Like the tide

When the hunky scientist and I went to Hawaii last November, there was a tsunami warning midway through our trip. It ruined a day of boogie boarding for us, but we did get a chance to see a remarkable thing: As we sat at a table near the shore, we could watch the sea retreat far past its normal low-tide mark, then come washing back to over-fill the cove. Yesterday I learned grief can be like that. During the night before I felt all emotion ebbing away, sinking into the crevices of my mind and heart and leaving me curiously disquieted and gray. The next morning, it came flooding back in a tide of sadness that seemed to cover everything. Fortunately, the next retreat was to a normal emotional level, and here it remains. For the moment.

Uh oh. A deadline.

I went to my first writer's group meeting last night. At the end, I volunteered to offer up something for the next meeting. This fills me with amusement and dread. Amusement because I have no works of fiction to present. Dread because I have to work something up quickly. But it's not as though my life has been lacking in material. I'd better get busy.
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I've been singing again, and that reminds me of my mother. I sing songs she liked, standards like "Cry Me A River" and "The Very Thought of You," and numbers that just make me think of her and our old life, like "This Old Porch" by Lyle Lovette and "Still Crazy After All These Years" by Simon and Garfunkle. I sing songs my father played for me when I was a child, and I sing songs my parents never sang, songs from my madrigal days. I sing with my singer's spirit of a voice that nobody will ever know about because I was too shy a teenager to take it on the road. I sing a memory of my mother and my father, sing a portrait of us, and my singing builds melodies as bright and strong, fragile and brief as the lives we all spend here together.

Completely different news

The hunky scientist proposed marriage to me on Sunday, and I said yes, of course. He's been getting hunkier lately, thanks to increased bike riding and weight lifting, and I figured if I didn't say yes that some other broad would grab him. The only bummer in the thing is that now I have this gorgeous, sparkly symbol of attachment and he's still running around out there lookin' all buff, tan, and single. Maybe I'll invent the first man's engagement ring. It'll be a thick platinum band that's engraved on the outside with the words "Too late, ladies!" All joking aside, I'm thrilled; my heart is content. And I'm happy, too, that neither of us wants a big, showy wedding. We just want to be married and have a nice time with our friends and family.
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Next week I'm going to attend a writer's group for the first time. Should be interesting and fun. I'll report back.
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On the grief front, I'm sleeping better this week, though work is kicking my butt and stressing me out (that's why I haven't posted in a little while).

Sorting through 70 years

Our home is on the market. It's been cleaned, painted and manicured. One-third of the furniture is still in the rooms, placed just so for staging. And nearly all my mother's framed watercolors are on the walls. Everything else, the contents of two people's 70 years, along with the flotsam of five children's lives, was stashed out in the garage in the rush to get the house ready for the summer market. Our mission this week was to go through everything in the garage and disperse it or label it for sale. It's a large garage. And it had never (seriously. NEVER.) been cleaned out before, and now nearly the entire contents of the house were out there, too.

Everyone told me this was going to be a difficult week. "It'll be so emotional," they said. And it has. But not in the way everyone expected. The main emotion I felt during the whole week was "How could anyone accumulate so much useless STUFF?" Every No. 2 pencil in the county of Santa Barbara seems to have made its way to my mother and father's house, where (it seems) they were certain to find safe harbor. Baskets, too, found shelter at our little East Side home. If you've mailed anything to my parents, chances are good that the box and its packing material were saved for eventual re-use but are, as of this week, reposing in the recycling bin. And in the back of the garage, every can of paint, turpentine, spackel, and cleaning fluid my dad had ever used (partially or fully) sat waiting for us on their shelves under at least a quarter inch of accumulated dust. They're now stacked in a mighty, rusty drift beside the back fence, awaiting transport to the hazmat waste site.

On the bright side, my mother also kept every calendar she ever used. I'll go through those and read the chronicles of her days before I consign them to the recycler. She kept every card, letter, and note we ever wrote her; books we composed in 3rd grade (one grabby title penned by my cousin, then about 8: "The Mouse Who Was Tired of Living in a Hole"); pictures we crayoned or painted. She kept diaries. She saved vital records. She rescued personal memorabilia from my father, whose preference was to erase the evidence of his existence behind himself as he moved forward through his life.

