6 October, 2011 was 365 Days since that fateful day; One year exactly. I mentally checked off calendar squares leading up to this date wondering what was in store. As every step of this journey has been, even the anniversary of Geoff's death is confusing. What is today in California is tomorrow in Australia. Yesterday in Sydney is my today. There was no confusion, however, when my smartphone told me it was 5:30 p.m. Wednesday afternoon Pacific Standard Time, that it was exactly one year since "The Call".
It's all fresh in my mind, still, I took the opportunity to revisit the details of those next devastating hours, days and weeks of a year gone by reading my own blog entries. I listened to the haunting music that was played at Geoff's service at Our Lady of Fatima in Kingsgrove. I poured over my mementos of Geoff (and my other children). I laughed with tears in my eyes at some of the silly things I've kept among my treasures while happy to have what I do and wishing I had more. I watched the slide presentation played at his wake. I viewed the DVD that compiles years of bad videography by Dad but in many places includes the unmistakable voice of my son that accompanies his precious image. I spoke with Robin and Melissa. I received and responded to a text from Joanne. Other important people in my life signaled their support in the various ways our electronic age allows.
I miss Geoff more than words can describe. I imagine him present when my intellectually knowing tells me he is not. I can't help myself from wondering what might have been. My instincts tell me Geoff would have been just as good a husband and father as he was a son, brother, nephew, cousin, friend. I'll never know and yet somehow I do.
Reflecting on those hazy days of a year gone by a few things stick in the forefront of my conscious mind:
Geoff's body lying in The Tazmanian Blackwood Timber Coffin at the WN Bull funeral home; cold, expressionless, unreal, diminutive, staged, empty.
My favorite memory of Geoff as an adult standing in the doorway of the guestroom at the Four Points Darling Harbour; happy, loving, expectant, carefree, handsome.
Geoff perched with a toy guitar on the staircase at the Lake Tahoe ski resort in California at perhaps 2 1/2 years of age singing "Born in the U.S.A." (yes, he was).
The strength, courage and kindness of everyone: family, friend, vendor, acquaintance during those dark days and the time since. Some of Geoffrey's closest friends put together a heartwarming memorial in the form of a booklet with photos of happy times and personal letters about their relationships. I was provided a copy by one of his good friends right about the time I was recovering from my surgery for tongue cancer in January. In every epistle the message was clear: Geoffrey had positively impacted their lives in some meaningful way. Typically, his mantra of positivity in all things left an indelible mark on their psyches combined with his love of art, music and food. In every case his friends chose to dwell on that which they will always have rather than the things they had no longer. It's a lesson I have been studying since.
Certain things that take place in my life are indicative of his spiritual presence. The most recent manifestation is a card I purchased for my daughter, Melissa, commemorating this anniversary. I chose this particular card from the hundreds available in the stationery store because of the beautiful ocean wave sculpture (albeit mass-produced) made of paper that frankly reminded me of Geoff and Melissa's love of the ocean and I told her so in the handwritten message. When Melissa received the card at her home in Canberra, ACT, Australia she sent me a text: "I just got home to your card in the mail box. The way those waves are drawn comes from a Japanese style of art. I had to recreate them for an art project in high school and Geoff helped me get the "swirls" right. Could never draw like he could explain! He's with us all the time." I never saw the drawing or heard the story before Melissa's text message.
One final awareness that struck me as I wrote the first few words of this entry. Wanting to believe there is a message in the numerology of the date of Geoffrey's passing I struggle to understand the message while knowing it exists: 6 October, 2010 is the 6th day of the 10th month of the 10th year of the millennium. 6+10+10=26. Geoffrey's age when he died was 26 and every year after for the next 90 years that calendar date will equal his age using the same formula.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Friday, September 30, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, September 12, 2011
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?
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?
