Sunday Reflection

In the past few weeks, I was reminded — forcibly — that life is incredibly short.

There is a Biblical quote that comes to mind about such times. It’s from Psalm 90, verse 12. “So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.”

It seems to me that too many people in this world forget both parts of that equation. Time is very short, so we have to work hard to find wisdom as our days are numbered and we have no idea when the end will come.

I try to find wisdom, teachings, and purpose wherever I can, partly because I know how short time is. (Ask anyone widowed young, and they’ll agree with me.) The other part is, I’ve always tried to find common ground with other people whenever possible, in the hopes that light can shine not only in my life, but in someone else’s life, too.

There are many things I’d do differently, if I had more energy, health, financial security, and overall stability. But seeking out purpose and wisdom would not be one of them.

As the ancient proverb says, “Time and tide wait for no man.” Please remember that, and don’t put off until tomorrow what you could do today to make someone’s life a little better.

Life, Prayers, Friends, Frustration, and Futility

I know I haven’t blogged in a bit, but the last few weeks around Chez Caffrey have been hectic, to say the least. I’ve been hip-deep in one edit, chin-deep in another (don’t ask), have nearly completed a third edit, restarted a fourth edit…and carved out a bit of fiction writing time for myself, too. (Not as much as I wanted. Not as much as I would’ve liked. But some.)

And, of course, I have had all the usual Real Life Issues (TM) to deal with, too.

Sometimes, I feel utterly frustrated. I want to be able to do more. I only have so much energy; it’s a finite amount, and some days it seems like it’s trickling away without my notice. There’s only twenty-four hours in a day, and it seems like I need at least twenty-six to get everything “normal” done (I know; define normal). That’s before writing, of course, so if you add in writing, along with music composition (which has taken a back seat the last few weeks as well), I’d probably need at least thirty-two hours in a day to do everything I feel I must do.

Which, of course, is flat-out impossible.

Because of the recent “sadiversary” observance (which I’ve discussed elsewhere here at my blog), too, I have been reminded of how much faith my late husband Michael had in me. He believed my writing, my music, and my music composition all mattered. He wanted me to succeed, to thrive, to be happy, and to be creative (not necessarily in that order).

I wonder, sometimes, how much I’ve managed to do in this regard. Life gets in the way. There isn’t enough of me, and there are way too many different things that must needs doing, stat…then add in the fact that a couple of my friends are in major distress right now, plus another one is watching his spouse die by inches and can’t do anything except be by her side as she no longer recognizes him…well.

Frankly, I have felt extremely frustrated over it all. I have wondered if life is just a futile thing, because there are so many things I can’t do and so many things I wish I could do (such as restore my friend’s wife to health). I believe we, as human beings, are striving toward something — empathy, creativity, passion, purpose, maybe all of it? — and yet we face so much frustration along the way.

Is it worth it?

I think so, or I wouldn’t be here now, blogging about it. I believe life is not only is worth it, but it matters so much, so intrinsically, that it’s nearly impossible to plumb the depths of just how much it matters.

That said, there are moments where I wish I could do a whole lot more than I am. There are moments where I wish, just for one moment, I could hear my husband Michael tell me that yes, what I’ve done makes sense, and yes, what I’m doing makes sense, too, and yes, what matters is that I’ve given it my best effort.

As I’ve always done. Yes.

He knew that, about me. And he knew that about life, too.

Some say that life is all about the journey. I think that’s only part of it. Yes, we journey along, and yes, we learn things on our own journeys, too. But it’s also about figuring out what’s important to you, and how to go about doing those things while pulled in seemingly a million different directions.

So. I’ve felt frustrated, and wondered if life matters, and thought about futility for the past week-plus. (Yes, some of this would’ve come up because of the “sadiversary” observance. But I think much of the rest has come about due to my friends’ various struggles, and my wishes that I could ease their burdens in some way as it doesn’t seem like I’ve been able to do a lick of good in any regard.)

What do you do when you feel frustrated? What do you do when you think everything is just futile, or pointless, or just not worth it?

I know what I do is go on. I put one foot in front of the other, do my best not to fall, and just keep going. Even if the direction doesn’t seem right, and even if sometimes I need a course correction or two, I just keep on keepin’ on.

But before I go, I would like to ask a favor. Please, if you have energy to spare this week, pray for my friends. Pray because they are good people who need good things to happen rather than the bad things that have accumulated over the past few months (months that have seemed like decades, at least to me). Pray because no one deserves to feel so terrible for so long. Pray because human beings should care about one another.

I’ve never asked this before, and I may never ask it again. But I need to ask it now, as way too many of the people I find meaningful and wonderful in my life are struggling. I can’t do much to help other than listen, which of course I’ve done…and pray, which I have been doing for a while. My prayers, however, do not seem to be anywhere near enough to positively affect the outcome.

That’s why I chose to blog today and to discuss all this difficult stuff. I want to help my friends, dammit; I want, somehow, to give comfort to them, and the feeling that their lives aren’t hopeless or meaningless or worthless.

Does anyone else feel this way? If so, tell me in the comments. Please.

When Life Does Not Go As Planned…

Folks, this past week has been a difficult one for me. I’m ramping up to the nineteenth observance of my beloved husband Michael’s day of death, something I call a “sadiversary” (a contraction of sad and anniversary). But I’ve also noticed a few other stories that I wanted to discuss, also about life not going as planned…so, let’s get started.

First off, Aaron Rodgers’ plans to be the New York Jets’ starting quarterback did not go as planned. He played one series and got sacked; he couldn’t get up. It turns out he has a ruptured Achilles tendon. This puts him out for the year.