And so we've had surprises as we've opened dusty boxes. There have been many "awwwww" moments, but no tears. All this week I have also kept up working for my day job, which has kept me going until midnight every night and up early every morning to make up for the afternoon hours spent in the garage. Call me stubborn, but I just can't take vacation time to do this work. I'll need real vacation time later. And later I'll linger over the things I have asked to take home, like the red fleece throw I found. I don't really love that throw, but my mother did and I found when I put it next to my cheek that it still smelled like her perfume. When I inhaled, it felt like my mother was standing next to me. Later, when that scent has faded, will I keep that throw? I can't say. But from what I keep I'll compose scrap books. Later, I'll deliver slides to be converted to photo files and photos to be duplicated and mailed. I'll turn in old cassette tapes of my mother's singing to be made into CDs to share with her friends and our family. All those things wait to be done. But tonight I just want to decompress. This week it's been just a long and often gritty slog, punctuated by screaming nieces and sibling politics, and I can't wait to go home.

That weird girl at the gym

I was in the gym yesterday, jogging on the treadmill and wondering when my body was going to relax so I could stop feeling like The Thing, who shakes the ground with every running stride. I was listening to my favorite music on my headphones, probably way too loud for my health, when I started crying. Right there in the aerobic room. Because it occurred to me that I could have played music for my mom as she lay dying in the early morning hours. I read that the last sense to leave is hearing. She loved music. I could have made her last hours a little easier. These are the kinds of thoughts that ambush me when I'm having an otherwise sensible day. I didn't stop running, because the sight of a woman in the gym, standing there on the treadmill crying, would be just way too weird. So I kept running and thinking. Few of us know anything about how to help someone who's dying. We just struggle to do the best we can. If we've called in Hospice, their volunteers seem to us to be pillars of knowledge. I wish I'd volunteered with Hospice while my mom was healthy, because I would have been a much better caregiver in later years if I had. But it never occurred to me to do that. Why would I want to be around dying people? Bad excuse: we are all people who are going to die. And Hospice trains its volunteers. I guess the point is that like Israeli citizens and the army, everyone should do a stint as a Hospice volunteer. Because then we'd be a better-armed nation of citizens.

Baking as therapy

Today is the hunky scientist's birthday. I have robbed the pram; he is eight years younger than I am. So I had no pity the other morning when he looked in the bathroom mirror and commented that he was starting to show his age. I love birthdays. He got his main birthday present a month or so ago (a watch). But I couldn't resist getting some comedy club tickets for tonight. Also, it's understood that I'll bake him whatever kind of birthday cake he wants. To say my boyfriend loves cake would be to call Niagara Falls a brook. My boyfriend adores cake with a passion that is endearing. When he eats cake, icing gets on his face. So I was looking forward to baking something multilayered with filling and a glaze or fluffy icing. But this year, he pointed out a recipe for cherry ricotta strudel in Bon Appetit and said "You can me me that" with hopeful, shiny eyes. Cakes I can do. Strudel I never have. Turns out strudel is a complex project. I started out last night with the dough--it's made with oil rather than butter and has to be refrigerated at least a day. And two pounds of large-curd ricotta cheese had to be drained overnight too, then squeezed out in a kitchen towel this morning.

After breakfast (pancakes with peanut butter and maple syrup for THS; I topped mine with fruit) I pitted 3 pounds of cherries and then set them soaking in a syrup of sugar, lemon juice and cointreau. Then I mixed the ricotta with butter and sugar, eggs and grated citrus peel. After that the recipe called for browning bread crumbs in a skillet with butter and mixing those with a bit more sugar. Finally, it was time to put the whole thing together. Strudel dough is made from oil so you can roll it very thin and stretch the heck out of it. A dough made from only 1.5 cups of flower rolls out to the size of a large kitchen towel! I stretched it until it was very thin, then brushed it with butter, topped that with the bread crumbs, made a log out of the ricotta filling along one side, then put the drained cherries on top of that. When I rolled it up, it looked like a huge banana slug. Now it's in the oven baking and the house smells like a birthday. As I type, I'm watching kids and dogs play in the park across the street. My heart is light.