Thursday, June 2, 2011
80th Birthdays and Dreams
I'm sitting in a restaurant with a business associate and over his shoulder I notice a large, round table with a number of people glancing in my direction: I recognize some of the diners at that table, some I don't. The faces that are familiar to me are from past associations; all people I have good memories about. As I continued my conversation with my business associate I was sub-consciously thinking I needed to go over to the other table to say hello to all these old friends. My business conversation seemed to take longer than I would have liked and when I finally extricated myself to greet these old friends they were no longer seated at the table. I hurried out to the parking lot quickly enough to see the departing figures - all walking away from where I was standing. One old friend turned to face me and wordlessly conveyed the message with her eyes that seemed to say "we waited as long as we could". I awoke and found it impossible to go back to sleep.
I made a trip to the Hill Country in Texas in May to spend my Mother's 80th birthday with her and my Dad. The weather was glorious, unusual by comparison to most May's when it has been known to be hot and sticky in this part of the world. On the Saturday I played 18 holes of golf with my Mom and my 2 brothers, Bob and David at the golf course we affectionately refer to as "Rock and Root Country Club" but known as QuickSand at Woodcreek by everyone else. Sunday afternoon saw a family dinner at brother David's home in the same community where my parents have lived for these past 20 plus years. David and his wife, Suzanne, bought the home near my parents just this last fall. I had buried some of Geoff's ashes deep in the 9th hole sandtrap that is just yards away from their new back yard when I was in the same little town for my Father's 80th birthday celebration in December. Suzanne says she tries her best to keep an eye out for Geoff, there, in what used to be a favorite playground. Brothers and sisters, wives and husbands, granddaughters and grandsons, nieces and nephews, sons and daughters gathered in my brother's home to eat the rib eye steaks so deftly grilled by David and enjoy the cake my sister, Barbara, provided from a special Austin baker. We sang "Happy Birthday" to Mom and we meant every word.
Earlier that Sunday I accompanied my Mother and Father to St. Mary's Catholic Church in Wimberley, Texas for Mass on what was the actual 80th anniversary of my Mother's birth . It did not escape me that the last time I had been in a church was Geoff's service at Our Lady of Fatima in Kingsgrove. The familiarity of all the details of this country building for public worship in which I had never set foot before caused me to draw parallels with the parish facility in New South Wales, albeit on a smaller scale, where I said goodbye to my son. The sameness is striking, if not in detail but in the general layout of the building, but I suppose that could be said of most Catholic Churches. My watery eyes were immediately drawn to the baptismal font and its obvious symbolism combined with the memories of Geoff's baptism and the still fresh details of the ceremony on 13 October, 2010. My mind wandered through most of the service, fixated on memories of that still unbelievable day but, of course, that's a now familiar path for my thoughts.
Robin and I made a number of trips to visit my parents in Wimberley beginning in the early 80's with just Geoff until Melissa was born and then the two. Candi and Carri would come along but not every time. We would commandeer the "golf cottage" adjacent to the 9th tee box that was used mostly as a rental after my parents had moved full time into their retirement home above the 4th green and were trying to decide what to do with the house that was previously their weekender. Geoff had a talent for striking round objects with long sticks and his favorite adventure involving golf clubs was to dump as many balls as he could locate into the sand trap adjacent to the 9th green and attempt to extricate them with the sawed off golf club my Dad had fashioned. Once the well used balls were all freed from the gritty bunker he would gather them up and return them to the sand and repeat the process more than once. I have a memory of Geoff beginning this routine at an age when he was hardly 2 years; there he was, taking mighty whacks at the shag balls, with his diaper hanging quite low. As with most things, he had a talent for becoming particularly accomplished at the task before he was willing to give it a rest. I've probably played that 9th hole at least 100 times and every time I approach the tee box I've thought of that little blond boy deftly knocking ball after ball out of the greenside bunker. I assumed we would compete on that hole one day, Father and Son, just as my Dad and I had many times before, and perhaps a still younger version of Geoff beginning the cycle anew. How naive I was.
