Scandanavia
Death is nature's way of telling us to slow down...goes one grim joke. The joke being that it's not a joke. Nor is its corollary, that death is nature's way of getting us in touch with our feelings. So although it's impossible to understand intellectually why the events of a year ago are just coming into focus, one has to take things as they are. And they are coming back to me with blunt force, little clarity and no apparent end.
This time last year, the day after Thanksgiving, Marlou and her sister-in-law Debbie headed for Stockholm. Everything about the trip felt preposterous. Only weeks before, Marlou and I had sat in a windowless examination room in Palo Alto listening to an oncologist pronounce the end of the road. We have to face facts, she said. Why, I wondered? What does not facing facts look like? What does it matter?
The examining room was dotted with photos of the doctor's babies. The irony of new life, the tragedy of a childless couple, all of this bounced about in the background. Our doctor was from India, described occasional scenes from her life on the subcontinent and brought a good dose of humor to her work. None of which mattered now. The pictures, the wall, the clock on it, none of this mattered. And Marlou wanted to go to Sweden.
She valued her ancestry. One of Marlou's great-grandmothers was born near Gothenburg, and this had resonance for her. The woman was independent, her spirit somehow aligned with Marlou's. The great-grandmother had fled drought and bad economic times in Sweden, found work as a domestic near Chicago. And if I recall the details properly, the beautiful ring Marlou always wore had been passed down from her.
These details are so meager, and one would think keeping track of them would be a minor chore. But I'm not a good detail guy. I retain the emotional force of things and often forget what they looked like. But the details matter here, for the story is a simple one and explains, at least on the surface, Marlou's mission in Sweden. She wanted to be there, close to the ancestral action, at this moment in her waning life. The trip seemed so courageous, so bold, I could only applaud it. While realizing this would shorten our remaining time together. Marlou needed to do it. I needed to let her do it. And off she went with Debbie, my brother and I waving goodbye at Seattle Airport.
There's a mystery at the heart of this story, and it has to do with the great-grandmother's ring. Marlou had recurring nightmares. She lost the ring. Someone was trying to break in through our bedroom window to steal the ring. The ring had simply disappeared. Whatever the plot, these dreams often sent Marlou screaming in the night. Often, she leapt out of bed and checked the jewelry case where the ring resided.
Whatever its monetary value, the ring had ancestral worth. It been passed down through several generations of women in Marlou's family. The great-grandmother had not only left her native country on her own, but pioneered in other ways. She got a divorce, for one thing, and long before such moves were socially acceptable. Marlou was aware of the woman's independence. The personal legacy, family tradition, whatever the ring meant, its force was inescapable. The dreams kept coming. These nightmares seemed to speak from Marlou's core. How much did she dare to be herself? What would happen if she and her parents parted company on some vital issue? I always Marlou she was struggling with such matters.
And now such matters no longer matter. Marlou's matter resides in my pantry, awaiting its scattering. This was one conclusion from a recent trip to Iowa, that the 2 April anniversary of her death will be observed in some ecumenical Yahrzeit. We will gather in Monterey, Marlou's nephews and parents and me. We will throw caution to the winds. We will throw Marlou to the winds. We'll go somewhere warm and have a drink. April.
For now, it's still December. In my mind Marlou is in a dark Scandinavian country, a year ago, accompanied by her sister-in-law and going about ancestral research. Somehow, through connections made online, Marlou had turned up a couple of third cousins. They actually had lunch together. Marlou stood in a snowy field where her great-grandmother had lived on a farm. The buildings were gone. But Marlou was there. She touched the earth in some way, if I recall. Perhaps she touched the ring to the earth. Or the earth to the ring. The details are murky.
Even photographs of the trip seem murky. Dinner with my cousin's daughter in Stockholm, the table set with traditional fare. Indoor shots with ample light, yet there is a dimness about them. From the perspective of a year on, everything looks ominous. I can't recall what Marlou said about her feelings at that point. I can't recall my own. But I knew we were standing at the top of a cliff and one of us was going off it. And soon. Debbie, her sister-in-law, told me that in Sweden she found herself awake in the wee hours on several occasions, went into the hotel bathroom and wept. She had no way of knowing that she was weeping for us all.
'Oh, I have been so scared.' The taxi was still idling outside, and Marlou had barely gotten inside. I stood up from my wheelchair to hold her, taken by surprise by the weeping woman in my arms. I was used to Marlou's reserve, her capacity to keep her composure. But all that was falling away now, with the front door still open. And this is what she had brought back from her trip. Fear. Which was what I had been feeling myself for the 10 days she was gone. Looking at this cliff and realizing I would have to stand at the top and watch her fall. To her death.
Which astonishingly came within four months. The distortion of that time still throws me off. Events that occurred a year ago feel like they must taken place two years previously. Or was it a few months? Couldn't we have said more to each other about the fear? The possibility of agony, real agony, hung over everything. What if.... What do you want me to do if.... Is the Scandinavian trip escapist or defiant or neither? What is the best way to live together these final months? How should we repair what's torn between us? Or forge new bonds? Or is all of this unfolding as it should?