Now, most of you are probably thinking, “What does this have to do with me? Aaron Rodgers has a ton of money, he could just retire, he goes on all sorts of jaunts all over the world, and even participated in a ‘darkness retreat.'”

What it has to do with you is this: No matter how much money you have, no matter how much status you’ve attained (as Rodgers is a sure-fire first-ballot NFL Hall of Fame pick), your life won’t always go as planned.

I mean, who wants to have to rehab a ruptured Achilles tendon? Whether you’re an athlete or not, that’s just painful. It’s more common in professional sports than in everyday life because of the wear and tear athletes put on their bodies, not to mention the other pro athletes they play beside and across, who also put wear and tear on their bodies in a different way that sometimes interacts with you. (Such as when Rodgers was sacked by the opposing Buffalo Bills’ defensive line.) But it’s painful, and because I’ve known some folks in everyday life who’ve had similar issues, I know it’s life-disrupting, uncomfortable, and unpleasant.

No amount of money makes the healing go any faster, either.

So, here you are if you’re Aaron Rodgers. You’ve made a huge move from Green Bay to New York City. You participated in all of the off-season workouts, as well as the entirety of training camp — not something that most long-time quarterbacks do as it does put more wear and tear on the body, especially as they already have a ton of wear and tear as it is. You did everything you possibly could to get ready for the NFL season with a new team, new-to-you players, and a new attitude.

Then, your season ends after Week One.

What comes to mind for me, with regards to Aaron Rodgers, is this: How much Netflix is he going to be watching? How many rehab appointments will he have? How many stints in the “warming pool” (what the rest of us would probably call a Jacuzzi) that he most likely has at home? (Many players do for obvious reasons.) Will he try to help the Jets as an unofficial coach, or will that not be allowed or wanted?

See, this was not what he wanted at all.

And in case the point hasn’t been made, another thing that came to my attention this week, but actually happened earlier this year, was Disturbed’s lead vocalist David Draiman’s divorce from his wife of ten years, Lena. Draiman has a beautiful, powerful voice, a ton of musical talent — as does the entire band that comprises Disturbed — has traveled the world, has had many interesting experiences and written great music with his band…yet even he, with the money, the status in the music field, and with all the good will in the world, still ended up divorced.

Draiman is known in hard-rock fandom as being one of the nicest guys in rock or metal music. He remembers people’s names, he honestly cares about others, and some of the songs he and his band have come with in the last ten years — including “Hold on to Memories,” “The Light,” and “A Reason to Fight” — are beautiful, powerful anthems about how difficult life is, how frustrating it is when bad things happen, and how awful it can be to mourn people who are gone too soon. (“Hold on to Memories” was written partly because of the loss of his good friends Chester Bennington, lead singer of Linkin Park, and the inestimable vocalist Chris Cornell, he of Soundgarden and Audioslave fame.) Draiman also said in various places that his divorce was not due to infidelity on either side; he views this as his failure alone, mind you, from everything I’ve seen and read, but I think that’s him taking too much responsibility for something that perhaps was going to end no matter what he did.

(I say this as someone who’s been divorced. You can love someone, care about them to the Nth degree, maybe even have a child with ’em as Draiman has with his ex-wife Lena…but sometimes there’s just nothing you can do.)

Draiman, in several videos I’ve seen of live recordings made this year that I’ve viewed on YouTube (not going to link to ’em to save space), said that he feels the call of depression himself. That earlier this year — probably, and possibly elliptically, referring to his divorce — that he almost joined Cornell and Bennington in prematurely ending his life. (Both Cornell and Bennington died by suicide, two months apart. They were also good friends of each other, and Bennington died on what would’ve been Cornell’s 53rd birthday.)

See, depression can hit anyone. Even a rock star with millions in the bank, a massive following, talent to burn, all that.

Depression is just that powerful of a force to fight.

I know this myself. Every year around this time, I have to fight my own depression much harder. I think to myself, “How could I possibly have lived nearly nineteen years without my husband? It just seems like yesterday, he was here…” Then I realize it’s been such a long time, and I know with a shock that no matter how much I want him to be here in the body as well as in spirit (as I don’t think his spirit went too far away), he’ll never be here in that way for me again.

I wake up every day, every single day, and want my husband. I want to kiss him good morning. I want to kiss him good night. I want to hug him, hold his hand, talk to him, listen to his wonderful baritone voice (as he said, he couldn’t sing, but man, his speaking voice was amazing), hear how his mind works, know what he’s thinking with regards to his stories…in short, I want the incredible, amazing, wonderful, best person I’ve ever known to still walk this Earth beside me. Not just to cheer me on, though he was great at that, too. Not just because he understood me the best anyone’s ever done, either. But because he, himself, was worth everything. Absolutely everything.

It’s hard to go on when something traumatic has happened. The loss of your job — even if temporary, in Rodgers’ case, depending on whether he wants to do the extensive rehab (my guess is yes, but who knows right now?) — is a huge stressor. The loss of your marriage through divorce is also brutal.

So is widowhood.

It’s easy to say, “Find someone else.” (Or as in my case, “You’re young. You can remarry,” which I heard not two days after Michael had died. I still want to throttle that person for that insensitive comment.) It’s easy to say, “You have millions in the bank. Count your blessings.”

(Not that I have millions, ’cause I decidedly don’t. But I trust the point has been made.)

It’s really hard to get up every day, do the work of living, try to find something positive when everything inside you feels like it’s crashing to the ground, over and over again. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, in fact.