Talk, write, exercise

Grief can make a person's mind do very strange things. For me, the last few days have been an exercise in keeping it together. I forget nearly everything if I don't write it down. I've resorted to entering calendar items in my phone on the spot if I tell someone I'll meet them or promise anyone anything. If I don't calendar it right away, I forget it. I send myself emails reminding myself to look at my calendar, to be sure I've met deliverables on certain projects at work, water the plants, call my brother, make my boyfriend a dessert for his birthday. I adore celebrating birthdays and ordinarily I'd never forget something like that. But I'm terrified I will. I feel as though I have brain damage. I'm still only getting 3 to 4 hours of sleep a night. I'm trying not to use Ambien and will ask my doctor about a non-addictive sleep aid. Meanwhile I've decided to follow the advice of a friend and start exercising daily in an effort to exhaust myself naturally. I had a visit with my company's very competent EAP guy today and after he listened a while he reminded me that it's early days in my grief process and that it might be helpful to cultivate some patience. "It's only been a month," he said. I looked at him for a minute, counting back and confirming. 32 days. It's really only been a month. I can't sleep, but I keep waiting to wake up. "It feels like it's been forever," I replied. He made me an appointment for short-term counseling with a psych and referred me to a Hospice grief support group. Then he gave me a prescription: "Talk, talk, talk. Write, write, write. And exercise."

Adrift in the night

When I was a very young child, my father spun vinyl and called the tunes at a radio station in Santa Barbara. Every day I'd walk home from first grade, come into the living room, and sit facing our big old stereo console. At 3 p.m. sharp, Dad would play me a Simon & Garfunkel song. He liked to play me "Cloudy" or "April Come She Will." The radio station that almost always plays in my mind has been turning that one lately:

April come she will
when streams are ripe and swelled with rain
May she will stay
resting in my arms again
June she'll change her tune
in restless walks she'll prowl the night
July she will fly
and give no warning to her flight...

My mind prowls the nights these days. It won't shut off and sleep rarely comes without medicinal aid. The two people whose DNA combined to make mine are gone and I am left with piles of memories and knee-jerk urges to lift the phone and call them. Small wonder part of me wishes I were where they are, if just for an hour or so, so we could talk. So I could see for myself them there together, happy, to confirm my imagination. But there will be no flying for me. I am at home here among the living, with my friends and my love and whatever my future will bring, as at home here as they are, there where they are.

Significant Sunday

It's my 45th Mother's Day, my first without a mother. The hunky scientist is off on his weekly mountain bike ride and I would go to church, but everyone will be there with their mothers. Every member who has a mom within driving distance brings them to our church on Mother's Day, whether or not they are only C&E (Christmas and Easter) attendees otherwise. After the liturgy, instead of the usual coffee hour, there's a big Mother's Day luncheon. I'm not feeling sorry for myself (OK, yes I am); I'm just more protective of my feelings than to subject myself to a whole churchload of people celebrating their living moms.

Today, we're having a sports-nut pal over to eat pizza and watch the Warriors trounce Utah (with any luck). I've been dealing with a little problem I hope all this activity will sweep away for a while: no matter what I am doing or thinking, for long periods there is an image in my mind of my mother, sick in bed, struggling for breath, or of her face just after she'd died. I struggle to counteract this image with one of her alive, healthy, and happy, but that just ends up another layer of thought over the one that won't go away. Today is a day to celebrate our mothers. I don't want to think of her sick or dead. Not at all. I want to think of her on all the Mothers Days I can remember--enduring the awful burnt or underdone (sometimes both) pancakes and scorched coffee we made for her when we were in grade school, proudly displaying all the flowers we picked for her or later bought, displaying our cards on the mantel over the dining room fireplace. I have 44 Mothers Days to remember with joy and I'm determined to do that. So happy Mother's Day to my mom. Happy Mother's Day to us all.

Blinders off

I've had a strange urge these last few days to undergo "a rigid search," as character Alex put it in the book and movie "Everything is Illuminated." Grief has a way of putting soft and sentimental shades over my eyes, preventing me from seeing things as I did in the past. I have a strong sense of duty to examine my memories of my mother and me, and remember everything--not just the good things, but every aspect of my relationship with her--so I can retain a whole and true image of her and her impact on my life. And so, slowly, I've begun turning pebbles over and scrutinizing what lies beneath them. I did this literally as a child, when all the world was a museum. After a rain, I'd go out and roll logs back and tip up wide stones. Underneath I'd find pearly clusters of amphibian eggs, gorgeous purple and yellow salamanders, whip-thin newts frozen for seconds before flight to other, as-yet-unturned sanctuaries. Other times I'd discover spiders' nests, dry and safe from the wet world around their stony havens, and the sight of those twitch-legged creatures would make the soles of my feet feel jumpy. I'd put the rocks or logs gently but swiftly back down and continue on my search for comelier wildlife. Now, I think it's time to look at the spiders as well as the salamanders, to see what I can learn from both their worlds.

