In Memorium: Shelly

I didn't know her particularly well but we crossed paths many times in the last ten years. I first met her at a conference, and then several more and at the houses of friends. As I was leaving grad school she was coming in under the same advisor. She was smart, beautiful, and possessed a confidence I wished I could emulate.

Not too long after starting grad school she smashed her finger in the door of the bathroom. And it changed everything. It didn't heal, and it didn't heal and then she was diagnosed with subungual melanoma. Cancer is often unexpected and freakish and unfair but this seemed particularly horrible - that such an everyday occurrence (well, everyday to klutzes like me) could suddenly turn the world upside down. She was an amazing woman - she did so much even after the diagnosis - learning to fly, continuing to pursue her PhD. Our paths continued to cross and I would always check in but not being close I didn't want to pry.

It came as a shock to me the other day to stumble upon her blog, Shelski, and learn that she passed away with the with the end of 2008. She lived her life well, she did the things she loved and she will be missed. My thoughts go out to her family.

In Memoriam: Jurgen

We found out, almost a week later, that my mother's cousin had passed away on the same day as Tante Laura, unexpectedly. I didn't know Jurgen very well, I only met him once or twice as he lived in the former East Germany, a place that was difficult for us to visit and from which he could not come to visit us until very recently. I know that he suffered from depression and that he died relatively young and that he and my mother had a deep bond.

In Memoriam: Tante Laura

My Tante Laura was an amazing woman. Not only was she, like my Oma, a woman who was born in a German speaking Mennonite in a Yiddish village in the Ukraine, Russia at the start of the 2nd world war (a bad place to be) but she was a woman who, having lived through unspeakable horrors, managed to hold historical perspective on it all. When I talk to my Oma the stories of tragedy always seem to jumble out and tumble up together to the point that a) one can't tell what's real or not and b) it seems as if there has never been any peace in her life. My Great-Aunt (Tante) lived through many of the same horrible events but she remembers the name of every person in the village and everything that happened to them afterwards, if it was known (which is not altogether often), and also was able to chronologically sort these memories. She had an amazing photographic memory and an insatiable desire to read. She went blind many years back due to reading. She had at least 4 children, two of which she fled across continents with and the wide Atlantic to the safety of Canada's shores. She died of a stroke, just shy of her 90th birthday.

In Memoriam: Uncle Art

My Uncle Art passed away on the evening of the first day of the new year. It wasn't entirely a surprise. He had been ill for the last two months or so with cancer & a failing liver. All the same, my heart aches for him and for his children, who have watched both of their parents die of cancer, and for his grandchildren. My Uncle Art was a gruff man but sweet. He had the most fantastic waxed handlebar mustache. Out of all the members of my extended family on my father's side, which is quite close unlike my mother's, he was probably the person I knew the least. I am sorry for that. Tomorrow is his son's birthday and his granddaughter's. I know it will be a hard day for both of them. At times like these I wish I lived closer, could quickly physically reach out and embrace them and try to bring some joy to their birthdays. Even now, being in Colorado, I am still far away from my cousins in New York state and somehow the snail mail sympathy cards, the telephone conversations, and the e-mail just doesn't seem enough.

We remember them

I wanted to share with you a poem that I find comforting. It does not make promises or speak of better places as so many of these things do and which I find empty and of little solace. Instead it addresses what I think of as the essential core of what it means to lose someone one loves.

Photo by Alexander Burdin a Russian colleague of mine

"In the rising of the sun and in its going down,

we remember them.
In the glowing of the wind and in the chill of winter,

we remember them.
In the opening of buds and in the rebirth of spring,

we remember them.
In the blueness of the sky and in the warmth of summer,

we remember them.
In the rustling of leaves and in the beauty of autumn,

we remember them.
In the beginning of the year and when it ends,

we remember them.
When we are weary and in need of strength,

we remember them.
When we are lost and sick at heart,

we remember them.
When we have joys we yearn to share,

we remember them.
So long as we live, they too shall live, for they are now a part of us,
as we remember them." *

— Jewish prayer, from the Rabbi’s Manual 1998

*Please note that I am not a member of the faith from which this comes from and I take it in my own context separate from which it may be originally intended.

In Memoriam: Aunt Belle

Monday morning I was a bit hassled, the way one is when one is running a little behind schedule. I'd been to the doctor's for a routine check-up and was in a rush to turn on the glacier cams and do the morning scans. Then I noticed the red light that was lit up on my phone indicating there was a message. It was my father calling to let me know that my Great Aunt Belle had passed away, rather unexpectedly that morning; 8am my time, noon hers. I sat there stunned listening to my co-workers who were arranging rides up to Los Anchorage for Matt's funeral which is today, feeling disconnected, dazed. Around 5pm a co-worker came to see if I was leaving for the day and I stared at her, unable to comprehend what time it was. She coaxed me to leave, to go home, and I rode my bike through the swirling autumn leaves and walked my dog close along the shore listening to the lapping of the waves against it and finding strange comfort therein.

Aunt Belle was an amazing woman who lived a very full life. I have this picture of her dancing with my Grandmother at my sister's wedding and it is the epitome of who these women are. They are dressed to the nines and they partied that night long after their kids and grand kids had given up and they are laughing, the two of them full of mischievous humor and good natured ribbing. Of her remaining sisters Aunt Belle had seemed by far the healthiest although she was in her mid-80's. She still cooked at her family owned restaurant and took long adventurous vacations to places like Italy. She never lost an opportunity to gussie up, to flirt with a young man, or to dance. So it came as something of a shock that she had passed away although I take great comfort in the fact that she lived a full and rich life.

I'm still sort of numb - I'll be driving north to Matt's funeral this afternoon. I can't wrap my head around these duel griefs at the moment, nor the shocking vitality of life around me.

For Your Kindness

Thank you, all of you who commented on my last post, for your kindness, for your caring, for reaching out. I didn't seem like I was around much but I checked in on your comments regularly and they comforted me. My experience with Western society is that people often don't know how to deal with other people's grief, that often they are consternated at the sight of another's tears, that sometimes there is an expectation that after a few days time one should be over it. One of the most common comments one hears is "I don't know what to say". But you all know the secret, say something, reach out, that's all a grieving person needs, a feeling of connection to the rest of humanity. A hug, a wordless gesture, even the, I-don't-know-what-to-says, they all work. There is no right answer, a grieving person isn't looking for answers, they're looking for kindness and warmth when the world feels particularly cold & they're in a place where they are easily isolated. And it takes time, grief. It's been a long week and our grief as co-workers, and his family's grief, will not go away tomorrow. We find solace in our shared memories of him, of the kindness of people in an uncertain world. Thank you.

In Memoriam: Matt M.

He came in and checked his email, grinning at us because the weather was nice and he was going out for a scientific dive. It was gorgeous clear, crisp autumn day and he was passionate about diving. I watched him pull on his dry suit in the back parking lot from my office window smiling at his energy his exuberance. Then at noon the call came from his dive partner that he'd gone missing. Work at the office came almost to a complete stop as we monitored the airwaves to listen to the coast guard and the fire department. It didn't sound good. They performed CPR on him all the way back to the harbor and to the hospital. Sometime around 2:30pm he was pronounced dead. Shortly there after I attended the quietest all staff meeting I have ever attended.

Matt was a colleague of mine. He was one of those people who are always infectiously cheerful and full of good humor. He'd just finished his PhD and we had been chatting about his two young boys and whether or not he had plans for his birthday on Thursday. It's hard to believe he's gone and at the same time it's more real than anything else today. Everyone is rather quiet and subdued today. We're all thinking of Matt and of his family. We're all remembering his laughter.