Even if, someday, I find someone who understands me well enough to know that Michael being in my life was by far the most formative influence I’ve ever had, I’ll still miss Michael. It might be easier, if that day ever comes. (I think Michael wants it to happen. He wasn’t petty. He’d want me to find any happiness I could. Honestly, that’s how he rolled.) But it’ll never be easy.

Confronting “sadiversaries” is very hard. Dealing with the blows life sends you, all unlooked for (’cause who’d want ’em?), is also very difficult.

The only way I know is forward, though.

So, for Rodgers — not that he’s ever likely to read this — I hope he knows that the work he did with the Jets was valuable and may make the difference for one or more of the players this year. I hope he knows that this was just random, in a weird way, in the same way Kobe Bryant went down with an Achilles injury years ago (injured in an NBA game). What he did mattered, even if it doesn’t feel like it now.

And for Draiman — not that he’s ever likely to read this, either — I hope he knows that the ten years he spent with his wife and son were beautiful, memorable, special things. (Draiman also lost his dog, an Akita, at age fourteen recently. That, too, has not helped…I understand completely, as I still miss my dog Trouble, a Shih Tzu mix who died at age seventeen a few years ago.) The years he spent with his dog and feeling the unconditional love mattered, the love he had for his wife mattered, the love he continues to have for his son matters and always will.

Life, sometimes, is just damned hard. But we get up, we try, we do our best, we create or build or work hard on whatever it is that we feel called to do. Even when we’ve felt like we’ve failed at our deepest levels, what we’ve done matters. Even when our lives have been shattered, what we’ve done and who we’ve loved and how hard we’ve tried matters.

So, for the “sadiversary” that rapidly approaches on September 21, I will keep telling myself that my love for my husband mattered then, still matters now, and always will. As long as I’m alive, at least part of Michael is alive. And he’d want me to “go do the best things in life…make the most of the rest of your life, make a ride of this world while you can,” just as Disturbed’s song “Hold on to Memories” says.

I will keep endeavoring to do just that.

How do you handle “sadiversaries?” Do you have tips on how to get through the day? (I advise dark chocolate as one of ’em, just in case anyone’s wondering.) If so, leave a comment. (Or leave one anyway, even if you don’t have any tips or are fortunate enough not to have any sadiversaries…yet.)

My Thoughts on Linkin Park’s New Song, “Lost”

Folks, the other day, I was listening to the radio in the car (102.9 the Hog, in Milwaukee), and heard a new song from Linkin Park called “Lost.” It’s an extra track they worked on during the time they were recording their second album, Meteora (2003), but never released.

Before I discuss it, I want to first give you the link to the official music video. It’s quite good, even for Linkin Park (which has always been known for its savvy when it comes to videos); there’s a great deal of anime references, along with animated versions of the musicians in Linkin Park…including their late lead singer, Chester Bennington.

I’ve written about Chester before, as I was extremely saddened by his death. Chester was friends with Chris Cornell, the lead singer of Soundgarden and Audioslave (among others); Cornell died about two months before Chester did, and I wrote about his passing at the time.

Anyway, the song “Lost” showcases Chester’s vocals, and is a beautiful rendition of someone trying to find his way out of the morass of despair that life has sent his way. It has at least one odd quirk in that the backing vocals don’t necessarily seem to go with the rest of the song. (If this had been solely Chester with everyone else playing instruments, etc., I think it would be even better, similar to the triumph that was Linkin Park’s single “One More Light” on the same-titled album. Video link for the latter is here.) In hearing these backing vocals with earphones, I found them far less distracting than I did in the car.

Now, why is that? I think it’s because of the mix that went out to the various stations (including the Hog in Milwaukee). Car radios, though they’ve become far more sophisticated in the past fifteen years, still can’t adequately reproduce songs to the same level as a home entertainment system.

Anyway, Chester Bennington was someone everyone in the music business liked. He had a strong work ethic, a gift for music and lyrics and expression and style, and he was generous with his time and friendship. He’d experienced highs and lows and was someone that Limp Bizkit frontman/singer Fred Durst paid tribute to back in 2017 at Spin magazine. “He had a way of making anyone he spoke to feel heard, understood and significant. His aura and spirit were contagious and empowering. Often those types of people have so much pain and torture inside that the last thing they want is to contaminate or break the spirit of others.

“He would go out of his way to make sure you knew he truly cares. As real and transparent as our conversations would be, he was always the one projecting light on the shadows. In my last conversation with him, he was holding his two cute puppies and giving me the most selfless and motivational compliments in regards to Limp Bizkit and myself and thanking me for paving the path for bands like Linkin Park.“

Going down the rabbit hole that is the Internet, I found a video by Disturbed that features pics of Chester along with Chris Cornell. Disturbed lead singer David Draiman knew Chester well and wrote a song that was partly due to both Chester and Chris Cornell’s influence called “Hold on to Memories.” (Video for that is here.) It’s a beautiful song about loss, memories, and how at least in part the person or people you love who’ve passed are never completely gone, so long as you remember. It also discusses how the people you’ve loved/lost would want you to go on and live your best life.

I firmly believe that “Hold on to Memories” is the plain, flat truth. Our loved ones who have passed to the Other Side only wish for our good. (Of course, I can’t prove it. But that’s what faith is all about.) Yes, remember them, but not to the point of crippling yourself.

I mention that because it took me years to figure that out. Over a decade, really…and some days are still harder than others. All I’ve got to fight with, against despair and darkness and frustration and illness, are the bright memories I have with my husband Michael, along with others I’ve truly cared about like my late teacher and mentor Tim Bell, my Aunt Laurice and Uncle Carl, my grandmother, and my good friend Jeff Wilson, as these were the people who understood me the best.