And how can it still be unfolding? When does the past become the past?
This time last year, the day after Thanksgiving, Marlou and her sister-in-law Debbie headed for Stockholm. Everything about the trip felt preposterous. Only weeks before, Marlou and I had sat in a windowless examination room in Palo Alto listening to an oncologist pronounce the end of the road. We have to face facts, she said. Why, I wondered? What does not facing facts look like? What does it matter?
The examining room was dotted with photos of the doctor's babies. The irony of new life, the tragedy of a childless couple, all of this bounced about in the background. Our doctor was from India, described occasional scenes from her life on the subcontinent and brought a good dose of humor to her work. None of which mattered now. The pictures, the wall, the clock on it, none of this mattered. And Marlou wanted to go to Sweden.
She valued her ancestry. One of Marlou's great-grandmothers was born near Gothenburg, and this had resonance for her. The woman was independent, her spirit somehow aligned with Marlou's. The great-grandmother had fled drought and bad economic times in Sweden, found work as a domestic near Chicago. And if I recall the details properly, the beautiful ring Marlou always wore had been passed down from her.
These details are so meager, and one would think keeping track of them would be a minor chore. But I'm not a good detail guy. I retain the emotional force of things and often forget what they looked like. But the details matter here, for the story is a simple one and explains, at least on the surface, Marlou's mission in Sweden. She wanted to be there, close to the ancestral action, at this moment in her waning life. The trip seemed so courageous, so bold, I could only applaud it. While realizing this would shorten our remaining time together. Marlou needed to do it. I needed to let her do it. And off she went with Debbie, my brother and I waving goodbye at Seattle Airport.
There's a mystery at the heart of this story, and it has to do with the great-grandmother's ring. Marlou had recurring nightmares. She lost the ring. Someone was trying to break in through our bedroom window to steal the ring. The ring had simply disappeared. Whatever the plot, these dreams often sent Marlou screaming in the night. Often, she leapt out of bed and checked the jewelry case where the ring resided.
Whatever its monetary value, the ring had ancestral worth. It been passed down through several generations of women in Marlou's family. The great-grandmother had not only left her native country on her own, but pioneered in other ways. She got a divorce, for one thing, and long before such moves were socially acceptable. Marlou was aware of the woman's independence. The personal legacy, family tradition, whatever the ring meant, its force was inescapable. The dreams kept coming. These nightmares seemed to speak from Marlou's core. How much did she dare to be herself? What would happen if she and her parents parted company on some vital issue? I always Marlou she was struggling with such matters.
And now such matters no longer matter. Marlou's matter resides in my pantry, awaiting its scattering. This was one conclusion from a recent trip to Iowa, that the 2 April anniversary of her death will be observed in some ecumenical Yahrzeit. We will gather in Monterey, Marlou's nephews and parents and me. We will throw caution to the winds. We will throw Marlou to the winds. We'll go somewhere warm and have a drink. April.
For now, it's still December. In my mind Marlou is in a dark Scandinavian country, a year ago, accompanied by her sister-in-law and going about ancestral research. Somehow, through connections made online, Marlou had turned up a couple of third cousins. They actually had lunch together. Marlou stood in a snowy field where her great-grandmother had lived on a farm. The buildings were gone. But Marlou was there. She touched the earth in some way, if I recall. Perhaps she touched the ring to the earth. Or the earth to the ring. The details are murky.
Even photographs of the trip seem murky. Dinner with my cousin's daughter in Stockholm, the table set with traditional fare. Indoor shots with ample light, yet there is a dimness about them. From the perspective of a year on, everything looks ominous. I can't recall what Marlou said about her feelings at that point. I can't recall my own. But I knew we were standing at the top of a cliff and one of us was going off it. And soon. Debbie, her sister-in-law, told me that in Sweden she found herself awake in the wee hours on several occasions, went into the hotel bathroom and wept. She had no way of knowing that she was weeping for us all.
'Oh, I have been so scared.' The taxi was still idling outside, and Marlou had barely gotten inside. I stood up from my wheelchair to hold her, taken by surprise by the weeping woman in my arms. I was used to Marlou's reserve, her capacity to keep her composure. But all that was falling away now, with the front door still open. And this is what she had brought back from her trip. Fear. Which was what I had been feeling myself for the 10 days she was gone. Looking at this cliff and realizing I would have to stand at the top and watch her fall. To her death.
Which astonishingly came within four months. The distortion of that time still throws me off. Events that occurred a year ago feel like they must taken place two years previously. Or was it a few months? Couldn't we have said more to each other about the fear? The possibility of agony, real agony, hung over everything. What if.... What do you want me to do if.... Is the Scandinavian trip escapist or defiant or neither? What is the best way to live together these final months? How should we repair what's torn between us? Or forge new bonds? Or is all of this unfolding as it should?
And how can it still be unfolding? When does the past become the past?
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