Monday morning found my Mother and me taking a hike along a newly built footpath from just outside the community in which they live to the "Blue Hole" located some 3 miles away. 20 odd years ago the Blue Hole was a quintessential deep in the woods swimming hole complete with well worn tires hanging from large trees by ropes in such a manner as to provide a swinging entry into the cool water from various heights and degrees of safety. The local emergency medical facilities made a good business out of patching up those swimmers who mistimed their jumps or hung on a little too long. Geoff and I made a few pilgrimages on the well worn path to the Blue Hole with his Mother, Aunts and Uncles and had great fun avoiding any serious injuries. In those days the Blue Hole was open to all who dared; some years later what was thought to be the landowner started charging a small fee for admission and now the city has acquired the facility and is "improving" the area with plenty of parking lots, concrete, asphalt, lighting and picnic benches. You can't improve perfect.
I made a trip to the Hill Country in Texas in May to spend my Mother's 80th birthday with her and my Dad. The weather was glorious, unusual by comparison to most May's when it has been known to be hot and sticky in this part of the world. On the Saturday I played 18 holes of golf with my Mom and my 2 brothers, Bob and David at the golf course we affectionately refer to as "Rock and Root Country Club" but known as QuickSand at Woodcreek by everyone else. Sunday afternoon saw a family dinner at brother David's home in the same community where my parents have lived for these past 20 plus years. David and his wife, Suzanne, bought the home near my parents just this last fall. I had buried some of Geoff's ashes deep in the 9th hole sandtrap that is just yards away from their new back yard when I was in the same little town for my Father's 80th birthday celebration in December. Suzanne says she tries her best to keep an eye out for Geoff, there, in what used to be a favorite playground. Brothers and sisters, wives and husbands, granddaughters and grandsons, nieces and nephews, sons and daughters gathered in my brother's home to eat the rib eye steaks so deftly grilled by David and enjoy the cake my sister, Barbara, provided from a special Austin baker. We sang "Happy Birthday" to Mom and we meant every word.
Earlier that Sunday I accompanied my Mother and Father to St. Mary's Catholic Church in Wimberley, Texas for Mass on what was the actual 80th anniversary of my Mother's birth . It did not escape me that the last time I had been in a church was Geoff's service at Our Lady of Fatima in Kingsgrove. The familiarity of all the details of this country building for public worship in which I had never set foot before caused me to draw parallels with the parish facility in New South Wales, albeit on a smaller scale, where I said goodbye to my son. The sameness is striking, if not in detail but in the general layout of the building, but I suppose that could be said of most Catholic Churches. My watery eyes were immediately drawn to the baptismal font and its obvious symbolism combined with the memories of Geoff's baptism and the still fresh details of the ceremony on 13 October, 2010. My mind wandered through most of the service, fixated on memories of that still unbelievable day but, of course, that's a now familiar path for my thoughts.
Robin and I made a number of trips to visit my parents in Wimberley beginning in the early 80's with just Geoff until Melissa was born and then the two. Candi and Carri would come along but not every time. We would commandeer the "golf cottage" adjacent to the 9th tee box that was used mostly as a rental after my parents had moved full time into their retirement home above the 4th green and were trying to decide what to do with the house that was previously their weekender. Geoff had a talent for striking round objects with long sticks and his favorite adventure involving golf clubs was to dump as many balls as he could locate into the sand trap adjacent to the 9th green and attempt to extricate them with the sawed off golf club my Dad had fashioned. Once the well used balls were all freed from the gritty bunker he would gather them up and return them to the sand and repeat the process more than once. I have a memory of Geoff beginning this routine at an age when he was hardly 2 years; there he was, taking mighty whacks at the shag balls, with his diaper hanging quite low. As with most things, he had a talent for becoming particularly accomplished at the task before he was willing to give it a rest. I've probably played that 9th hole at least 100 times and every time I approach the tee box I've thought of that little blond boy deftly knocking ball after ball out of the greenside bunker. I assumed we would compete on that hole one day, Father and Son, just as my Dad and I had many times before, and perhaps a still younger version of Geoff beginning the cycle anew. How naive I was.
