued our conversation and sipped on our drinks the waiter appeared with our various orders and started distributing the meals to the appropriate diners.  Just as he deposited the last of the burritos, tostados and enchiladas on our table my son, Geoffrey John Loe, projected the entire chlorinated contents of his stomach in a dispersion pattern of 270 degrees directly over the just served food.

Amidst the chaos and cacophony that followed we gathered up our son, paid our bill and stumbled the few steps back to the condo in unbridled, hysterical laughter;  Although too young to accurately articulate his thoughts, the look on Geoff's face told us he was feeling much better now that he had ejected the pool water we previously suspected he was ingesting.  We put him down for a nap and most likely fixed ourselves peanut butter sandwiches in lieu of the Mexican feast that had now gone to waste.

I've been back to that beach in Maui numerous times since that trip 26 years ago and have walked by that property, pool and beach many, many times always with thoughts of Geoff in mind.  Mitzi and I were there in mid-September.  While packing for the trip I made sure I had a good portion of Geoff's cremains that are still in my possession with the intent of returning the physical manifestation of the vessel that held what was Geoff to the ocean in front of that property, pool and beach. 

On a bright, sunny morning I entered the water directly in front of the Kaanapali Alii condominium complex with my waterproof bag and its precious contents after gazing for some time at the calm ocean and the islands of Lanai and Molokai on the horizon.  I then swam 100 yards or so offshore and tread water while I distributed the volume of the bag in the ocean, returning this vestige of my son to an environment he loved so much.  Once I had determined that the bag was empty and completely rinsed clean I floated on my back for some period of time while observing the tropical clouds in an otherwise crystal clear sky, consumed by my thoughts of Geoff.  As I began my swim back to the beach I caught the outline of a sailboat in my periphery that was moored offshore near where I was swimming.  As I turned to get a better look the name of the vessel stared directly at me:  GEMINI.  Geoff's birthday is June 8.

Baby Smells and 9/11

Mitzi and I welcomed our 5th grandchild into the world on the 10th of July this year.  Thomas James Powell, the first offspring of Mitzi's son Tom and his wife Carrie, arrived with a handsome face, a roaring appetite and the biggest hands and feet I've ever seen on a baby.  Each of these attributes will no doubt serve him well.  As young Tommy completes his second month on this side of his mother's womb he has already successfully wrapped his paternal grandmother around his substantial finger.  Although Tom and Carrie live in Irvine, a couple of hours away, Mitzi has made a number of pilgrimages to spend time with the youngest Powell as often as she has been able.  Mitzi's love of her grandchildren that are progeny of my daughters, Carri and Candi is without doubt, but this is her first opportunity to bond with a "blood" grandchild.  "I can't believe how long the baby smell stays with me" she reconnoiters long after she has last spent time with young Tommy proving olfactory sensory theories that have long been proffered.  Its amazing to think what incredible things our brains do to preserve that which we hold dear.

The CBS television network ran a documentary on this the 10th anniversary of the terrorist attack on New York's World Trade Center and the Pentagon.  The film had originally been commissioned as a simple observation of the matriculation of one probationary fireman that joined the FDNY just prior to the senseless attack but following the law of unintended consequences became the only window most of us had to what exactly transpired inside the massive World Trade Center Towers that came crashing to earth that day along with our national sense of well being.  The incredible devastation and loss of life is indisputable.  The continuing negative impact on all our lives is not in question.  The ongoing collateral damage to those closest to Ground Zero is becoming clearer and clearer every day; psychological and physiological wounds fester and multiply even after 10 years have passed.  The loss of innocence and sense of security radiates throughout the free world.  The hauntingly beautiful memorial that has been erected in place of the footprint of those iconic structures that came tumbling down on that infamous day calls to all of us to visit, and pay our respects.

The incongruity of the thought of Mitzi and her attachment to the baby smell and the haunting memories of those closest to Ground Zero stimulates my own ever present conscious thoughts about the death of my son, Geoffrey, gone now nearly a year.  Can I remember the sweet smell of his presence when he was just a baby?  I think I can.  I can certainly hear him laugh; watch him run the bases on the baseball diamond; dance shamelessly without clothing in the backyard faucet on a hot summers day; stand in the doorway of the Four Points at Darling Harbour anticipating our embrace; hammer away relentlessly at whatever villain he was defeating on his Nintendo; pridefully order from the menu at his favorite Thai restaurant to make sure those closest to him shared his passion for ethnic foods.  Can't I?

Next to my bedside stands at attention a large green candle from the service we held in celebration of Geoff's life at Our Lady of Fatima Church in Kingsgrove, New South Wales on Wednesday, October 13, 2010.  Draped around the candle in a red velveteen bag is a lock of Geoff's hair.  I can't bring myself to open the bag to validate that, in fact, the mostly protein relic is still in tack but my heart tells me that if I did open the bag, the beautiful scent of my son would wash over me like the sweet essence of a newborn child.  Dare I?