Grief 2.0

Because I don't like writing things twice, here's an excerpt of an email I sent my mother's sister, who'd written to ask how I was doing:

"I'm OK. Pretty down, actually, and so (I've noticed) is Frank. We sprinkled Mom's and Dad's ashes out in the channel this morning from a catameran called Double Dolphin. I sang part of the Greek Orthodox memorial prayer, and John said a really moving poem he wrote. Before we left, Frank and I picked flower petals from the garden, and we all threw handfuls of them onto the swell as we let the ashes go. It made a really beautiful sight on the water--a yellow and pink and purple and blue floating trail."

I spent the rest of the day in a horrible funk. But I worked for a while, and then I went and got my aunt from her hotel and we went down to a beachside restaurant and drank wine and watched the tide come in and the sun go down and weary families come in from the sand. My aunt said I haven't begun grieving. She has her opinions. I didn't bother to correct her; I didn't have the energy. I know I did so much crying while my mom was declining that I have few tears left now. I suspect most people who meet me on the street can't discern that anything is wrong.

But while I'm not visibly grieving, I'm finding I'm easily stressed, I'm sensitive to noise or too much stimulus of any kind. I feel as though the bones of my spirit have been cored free of marrow and I'm waiting for an infusion of new emotions. In the meantime, I may go through my days looking and acting as though nothing is wrong, or as though I'm mildly stressed or fatigued, or, at the worst, short-tempered. I may engage in deep-thought discussion, I may go to museums and admire views and laugh at jokes and have dinner with friends. But inside I'm carrying a deep hollowness, and the scary thing is that I don't know when it will fill back in. Maybe the filling-in is accomplished day by day, with each new experience. Or perhaps one day I'll wake up and the empty space will be gone. Part of me is afraid to show this part of me; that if I walk through life visibly wounded I'll somehow end up left all alone. But I have a hunch that part of healing is letting my loved ones in, and so I take up my courage and write.

This morning as the sun rose I took the plastic box that held the bag of my mother's ashes, as well as the empty bag, out to the garden. Fine, light dust clung to the insides of these things, and so I couldn't just discard them. I set them down on the brick pathway my mom and brother once worked hard to set in, turned on the pale-green hose and rinsed each article three times in the cool stream, emptying the water and dust into the big citrus tree pots and over the bright orange nasturtiums and pale pink alstromeria. Only then could I consider the box and the bags as just those things, things that had served their purpose and could be thrown away.

Away with the current and the tide

Tomorrow at 10, we'll depart the Santa Barbara marina on a boat called Condor and chug 20 minutes out into the channel. There we will scatter my mother's ashes and let the wind and current take them. I picked up the ashes today. They are in a plastic box that could be mistaken for a container for better-quality shoes. They are very heavy. Frank asked that we collect flower petals from each part of our front and back yard, and scatter them with the ashes. He said that would be "most appropriate." So I'll wake him up tomorrow around 8, and we'll go out before the dew has dried and fill some bags with fragrant rose and lavender. My Aunt Rose, my dad's sister and a good friend of my mother's, asked if we could say a prayer. She's Greek Orthodox, so I know she means the memorial prayer that the priest sings at a person's funeral and at certain anniversaries of their death. It's the only prayer she'd know and it's touching that she's want it said, even though my mother was not Orthodox. I'm not a priest, but I know how to sing the haunting and beautiful memorial. It begins: Evlogitos, ei Kyrie, didaxon me ta dikaiomata sou. I'll say an abbreviated version, because I am the only Greek Orthodox in my immediate family, and my brothers and sisters would probably get impatient with the full-length version.

Even though I'm fairly recently baptized in the Orthodox faith (5 years ago or so now), I find it very difficult that I will not be able to have a 40-day memorial for my mother in the church. I'll have to sing it myself, somewhere privately, in front of a candle to remember her by. Yet even as I write these words, I find them strange. I was non-religious for most of my life (and my mom was for all of her life), and now here I am troubled that I cannot ask my priest to sing my mother's memorial.

Life is a strange and beautiful thing.