I’m fortunate in that I have good friends, still, that care enough to ask every single day how I’m doing, how I’m recovering from the illness that’s preoccupied my life for the past few weeks (I’m much better, but still ailing/convalescent), and that my family continues to care about what happens to me also. I can’t take these things for granted, because every person’s life is different, and every single one of us finds a different path out of despair and hopelessness as best we may.

Anyway, these songs, from “One More Light” to “Hold on to Memories” and now the new “Lost” single as well, all encapsulate what I know to perfection. What we do in this life, the memories we make, the people we meet, the folks we help, maybe even the folks we hinder sometimes, matters. (It depends, that last, on whether hindering actually does any good, but that’s a side issue. Moving on…) How we build on the knowledge and care and concern and love we find is possibly the best reason for humanity’s existence, and doing what we can to help others — along with refusing to spread vitriol, as I’ve discussed many, many times here at my blog — is essential to our soul’s growth.

So, please. Do yourself a favor and listen to these songs. Contemplate them. Yes, miss Chester Bennington — he was one Hell of a singer and musician — but also appreciate the gifts he shared with the world, along with his bandmates (most especially co-lead singer Mike Shinoda). Appreciate that Disturbed, known far better for their hard rock up-tempo songs (which are also great), has written more than one excellent down-tempo song (this is the best, IMHO, but it’s not the only one). Know that many of us have more talents and abilities than we give ourselves credit for, and that on even our worst days, we’re worthy.

There’s no better tribute to Chester Bennington, Chris Cornell, or other great fallen musicians than that.

Remembering Del Eisch, My First Band Director

Folks, last week, my first truly good band director died. (In all senses.)

Delbert A. Eisch — or Del, as he urged everyone to call him — was eighty-five, and had lived a good, long life. In that life, he’d done many things as a conductor, a trombone player, as an activist for live music, and much, much more. He taught in Racine for thirty-six years, and also conducted over 640 concerts while the conductor of the Racine Concert Band (previously named the Racine Municipal Band).

Much of this information can be gleaned from his obituary, which you can find here, but I wanted to summarize it before I got into what Mr. Eisch meant to me.

As I said, he was the first good band director I’d ever known. When I joined the Racine Municipal Band (not yet called the RCB), I was only fourteen. I played the oboe, then; I hadn’t picked up either the sax or the clarinet as of yet. I’d played in the Kiwanis Youth Symphony as an oboist and had played in my junior high school band and orchestra at Gifford (it’s now a K-8 school, but back then it was solely a junior high — our term for middle school at the time). But the junior high band was limited to what most of the performers were able to play, meaning I didn’t get a chance to play high-level pieces, nor did I get much sense at that time of what good band literature was all about.

Mr. Eisch knew how to program for his band, though. I figured that out immediately. We played marches — John Philip Sousa, Henry Fillmore, etc. — as nearly all bands do, but we also played more. We played show tunes. We played overtures. We played incidental pieces composed to be heard behind ballerinas, or with movies (as we certainly played selections from movie soundtracks). And we played the big pieces for concert band, including the two Gustav Holst Suites for Band, as well.

Mr. Eisch was extremely encouraging to me when I was a young musician. This was essential, as at the time I felt completely lost in my life. I loved music, loved to play, but otherwise I was a misfit. I read too much. I enjoyed talking with people much older than myself. I studied history and geography and some mathematics along with reading everything I could get my hands on, because I’d started to write stories and poems and wanted to be knowledgeable about my chosen subjects.

I loved science fiction and fantasy, of course, even back then. I was fortunate that my local TV station regularly played episodes of Star Trek (now called “The Original Series”), and I was even more fortunate that my junior high’s library had an excellent selection of SF&F books along with copies of Downbeat Magazine and other musically oriented magazines such as Rolling Stone. (That dealt with commercial music, sure. But things were applicable across all disciplines, and I tried to learn whatever I could, wherever I could.)

Anyway, I think Mr. Eisch knew, from all his years teaching at Gilmore School, that I was a bit of an odd duck. (Or at least that I felt like one.) He was gentle, kind, and patient with me as I learned the music — which wasn’t too hard for me, as even then I was quick on the uptake and an excellent sight-reader — and how to get along with the people in the band.

He encouraged my talents, to the point that I played oboe solos in front of the band, then later a clarinet duet, a saxophone solo, and finally a clarinet solo before I was off to my first undergraduate school. (Me being me, and more importantly being married to a guy who was then an Army Reservist and later in the active-duty Army, I needed to go to three different colleges/universities to finish my degree.) He also added in twelve bars for an improvised solo when I played “Harlem Nocturne” with the band, so it sounded a little jazzier and helped to give me a better experience as a musician.

My tale picks back up approximately ten years later, when my then-husband and I were back in Racine after his military service ended. Our marriage was breaking up, which I didn’t know then (but can clearly see now), and I needed music as an outlet. (I always had, so why not then?)

Mr. Eisch warmly welcomed me back to the band. (My soon-to-be-ex-husband also joined the band as a percussionist.) He had a need for an additional clarinetist, so would I mind playing clarinet?

I did not mind.

It was interesting, as I got to hear many of the same pieces in a different way than before. I learned how the various parts interrelated and asked Mr. Eisch many questions about music and conducting that he patiently answered. (At the time, I was hoping to eventually be a conductor myself. This is a dream that didn’t come to fruition, but the knowledge I gained was still invaluable.)