Monday morning found my Mother and me taking a hike along a newly built footpath from just outside the community in which they live to the "Blue Hole" located some 3 miles away. 20 odd years ago the Blue Hole was a quintessential deep in the woods swimming hole complete with well worn tires hanging from large trees by ropes in such a manner as to provide a swinging entry into the cool water from various heights and degrees of safety. The local emergency medical facilities made a good business out of patching up those swimmers who mistimed their jumps or hung on a little too long. Geoff and I made a few pilgrimages on the well worn path to the Blue Hole with his Mother, Aunts and Uncles and had great fun avoiding any serious injuries. In those days the Blue Hole was open to all who dared; some years later what was thought to be the landowner started charging a small fee for admission and now the city has acquired the facility and is "improving" the area with plenty of parking lots, concrete, asphalt, lighting and picnic benches. You can't improve perfect.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Facebook Friend
"Geoffrey is Unavailable" so says his Facebook page when I hover the mouse over his name and the circular"chat" icon there. No shit, I think to myself. But then there is his photo where he is slouched on the sofa in the living room, staring right at me, daring me to make the message pop up one more time, right next to his name and the icon.
These technological tools can be cruel. I don't have a clue how to take down his page, not that I really want to since it lets me connect with vague vestiges of my son whenever I want. Occasionally I am called to check his page, by whom or what I cannot know and it makes all the memories and emotions flood back into my consciousness. Can this be a good thing? I wonder in self-interrogation.
Through my laptop I can connect to pieces of Geoff. His house music mixes are still out there in the ether, waiting for anyone to listen. Old emails, mostly trivial stuff, can be reviewed. I'm sure if I wanted, I could send him a new one, but I know I won't get a response and not because he is too preoccupied. He no longer tweets, although most of those escaped my understanding and always seemed a bit rude.
The mother (Carol Glenn) of my son-in-law, Shawn Duke, died on the first day of April this year at 65 years of age. She had been waiting for months for a new liver, even got to #1 on the transplant list at UCLA but never got the chance to see if that operation could save her life. Shawn related so clearly at her touching memorial service what it meant to lose someone you love so much, that you cared so much about that in spite of whatever difficulties there were in the relationship, whatever upset there may have been in the too short of a lifetime spent together that he would gladly go through all of those challenges again to be able to experience one more day with his mother. That's a bargain I would make in a second, to have one more day with my son. Maybe I should post it on his wall?
These technological tools can be cruel. I don't have a clue how to take down his page, not that I really want to since it lets me connect with vague vestiges of my son whenever I want. Occasionally I am called to check his page, by whom or what I cannot know and it makes all the memories and emotions flood back into my consciousness. Can this be a good thing? I wonder in self-interrogation.
Through my laptop I can connect to pieces of Geoff. His house music mixes are still out there in the ether, waiting for anyone to listen. Old emails, mostly trivial stuff, can be reviewed. I'm sure if I wanted, I could send him a new one, but I know I won't get a response and not because he is too preoccupied. He no longer tweets, although most of those escaped my understanding and always seemed a bit rude.
The mother (Carol Glenn) of my son-in-law, Shawn Duke, died on the first day of April this year at 65 years of age. She had been waiting for months for a new liver, even got to #1 on the transplant list at UCLA but never got the chance to see if that operation could save her life. Shawn related so clearly at her touching memorial service what it meant to lose someone you love so much, that you cared so much about that in spite of whatever difficulties there were in the relationship, whatever upset there may have been in the too short of a lifetime spent together that he would gladly go through all of those challenges again to be able to experience one more day with his mother. That's a bargain I would make in a second, to have one more day with my son. Maybe I should post it on his wall?
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Six Months Gone
Does it get any easier? In most every way, no. Having had these past 6 months to reflect on the what might have beens and the why didn't I questions I find myself feeling awfully inadequate and foolish. Before 6 October, 2010 I had all the answers; now I have none.