Aftermath

I was able to officiate my mom's memorial without losing my composure altogether. In fact, I was cool as a stream until I stepped in front of the assembled. But the moment I started talking, I felt my throat start to close up, and I needed a kleenex. After a few deep breaths, though, I was able to continue. Her jazz vocalist friend Sandy sang one of Mom's favorite tunes, "Do Nothing 'Til You Hear From Me." My younger brother gave a eulogy filled with vivid memories of our childhood with Mom and of her more recent life. He got a few tearful chuckles out of everyone and then more tears. Then we asked another longtime family friend to come up and play. Al, a jazz pianest, sat at our dinner table many times while I was growing up, and he accompanied my mom on countless occasions both at gigs of hers and when she sat in where he was playing. He gave a soulful rendition of "Over the Rainbow." And our city's poet laureate, who became another of my mom's close friends when they met at a widows and widowers support group, spoke eloquently on behalf of them.

For the record, the memorial was open-casket as it had been for my dad. The body did not look like my mom. At my dad's funeral, his body looked like he was just taking a nap. But for this occasion the mortitian gave my mom's face an expression and color that made it look like it was a cousin of hers in that casket. So after the initial glance, I didn't look again. Her body was cremated today. We'll receive her ashes tomorrow and on Thursday we'll take a boat out into the channel and scatter them, along with my dad's and some handfuls of rose petals and lavender, into the swift-moving current. I'm not feeling much about that, for some reason. I'm not feeling much about anything, except a strong longing for about a year off. Everyone tells me that after a while the grieving will start, or that at the holidays I'll be hit with waves of sadness. I don't know.

Now there is paperwork to do. Now there are closets to go through, bills to keep paying, investment decisions to make, so many practical things to take care of. We'll start the first weekend in June, so I have a month back in the Bay Area with my sweetheart. I'm looking forward to that.

Friday morning

I'm up late again, assembling playlists for the memorial that's happening day after tomorrow... I guess really it's happening tomorrow, since it's early Friday and not late Thursday. Anway...I've been importing my mom's CDs into my iTunes library and creating two playlists--one for the memorial and one for the reception. This whole week has been a whirl of activity. I've had no time to feel anything, except in the morning when I wake up. I remember my mother saying that there were times during her illness when she'd wake up feeling great. She'd lay there in the magic of early morning, thinking normal morning thoughts: "What shall I do with my day?" and feel a thrill that all was well. She'd get up and turn on the heater, get the paper and start the coffee, feed the cats and then feel all her energy drain right out of her. She'd have to go back to bed before her day had rightfully begun. It demoralized her so.

My mornings this week have had a similar timbre: I awaken in my old room, in my old neighborhood, thinking old early-day thoughts about drinking coffee and reading the paper with my mom. And then of course I remember I can't do that and a melancholy fog steals across the landscape of my spirit. And so I get up and check the list of things to do that day. Yesterday I approved the proof of the program for the memorial, then came home and started scrubbing every room of the house. This place is neater and cleaner even than when my mom was healthy, because then she was too busy living to keep a spotless house. It was neat and clean, but coupons and cut-out articles, old wooden clothes pins, water bottle tops, paper clips and twist ties tended to gather in corners and cubbyholes, and dust collected thick and soft in the dimples of the cane baskets hanging on the walls. As my sister and brother worked to lever weeds from between the pavers out in the yard and tame the hedges, I cleared every corner inside, gathered most of the baskets from the walls and hung my mother's paintings instead, scrubbed the kitchen and bathrooms, washed down the appliances, put out new rugs in the bathrooms and guest towels on the counters, whisked cobwebs from every tall corner. Our dear old house, with its cracked plaster walls and ripple-glass double-hung windows, is ready for my mother's friends.

Rambling when I should be sleeping

My older brother and I went to buy him a suit today. Frank, who has some variant of autism, is nearly 50. He focuses on European progressive rock, Beatles music, and old episodes of Twilight Zone, Emergency, and Gilligans Island. But in the last months of mom's life, he'd kept his earphones off and his TV at low volume. Since her death, he's been playing only tastefully subdued Beatles music, no prog rock. Frank doesn't have much of a sense of style. The last time he wore anything resembling a suit was at my dad's funeral seven years ago. When he pulled that old cashmere jacket out of his packed and dusty closet and held it up in the light, it looked like roadkill hanging from a fence. I told him we'd be going downtown, and he grimaced but was game.