When I finished my Bachelor’s degree at the University of Wisconsin-Parkside, I started looking for graduate schools. (I wanted to teach in college, and that was the way forward. Plus, I wanted to learn even more about music, harmony, melody, music theory, music history, etc., as I loved everything about music.) I discussed the merits of them with Mr. Eisch, along with several other wonderful musicians in the band; eventually, I decided on the University of Nebraska-Lincoln.

Once I finished my degree there (it took me a few additional years due to family health concerns), Michael and I married. We knew we’d go back to his home in San Francisco sooner or later, so I didn’t rejoin the band at that time.

A few years passed. Michael and I had moved to Iowa. I’d looked into perhaps going to the University of Iowa as a doctoral student, once I qualified for in-state tuition…then Michael died, suddenly and without warning.

I have to include this, to explain the rest.

I didn’t feel like playing my instruments for years. I rarely composed any music, either. It was hard to write. Hard to do anything. I barely even recognized myself in the mirror, I was so upset.

So, because of that, I didn’t attempt to rejoin the band, or even find out if they might have a use for me.

I did, however, rejoin the Parkside Community Band in October of 2011 (not too long before my good friend Jeff Wilson passed away). And doing that led me back to the Racine Concert Band, where Mr. Eisch was now the band’s business manager (and conductor emeritus).

Mr. Eisch and I had several conversations along the way, once I rejoined the band. Some were to do with the band and its need for funding and fund-raising. Others were about life, and about loss, and about faith, as well as music.

Mr. Eisch then retired as business manager, and completely stepped away from the RCB. We did see him at concerts for a few years after that…then COVID hit.

Anyway, the last time I saw Mr. Eisch was earlier this year. I was going into Ascension All-Saints Hospital for an appointment; he was coming out of there, being medically discharged. He was happy to see me, and I was happy to see him; he asked how I was doing, how my family was doing, and asked me to tell my parents that he’d said hi (as he knew them both well, too, especially my Dad as he played in the RCB for ten years, himself, as a drummer).

I didn’t know that would be the last time I ever saw him, or I would’ve told him just how much his kindness and dignity and example had meant to me, along with all of the musical knowledge he’d imparted along the way.

Mr. Eisch was a very kind man. He was also a gentle man, in the best of senses. He loved music, of course he did, but even more so, he loved his family and friends.

Good men, good people, are sometimes hard to find. But when we get a chance to be around them, we hopefully reflect the light they can’t help but give out a little brighter. Then that light goes on, and on, and still on, for as long as people last…or at least as long as our memories do.

I truly hope that his widow, Anne, will be comforted by his memory. Always.

*****

An Addendum: I wrote this today, on the eighteenth anniversary of my beloved husband Michael’s death, because I wanted everyone to know just how much Mr. Eisch meant to me.

Michael only met Mr. Eisch once, I think. We were at the grocery store, or maybe at the mall…anyway, he did meet Mr. Eisch, and told him it was a pleasure to meet one of my formative influences.

I’d like to think that Michael again met with Mr. Eisch in Heaven, Eternity, or whatever The Good Place (TM) truly is, and that Michael has passed on what I’ve just said — as he knew I felt this way, because he knew me extremely well — just in case Mr. Eisch still did not know it.

Milwaukee Bridge Opens Unexpectedly, Kills Tourist

Folks, last week in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, there was a shocking accident.

A man, Richard Dujardin — a retired writer and religious reporter who’d covered the Dalai Lama, Pope John Paul II, Billy Graham and Jerry Falwell — was visiting Milwaukee along with his wife, Rose-Marie. They were walking over the Kilbourn Avenue bridge over Milwaukee River. Rose-Marie had safely crossed, but her husband was behind her, slowly navigating the bridge, and looking at his iPad. The bridge unexpectedly opened, Mr. Dujardin grabbed for a railing and held on for a few minutes, but then plunged over seventy feet to his death.

This is hard to fathom for many reasons.

First, when bridges open and close in Wisconsin, there are lights, sirens, and alarms. These all functioned properly and should’ve warned Mr. Dujardin. But he was 77, hard of hearing, and focused on his iPad.

In other words, he didn’t hear or see anything until it was too late.

Second, the bridge was operated remotely. More of Milwaukee’s bridges appear to be operated this way, rather than having someone directly on site who would’ve been able to see that Mr. Dujardin was still on the bridge before opening it up. No one has any idea how the poor man was missed, as far as I can tell.

(This is one reason I waited almost a week to discuss this.)

Third, the remote operator apparently didn’t see that Mr. Dujardin was still holding on to the railing for a few minutes before he fell!

This seems to be an egregious lapse, to put it mildly.

Anyway, I have felt terrible ever since I heard about this accidental death. I know how it feels to wake up a wife and suddenly, without warning, end up as a widow.

More importantly to me than that, though, was the detail that his wife had already crossed the bridge. That meant she was in front of him. She could not help him when this happened.

Longtime readers of my blog probably know this, but that’s exactly the situation I was in when Michael collapsed on the lawn at our rented duplex years ago. Normally he’d have been in front of me, or we’d maybe be side-by-side holding hands. But this one day, he was behind me…and then he fell backward.

(Yes, I rushed forward, but I couldn’t do anything to break his fall. That I would’ve dislocated both arms had I somehow been in position to catch him makes no nevermind.)

I’m now nearing the eighteenth year of my widowhood. I still see Michael falling, me unable to catch him, in blinding technicolor.

I would imagine that Mrs. Dujardin may end up having similar flashbacks.