182 days have passed since that fateful phone call. 175 since the service at Our Lady of Fatima. Not one minute, though, without the memory of my son burning in my brain. Yet, I know I am not alone with these thoughts and feelings. His mother, sisters, girlfriend, grandparents, uncles and aunts, nieces, nephews and cousins along with Geoff's many friends and co-workers have expressed similar feelings. It wasn't supposed to be this way. There was going to be a long lifetime of visits and get togethers, accomplishments, events and milestones. I saw it in my mind's eye. I had no doubt. I was wrong.
I've read and re-read the autopsy report. I've requested and been provided additional opinions on the information and conclusions of the examiners. I've scoured the internet and spoken with doctors in Australia and California performing my amateur freelance medical investigation and found no reward for my effort. There is no answer as to the why. There's no comfort in hearing that the doctors didn't know Geoff had been stricken with Lymphoma for a second time; that their years of training and practice didn't provide them with the knowledge to anticipate this recurrence of the cancer or the ability to arrest the malignancy even if they had found it.
For every thing we know it's now obvious to me there is a huge imbalance with that which we do not. I've spent my life gathering facts, devouring printed words, listening to other's opinions and can only now conclude that maybe I wasn't really paying attention as well as I might have believed. The lessons I thought I learned were perhaps not those that were being taught. Many things I used to think important seem trivial in retrospect. I want my son back. I want another chance to be a better father to him. But that will never be. It's a lesson I've only learned too well.
182 days have passed since that fateful phone call. 175 since the service at Our Lady of Fatima. Not one minute, though, without the memory of my son burning in my brain. Yet, I know I am not alone with these thoughts and feelings. His mother, sisters, girlfriend, grandparents, uncles and aunts, nieces, nephews and cousins along with Geoff's many friends and co-workers have expressed similar feelings. It wasn't supposed to be this way. There was going to be a long lifetime of visits and get togethers, accomplishments, events and milestones. I saw it in my mind's eye. I had no doubt. I was wrong.
I've read and re-read the autopsy report. I've requested and been provided additional opinions on the information and conclusions of the examiners. I've scoured the internet and spoken with doctors in Australia and California performing my amateur freelance medical investigation and found no reward for my effort. There is no answer as to the why. There's no comfort in hearing that the doctors didn't know Geoff had been stricken with Lymphoma for a second time; that their years of training and practice didn't provide them with the knowledge to anticipate this recurrence of the cancer or the ability to arrest the malignancy even if they had found it.
For every thing we know it's now obvious to me there is a huge imbalance with that which we do not. I've spent my life gathering facts, devouring printed words, listening to other's opinions and can only now conclude that maybe I wasn't really paying attention as well as I might have believed. The lessons I thought I learned were perhaps not those that were being taught. Many things I used to think important seem trivial in retrospect. I want my son back. I want another chance to be a better father to him. But that will never be. It's a lesson I've only learned too well.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Lucky
I know when most people think of being lucky they think of something good they didn't expect. Probably for the same reason most gamblers play the "pass" line in craps and most stock investors don't "short" the stock market, luck is something the majority chooses to believe only happens in a good way. In fact, Webster's defines the word "lucky" as "having good luck". But there is another kind of luck and it gets doled out in equal amounts, I presume. We are taught that in our universe, for every action there is an opposite and equal reaction, according to Sir Isaac Newton and his law of motion. How this translates into the application of luck for any given person may not be so definable or applied in the same way but sometimes I wonder. Do good and bad luck accrue in equal amounts to everyone? Or, does the totality of bad luck get offset by good luck in balancing the universe without respect to any individual?
You can't measure luck; at least I don't think you can. If it's my bad luck that my TV blew up and cost me $500 to be repaired does that get offset by a single $2 winning lotto ticket? After all, its one bad luck event and then one good. Or could I expect to have an equal amount of winning lottery tickets over my lifetime to offset the cost of the TV repair? It's a ridiculous concept, I agree, trying to balance a TV repair with winning lotto tickets but we make these kinds of bargains with ourselves continuously.