At Men's Wearhouse, Frank looked over the suit jackets and whistled even at the sale price tags. "164 DOLLARS?!" he said in a loud whisper. "I'M NOT MADE OF MONEY!" "It's OK, Frank," I said. "These are really great-quality suits. We'll find out something cool." He had on his best Led Zeppelin T-shirt, some stained navy chinos and black sketchers. A salesperson bustled up, tape measure over his shoulder, and whisked Frank into a dark gray pinstripe that looked fantastic on him. Frank turned toward the mirror, leaned in and glowered, and practiced his best James Cagney. "You'll never get me, see?" When he tried on the pants, they bagged under his prodigious belly. But the salesman hiked them up to where they were supposed to fit, declared them to be proper except for the need for cuffs and suspenders, and proceeded to lay out shirts and ties for us to choose from. While Frank was making his selection, the salesman picked out some great shoes that fit Frank perfectly. I hate to flack, but I love that store. Then with Frank in front of a mirror, the salesman got out his ruler and chalk, marked up the jacket and slacks, picked out some suspenders, and away we went to the cash register. We'll pick up the altered garments on Friday.

Frank proudly paid for the jacket and slacks, declaring "I'm NOT keeping THIS suit in my CLOSET. I'm going to keep it in a much nicer place." As I paid for the shoes, shirt, tie, suspenders and alterations (it turned out to be an even split), Frank asked the salesman if he could wash his new duds in the washing machine. The salesman patiently explained the rules of suit cleaning, handed Frank the handle bag, and away we went. He treated me to lunch to mark the occasion.
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My family's friends have been lifelines these last several days. They bring by food now and again, or invite me over, offer to come help clean the house. Quiet lines of support, thrown accurately into the waves. It's different from when my dad died suddenly. Then, almost instantly, there was a neverending stream of flowers, cards, casseroles for his widow. But now there is no widow, only exhausted children, and friends who know that when the phone goes unanswered here, sometimes it's not because nobody's home, but because we just can't bear to pick it up. So they patiently try again, or they just come over with their broad shoulders and their kind eyes and they pick our spirits up and set us aright.
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I've wondered time and again why my mother had to die the way she did, why she wasn't granted a healthy life and a swift and painless demise. I think about my father's death--the night of Feb. 9, 2000, when the phone rang and the horrific news from the other end felled my life--and I compare it with the five-month onslaught my mother's dying was. I got used to her dying in increments, as she got used to incremental upticks in her morphine doses. At the end, she could tolerate a dose of morphine that might have killed her had she taken it six months before. And at the end, her death brought us relief rather than shock--relief that she was no longer suffering, and relief that we could get a night's sleep at last. I don't believe this was a gift; what arrogance that would be. I can't believe it was just a matter fate; how then could I have faith? My task, it appears, is to simply accept and to stop seeking a reason for the way things happened. But at night, when I'm trying to get to sleep, the question keeps recurring: Why? How did she deserve this? What god would allow this? All gods, it seems, as countless good people from all walks and all faiths die in misery each moment of every day, each time I breathe in, and every time you exhale.

My mom's obit

I was going to post the link to my mother's obituary, but don't trust the local newspaper to keep the link active for very long. So, here it is for those I didn't already email it to. I wrote it in New York Times formal style, though our local paper will run pretty much anything you give them. I also found out that now obituaries are no longer treated as news, but as ads. You pay by the word and by how many days you want the obit to run. Four days' worth was going to cost us nearly $1,000, so we did things the old-fashioned way and only ran it one day. That experience was eye-opening and made me feel kind of old, for some reason. But then, I've been feeling old for about three months now. I need a prolonged stay somewhere warm and secluded, so I can shed this shell of exhaustion and strain, and emerge revitalized.

Good news: I feel like writing again, so at some point in the next little while, this blog will go back to being a natter about writing, the benefits and downsides of writing groups, the devious things we do to avoid writing, and so on, in addition to including the usual menu of grief ramblings. Oh joy! Oh yeah, I logged on to post my mom's obit. Here 'tis:

Karys, Jevine

Jevine Karys, painter, jazz vocalist, restaurateur, mother of five and beloved friend, died Friday, April 20, at her home in Santa Barbara after a brief second battle with lung cancer. She was 70.