Anyway, I’m well aware that life is short, that we have no idea whether today is our last or if we have eighteen more years of widowhood in our future. (Or whatever.) We can only do the best with every day and honor the memories and the love we shared as we continue to go forward in whatever halting way we can.

I feel bad for Mrs. Dujardin. I wish I could help her.

(I couldn’t help Eric Flint’s widow, Lucille, either, though I hope someone is. And someday, maybe I’ll get to meet her again and attempt to show kindness as well as respect, ’cause she deserves it. But I digress.)

All I can ask you, right now, are two things:

Number one: Be kind.

Why do I say that? Well, many people are on edge due to the ongoing Covid pandemic, politics seems even more brutal than usual, and folks have forgotten they have more in common with each other than not.

Some have decided as the world is bleak, they have permission to be their worst selves. They spread misery.

Don’t do it. Refuse the impulse.

Be kind, instead.

Number two: Help the widows and widowers in your life, no matter how long — or short — it’s been since their spouses died.

See, I can tell you for a fact that I still want to talk about the most important person in my life, who’s ever been in my life. That’s my husband, Michael.

Other widows and widowers have said the same.

Too often, we who are grieving are told to just “move on” and in that spirit, we’re supposed to look toward the future and either forget the past entirely or suppress it.

I’m sorry. I refuse to do either. And most widows and widowers that I’ve spoken to over the years feel the same way.

We want to speak about our favorite people. Our formative influences. Our various experiences.

We need to do that. It’s part of who we are.

Hell, even those who’ve ended up finding a second great spouse to marry have said the same things. They can love their second husband (or wife) even better because of the experiences they had with their first spouse.

Otherwise, I hope that Mrs. Dujardin finds out why the remote bridge operator screwed up. She needs to know why that was the final day of her husband’s life.

But I also hope that the people around her will be kind and support her in her hours of grief. She will need that kindness and support for the rest of her life (whether it be short or long).

Sunday Musings: Why should you help a widow? (Or widower?)

Folks, my last blog asked you to please help Eric Flint’s wife, Lucille, in her time of need. (I was one of many people asking for people to help.) She received an outpouring of financial support, and the GoFundMe for Eric’s final expenses has been closed.

Thank you all.

That said, there are still other things to be done to help her, or other widows/widowers suffering from the loss of their spouse.

First, though, I wanted to answer this (somewhat obvious) question: Why should you help a widow or widower?

I’ve thought a lot about this question in the intervening years since Michael’s passing. And I’ve come up with a few reasons as to why you should always help a grieving widow or widower — any grieving widow or widower, whether you like them personally or not.

When you’ve been newly widowed, you are exceptionally vulnerable. All of your support, all of the love you had that you had freely shared with your spouse, is suddenly gone. That love has no place to go. And worst of all, you are often misunderstood when you try to express your grief in any way, shape, or form.

It’s incredibly difficult to deal with the world when you’re in deep shock, suffering with the worst wound you’ve ever had. That’s just a fact.

Everything seems unreal. Nothing feels the same. It’s very hard to go on, alone except for memories (and, if you’re like me, the knowledge that the spirit is eternal and that you will eventually be reunited in joy somewhere/somewhen again).

We all grieve differently, but what I just said tends to be in common for nearly any grieving widow/widower if they deeply loved their spouse.

Anyway, I wanted to talk more about Eric’s wife and widow, Lucille, at this point. I do not know Lucille except for that one meeting in 2002 I’ve previously discussed (and there, I asked Eric a question; I should’ve asked her one, too, in retrospect, but I didn’t think of it). But I do know that if I were within a hundred miles of where she is (I’m not), I would try to bring her a cooked meal or two. Or volunteer to run errands.

And if I knew her better, I’d offer to listen to her talk at any time of the day or night.

Lucille is a valuable person in her own right. Yet if she’s anything like me, or the other widows and widowers I’ve known, she’s not going to be able to feel that for quite some time.

She deserves to be helped in as many ways as possible in whatever way she’ll allow on any given day. She should be given all available love, stamina, support, and whatever other good things she can possibly be helped with for as long of a time as she needs.

Her loss should be respected.

People should talk with her about Eric, as soon as she’s able to do that (or wishes to do that). He was her favorite person in this world. It’s unlikely she’ll want to stop talking about him, merely because his Earthly presence is gone.

Give her time, space, if she needs that. (I know this seems contradictory, but much about grief seems contradictory, too.) But help her as much as you possibly can, those of you who know her best. (I will help, too, if I ever get a chance to meet her again, and if she allows.)

In other words, while monetary help is great, it’s not the only way to help a grieving widow or widower.

Now to a bit more personal stuff, about my own feelings regarding being a widow.

Those of you who have met me, in person, or even have known me through my blog or my books, should know how much I value — and will always value — my marriage to the most wonderful man in the world, Michael B. Caffrey. I had some monetary support at the time of his passing, enough to help me buy an obituary for him, and help to pay for his funeral expenses. I appreciated that, too, at the time.

But no one knew how to help me with my grief. (My grief was so bad, a grief-support group sent me away.)

My family understood that Michael’s death was a huge loss. They didn’t have any idea how to help me process that.

I suffered, mostly on my own, with how to come to terms with it. How to see myself as valuable in my own right. How to go on alone (except for memories and the belief, as I said before, that the spirit is eternal). How to keep writing on my own, with little to no support or understanding of why I felt I must write (whether it be poetry, SF/F, or nonfiction/essays).

I had to figure it out one step at a time, stumbling and fumbling in the dark.

I don’t want anyone to have as much trouble as I did, not even the person who believed Michael was better off dead than with me. (I will never forgive that person. Never. But I still don’t wish ill on them. No point.) If and when they lose their spouses, I want them to have help and support.