Luck has been defined by some as "when preparedness meets opportunity" in trying to describe what it's like when you, perhaps, make your own luck. Now that's not really luck based on that definition, is it? But luck is defined in the eye of the beholder. Consider a baseball game where one father's son is pitching and different father's son is the batter. Both players are among the best on their respective teams. In the last inning, the batter strikes out looking at the game's final pitch. The father of the batter that struck out could rationalize that the pitcher got "lucky" sneaking a fastball by his accomplished son but I doubt the pitcher's father would see it the same way; he would perceive that the strikeout was the product of years of playing catch with his son in the backyard, thousands of dollars of private pitching lessons and hard work and dedication on the part of his offspring.
Is it luck that is in play when a young person dedicates himself to their studies and then gets a scholarship to a prestigious university? Some may perceive it to be so but I doubt the young student would see it that way. I suppose luck is one of the terms we use to attempt to explain that which is unexplainable, in the mind of the individual. Certain events take place in our lives and since we are unable to conjure the reason we can only rationalize that they are the result of good luck or perhaps bad.
My own challenges these last few years, as the readers of these pages can understand, find me debating the relative lucky quotient in my life. Foremost on my luck scorecard: I developed Lymphoma in 1998 (bad luck) but I was cured (good luck). My son, Geoff, developed Hodgkin Disease in 2007 (bad luck) but was thought to be cured in 2008 (good luck). In 2010 Geoff died from a rapidly developing Lymphoma that was undiagnosed (really, really bad luck). Later that same year I was diagnosed with Squamous Cell Carcinoma in my tongue (bad luck) but I have been pronounced "cured" after major surgery and an uneventful recovery (good luck). Try as I might, I am unable to find or understand the reason these things have occurred so they must be attributable to luck; It would be a relief to be able to think so but, alas, it's not the way my brain works. I'm going to have to figure it all out.
You can't measure luck; at least I don't think you can. If it's my bad luck that my TV blew up and cost me $500 to be repaired does that get offset by a single $2 winning lotto ticket? After all, its one bad luck event and then one good. Or could I expect to have an equal amount of winning lottery tickets over my lifetime to offset the cost of the TV repair? It's a ridiculous concept, I agree, trying to balance a TV repair with winning lotto tickets but we make these kinds of bargains with ourselves continuously.
Luck has been defined by some as "when preparedness meets opportunity" in trying to describe what it's like when you, perhaps, make your own luck. Now that's not really luck based on that definition, is it? But luck is defined in the eye of the beholder. Consider a baseball game where one father's son is pitching and different father's son is the batter. Both players are among the best on their respective teams. In the last inning, the batter strikes out looking at the game's final pitch. The father of the batter that struck out could rationalize that the pitcher got "lucky" sneaking a fastball by his accomplished son but I doubt the pitcher's father would see it the same way; he would perceive that the strikeout was the product of years of playing catch with his son in the backyard, thousands of dollars of private pitching lessons and hard work and dedication on the part of his offspring.
Is it luck that is in play when a young person dedicates himself to their studies and then gets a scholarship to a prestigious university? Some may perceive it to be so but I doubt the young student would see it that way. I suppose luck is one of the terms we use to attempt to explain that which is unexplainable, in the mind of the individual. Certain events take place in our lives and since we are unable to conjure the reason we can only rationalize that they are the result of good luck or perhaps bad.
My own challenges these last few years, as the readers of these pages can understand, find me debating the relative lucky quotient in my life. Foremost on my luck scorecard: I developed Lymphoma in 1998 (bad luck) but I was cured (good luck). My son, Geoff, developed Hodgkin Disease in 2007 (bad luck) but was thought to be cured in 2008 (good luck). In 2010 Geoff died from a rapidly developing Lymphoma that was undiagnosed (really, really bad luck). Later that same year I was diagnosed with Squamous Cell Carcinoma in my tongue (bad luck) but I have been pronounced "cured" after major surgery and an uneventful recovery (good luck). Try as I might, I am unable to find or understand the reason these things have occurred so they must be attributable to luck; It would be a relief to be able to think so but, alas, it's not the way my brain works. I'm going to have to figure it all out.
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