Throughout the last years of her life, Mrs. Karys was a prolific water color painter whose landscape and still life works adorn many homes in California and in Massachusetts. She drew her inspiration from historic scenes, whimsical groupings and floral displays, but also painted images of peoples’ homes upon request.

Born Carla Jevine Tidwell on March 8, 1937, Mrs. Karys was the daughter of Olive Naomi and Carl Clinton Tidwell. Jevine’s younger sister, Tina, was her lifelong friend. Jevine graduated La Jolla High School in 1955, married Howard B. Heath, and welcomed daughter Lisa and son Franklin. The Heaths were divorced, after which Jevine met and married her lifelong love Christopher J. Karys. They had three more children, April, John, and Christine.

During her teens and twenties, Mrs. Karys developed an enduring love of jazz, singing and dancing to the greats of the time. In her 30s and 40s, Mrs. Karys was a vocalist with jazz ensembles in Santa Barbara, and sat in with her dear musician friends’ performances from time to time throughout the rest of her life.

The Karyses reared their five children with love, discipline, respect and creativity. Mrs. Karys’ experiences cooking for her large family came into play later in her life, when she opened and ran Jevine’s Deli in three successive locations with family members helping to develop the menu and run the business. Later, she joined her husband in real estate, retiring upon his death in February of 2000. Mrs. Karys’ love of travel took her to Oregon, Washington, New Mexico, Massachusetts, Canada, Greece, France, Mexico, and lastly to Italy, where she journeyed just before her final diagnosis of cancer.

Mrs. Karys is survived by her sister Chris (Tina) Smith of Rifle, CO; daughter and son-in-law Lisa and David Karys-Schiff of Lompoc, CA; sons Frank and John Karys of Santa Barbara; daughter April Karys of San Francisco; daughter and son-in-law Christine and Jeremiah Sobenes of Oak View, CA and their children Chelsea Wilson and Emma and Eva Sobenes; niece Cristal Martinez and her husband Ric Lantz of Madison, WI; and nephew Eric Smith of Rifle, CO.

A memorial celebration of Mrs. Karys’ life will take place at 1 p.m. Saturday, April 28, at Welch Ryce Haider funeral chapel, 15 E. Sola St., Santa Barbara. In lieu of flowers, contributions may be sent to Hospice Care & Visiting Nurse of Santa Barbara, 222 E. Canon Perdido St.

Nowhere to be at peace

My boyfriend the hunky scientist has to go back to work for the week, so he left this morning. It's terribly lonely here without him, but he'll be back next weekend for the memorial. I'll be the emcee, so this week is going to be busy. I need to write my mom's obituary tonight--that's something I've been soundly trained in (journalism degree), so I have no qualms about it. I need to find something to wear. We need to pick out flowers, get music together, design and write the program, find and schedule a boat for scattering our parents' ashes, figure out how to have a private reception after the memorial (our house and our budget aren't big enough to invite everyone who attends the memorial over for a gnosh), and so many other things. What I really feel like doing is nothing. I don't want to speak to anyone; I don't want to do anything at all. It's a strange desire, this wanting to be more still than still, to empty my mind and feel nothing, to simply dissolve for a while and rest deep and tranquil, let the world's bustle spin around and without me.

The last hours

Here's what happened: My mom had been struggling to breathe, despite our dosing her with morphine and ativan. When we asked if she was uncomfortable she nodded, so we called for a Hospice nurse. He came late in the day, looked her over, and checked her vital signs. He told us her blood pressure was normal, but her lungs sounded pretty bad. He called in a prescription for liquid ativan and said we should give her that every 4 hours, doubled her dose of morphine and said we should give her that every 2 hours, and prescribed a scopalomine patch to help dry up the liquid gathering in her throat and lungs. Mom was barely conscious. She could tell we were there when we tended to her, but she couldn't respond to us very well. She was moaning on each exhalation, and her breathing was rattly and labored. She could only move her arms, and that with effort. The RN said she had only a week left at most--meaning she could go at any time. Mom loved life and had hung on through so many other rough patches that my sister, boyfriend and I figured she'd probably take it to the limit. We set our emotional watches for a few days hence and waited for the Hospice pharmacy to deliver the new meds. Throughout the rest of the day my sister and I kept our mother medicated and clean, turned her from time to time to ease her breathing, stroked her arms and kissed her forehead each time we went in to take care of her.