That, most of all, is why I dearly hope that Lucille will be aided in as many ways and for as long of a time as she needs. And I pray very much that this will be so.

Eric Flint dies at 75, and his wife Lucille needs help

Folks, Eric Flint passed away yesterday due to a long illness. He was a brilliant writer, an interesting soul, and a kind-hearted man — the last needs to be pointed out at great length, as most people focus on the other two.

I only met Eric Flint and his wife Lucille once. It was in 2002, not long after I married Michael. At that point, Michael and I were both trying to figure out how to write together, as our writing styles were about as opposite as can be imagined.

Anyway, it was a Barfly gathering, in Chicago. Many others were there. Some knew we’d just gotten married. (I don’t know if Eric did, but at least a few of ’em did.) We weren’t saying much (observers R us, or at least we both were), but were taking in as much information as we could.

I somehow got enough energy and gumption to ask Eric how he wrote so well with disparate people. (At that time, he’d worked with David Weber, Dave Freer, Mercedes Lackey, K.D. Wentworth, and I think he was in the process of working with Ryk Spoor. This was not long after his landmark novel 1632 was published.) I told him that my writing process was far different from my husband’s, yet we wanted to write together. How could we do that?

I figured Eric had the answer, and he did.

Eric said that the way to collaborate with someone is to play to their strengths. If someone writes fast — such as Dave Freer — work with that and add what you can. If someone needs more time and thought — as did Michael — let him add what he could. Otherwise, try not to step on each other’s toes, and remember to have fun…I’m pretty sure he said all that, and if not, he probably meant to say all that (so I’ll attribute it to him anyway).

This made a huge difference to us. We knew we could do it, you see, but we needed the right words from an expert to let us know it was OK to fail. (This may seem counterproductive, but bear with me.) If one of us could write faster than the other (believe it or not, that person was me), the other could take his time and add what he wanted. If the other needed to write things in longhand before transcribing them to the computer, that was fine…if he wanted my help, I could slow down just a little, and help him out.

This was very, very important to know. And it grew more important after Michael died, because I now was looking at a bunch of stories that Michael left in progress, wondering how I could possibly finish them and do justice by them. (I’m still working on that part.)

Anyway, I mention all of this because Lucille, Eric’s wife, needs help now. Eric was ill the last year or so, and while he plateaued out for a while, he wasn’t able to do much writing. (He did encourage people right up until the end, though. That counts more than anyone can possibly know.) Without being able to write, the income stream narrows…without being able to write, the writer is in danger of people forgetting all about them (though I find it hard to believe anyone could forget about Eric Flint, maybe he worried about that as he was human and it’s a justifiable worry). And without being able to write, the writer gets frustrated, stymied, wondering what in the Hell has gone wrong — just because health has intruded, why does that mean we can’t write?

(That’s how I see it, anyway. I can’t ask Eric anymore to know if that’s how he did.)

At any rate, Eric Flint was a very generous soul who cared about others and nurtured many fine writers along the way. He also was a very good husband to Lucille, and as I understand how it feels to be suddenly widowed and in need of help, I wanted to make damned sure I passed along this link so you could go help her out.

This is the link: https://gofund.me/6b66d7f6

If you can’t donate now, share the link as far and wide as you can.

And please, please, stand with the widows and widowers in your life, most especially right after they’ve been widowed. They need much care and love and concern, most particularly because they are unable to care or love or take any concern about themselves due to their bereavement.

Sitting, Resting, Loving

Folks, the above title is kind of odd, but I hope you will bear with me.

Over the past several months, I’ve been battling with some long-running illnesses. They don’t stop me from editing. They do get in the way of writing, whether this blog or any fiction. And I’ve been frustrated by a lot of things because of this.

I’ve had to rest a lot. And that got me to thinking. Did I want to keep living the life I’d been living, where I was lonely all the time, and just frustrated overall? Or did I want to try to see if I could find someone I liked to spend time with, online or off? (As Covid-19 is still around, and is still prevalent most especially in the U.S., online time is more important than ever. And long-distance doesn’t matter if you can’t do any short-distance dating anyway.)

Michael would never have wanted me to feel like he was the be-all, end-all, of my existence. He knew how important he was. He knew how much I loved him (and will continue to love him, come what may). But  he’d have not wanted me to be alone for sixteen long years.

That wasn’t what Michael was about.

Michael was about joy. Shared sacrifice. Enjoyment of each other’s quirks and follies. Appreciation of who we were, good and bad. And so many other things, I can’t possibly list them all.

In short, Michael cast a very, very long shadow. And for years, I didn’t think I had enough room in my heart to share it with anyone else, knowing I would love Michael until the end of time (and then some).

Then came Jeff Wilson, my very good friend. I cared about him a lot, and talked about everything with him. But he died suddenly in 2011, just three short days after he said, plaintively, “Can we please proceed to the dating phase now?”

And I was devastated.

Jeff was a good man, someone I believed Michael would’ve liked. We laughed together, sometimes cried together (or at least I cried; him being a Confucian, he’d not admit to such frailties), enjoyed each other’s online company, and I was making plans to go see him in Colorado when he suddenly died.

I miss him to this day.

Fast forward to 2015.

A few years ago, I met someone I thought might be the guy. (I have talked a little about this, elliptically, over the years.) I was wrong. He wasn’t the right guy. But he did remind me that life is short, and that feeling something good for someone else was not wrong.

It didn’t work out. But it did get me to thinking.

Now, we’re up to 2020. And throughout all this time, one man stood beside me. He was the first person I called after Jeff died. He was the first person I called when I had to go into the hospital for heart issues. (Fortunately, they weren’t serious.) He was the first person I contacted when I was ready to talk about anything, and he was always there. It might take him a day or two to figure out what he was going to say, if I contacted him by e-mail…but he always, always answered.

And he was also there when Michael died. He was worried about me, and despite disliking the phone, called quite often in 2004 and 2005. (I also called him.)

He liked Michael. Respected Michael. And understood why I felt so terribly. He didn’t want to rush me. (He certainly knew about Jeff, too.) And until the past few months, had thought I was too far away on the one hand and not attainable on the other.

But Covid-19 changed everything.

We’ve been friends for twenty years, this man and I. But it still surprised me when, about a month and a half ago now, he said to me, “Can we try a virtual date?” (That is, listen to the same music, talk online, relax, play board games, etc.) And I said, “Sure!”

Our virtual date was a rousing success, so we didn’t stop there. We’ve continued to chat. We’ve even exchanged short video messages, and are trying to figure out what comes next. Because of him, I smile a lot more. I laugh a great deal. And while I am still tired, and still recovering from whatever Ye Olde Mystery Illness is, I feel much more optimistic despite all the vagaries of the outside world, and all the political messes, too.

Because of Covid-19, I can’t go see him anytime soon. But I do plan on finding a way to do just that, now.

What I’ve learned, over time, is this: Love matters. It may take time. It may not show up the same way every time. But when someone declares himself, and you have an honest connection together, it changes your life for the better.

The main difference between the last two people is this: the gentleman from 2015/2016 was more interested in helping himself than helping me. He didn’t see me as a priority and despite knowing me for quite a number of years never tried to visit me. He never told anyone about me, and he never admitted that I was anything other than a good friend if asked. Whereas this man, my 20-year friendship-turned-romance man, is as interested in helping me as he is helping himself. He does see me as a priority. He does want to visit, but Covid-19 won’t allow it. And his health right now is such that I’d be the one who must visit him in any event, though he still would rather come to me if he had his druthers because he knows this is going to be hard on me, finding a way to go to him.

Despite how it sounds, I’m grateful, in a weird way, for the gentleman from 2015/2016. He showed me that I was wrong about whether my heart could handle yet another love-interest. And that prepared me when, all unlooked for (at least by me), my very good friend stepped up and said, “I’m here. I care. Will you try with me?”

So yes. I am going to try. And I believe Michael would be very happy that I’m willing to do just that.

 

 

To The Grieving…Some Thoughts

Folks, I have written about this subject before, most notably here, here, and here. And I’ve also pointed out the many difficult problems when it comes to grief in a few essays, most notably this one on Lois McMaster Bujold’s GENTLEMAN JOLE AND THE RED QUEEN and this one on Debbie Macomber’s HANNAH’S LIST. But I have even more thoughts on the subject of grief, so…here we go again.

Grief is incredibly hard to deal with. I know I’m not telling you anything new. But it’s because I want to give some sort of comfort that I’m writing again about grief, loss, and the frustrations at expressing all of it in words, in the hopes that someone out there will understand that he or she is not alone.

I have a number of friends who are grieving. Some are recent widows and widowers. Some have been widows and widowers for quite some time. But all are hurting, because their spouses and the loves of their lives are not here on this Earth anymore. Yet they are left behind, powerless to do anything except remember what was, and what never will be again. And none of them, not one, knows what to do except putting one foot in front of the other, because it hurts so badly to go on when you’ve sustained such a deep loss.

I don’t believe in platitudes or weasel-words. So I refuse to say that eventually it’ll get easier to handle the loss of your spouse to anyone. Especially as I haven’t found it to be such at all.

But I can give at least a little comfort to those of you who are suffering, because I’ve been through it. (Sometimes, still going through it. One slow step at a time.) I do understand where you are, why you hurt so badly, and why you’re angry that you’re in this place at all.

Death comes for us all, yes. But sometimes it comes so early, it’s impossible to process. As advice columnist Carolyn Hax of the Washington Post put it recently, “Here we were, thinking we were X. And now the universe says, ‘nope, now you’re going to be Y.'” (My elaboration on that theme is, “And too bad that you enjoyed being X, ’cause you’re not going to get to be X again.” So no wonder why we hate it, no? But I digress.)

What I have found is that over time, I can handle the pain a little better.

But I’m not going to lie. I still hate it. The man who understood me, loved me, and appreciated me the most in all the worlds and time is on the Other Side, and I am still here. I defy anyone to tell me why this is a good thing.

Yet I have also figured out — slowly, painfully, and painstakingly — that as long as I live, at least a part of my husband lives on in me. (In the “two shall become one” sense, if nothing else.) And that gives me great comfort.

But I want to say one more thing to those of you grieving right now. (Ready?)

Your life matters. Not just because you were the spouse of someone wonderful who’s passed on to eternity. But because you, yourself, are an incredible person with much to offer the world. And unique gifts of your own that your spouse, were they here to tell you, would want you to continue using to the best of your ability.

I know it doesn’t feel like that now. It can’t. You are hurting, you wonder what in the Hell the point is, and you wonder why on Earth you’re still here when your spouse isn’t.

But it’s still the truth.

You matter. And as long as you live, you can still affect the outcome at least a little bit, while keeping the memory of your beloved spouse alive.

So walk on, with your memories and your love intact. And never listen to the fools and idiots out there who may say “get over it” and “move on,” as those are both impossible and irrelevant to the grieving process.