I had night watch. I was exhausted and knew I wouldn't be able to stay awake for the new medication schedule, so I decided to try to sleep for two-hour intervals. After giving Mom her 11:30 morphine dose I set separate alarms for 1:30 and 3:30, planning to piggyback them throughout the night and early morning until 7:30. I figured after that I'd be able to stay up. But I tossed and turned until 1:25, finally rose before the first alarm and went to check on her. She was still breathing loudly, but she was more relaxed. She was sleeping deeply. I droppered the prescribed doses of liquid medicine under her tongue, kissed her forehead, whispered that I loved her and that she was a wonderful mother, and said I'd see her in the morning. I listened to her gurgling breath for a few moments. Then I went back to bed and prayed, "Please take my mother now. I know I've been asking You to take her soon, but please, please, take her now." I hoped my father was near. After about an hour, I dropped into a dream. I was sitting on a beach that was clouded with mist and smoke. I sat among a group of people I didn't know. We all sat in a circle in chairs on the sand, with the haze all around us and unseen waves crashing behind my chair, and we had thick, hooded, woolen robes on. When it came my turn to speak, something woke me. It was my 3:30 alarm. It took a moment to clear my head, and the hunky scientist touched my shoulder to make sure I was awake and drowsily said, "Your mommy needs you to take care of her." I rolled out from under the covers and padded through the living room where my sister slept on the couch, through the dining room past the chugging oxygen machine, and through my mother's bedroom doorway. I looked down at her, and saw she was sleeping peacefully; the loud gurgling had stopped. I looked more closely, and saw that what had also ceased was her breathing. She'd taken very long pauses between breaths before, so I held my own breath and waited. She didn't inhale. I let my breath out and kept my eyes on her chest. It didn't rise. Relief and pain, happiness, gratitude and more pain flooded through me, and I sat down in the chair beside her bed and looked at her quiet, peaceful face. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was slightly open. She wasn't struggling anymore. I still couldn't believe it fully, so I reached for her wrist to check for her pulse. Her arm and hands were very warm. Where before her pulse beat regular and strong, there was stillness. She was gone. I'd never touched someone who'd died, but I felt nothing now except tenderness. I slipped her hand back under the sheet and smoothed it above her, and sat for a few moments more. Then I stood and looked down at her, bent to take the oxygen tubing away from her face, then kissed her forehead one last time. I closed my eyes and thanked God for taking my mother away from her torture room of a body, touched the picture of my father that sits on my mother's nightstand still, and went to wake the others.

Aweigh and away

This morning at 3 we stood along the shore, holding our handkerchiefs aloft and waving, waving white goodbyes. My mom stood at the rail of her ship, breeze gentle in her hair, her eyes bright for the horizon.

Carla Jevine Karys
3/8/37 - 4/20/2007

Distractions

I don't know anyone who's going to have a baby anytime soon. Nor do I know anyone who has a newborn. I'm not pregnant. And yet, I have been knitting cute little cotton caps, infant-sized. I made a yellow one with a green tie, a green one with a yellow tie (gave that one away), and am halfway through a blue one--haven't figured out what color tie it will get. Then I'll make a multicolored one with the leftovers from the skeins.

An unrelated weird thing: Yesterday when our Hospice home health aide showed up, she said "Nice rabbit," in her cute Ukrainian accent. "Rabbit?" we said "Nadia, are you OK?" We looked outside, and sure enough there was a black-and-white rabbit in the driveway, wiggling his nose. I spent a half hour chasing him, stalking him, trying to lure him with a carrot, but he eluded me. Finally, after trying in vain to get him to come out from under my car, I gave up and left the carrot, went inside and nearly forgot about him. Late in the afternoon, he came back--no doubt to see if the magic car would dispense more fresh produce. I got another large carrot, held it out for him, and nabbed him when he got close enough for a chomp. We kept him overnight in a cat carrier, filled him up with spinach, carrot, banana, and compressed pellets of alfalfa, and watched him do cute little bunny things. Now he's on his way to BUNS, a rabbit rescue place out in Goleta. Rabbits are captivating. If we didn't already have one cat and two parrots, I'd have lobbied the hunky scientist to take him home and make him a house bunny.

Mom is having a hard time today. She's not really aware, and she's breathing very heavily (kind of moaning on each exhale) despite doses of morphine and ativan. We're taking turns sitting with her.