Caity McCardell » On Death

Thank You Ken

Caity — Wed, 19 May 2010 03:49:04 +0000

Our community has lost a friend this week. Ken, you were a beautiful, loving man and we will never forget you. You were always a stand for peace in the world, and you reminded everyone that life can be led with dignity and grace. Rest in peace, dear Ken.

My Running Shirt

Caity — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 16:33:59 +0000

I started running, training for a marathon in September. There, I’ve said it.

What’s great about this marathon is it’s in Kauai, which is the same place I first found Vibram Five Fingers a year ago. I was in this posh shoe store there in Princeville and was drawn to these shoes. They were different, interesting, and I think the branding of them told me they were for adventurers – something I have always leaned toward. They were for people who like climbing rocks, running barefoot, running outside, running, running, running. I tried on a pair but didn’t buy them… running would be for later. I fantasized about these shoes for months and finally bought a pair on my birthday. I walked around in them for months (chasing after the kids – running, running – shopping, dishes, gardening, hanging out), and I realized how much I loved them. I also started researching in earnest the possibility of being a runner in these things, including reading the extraordinary book Born to Run. This book changed my life, changed my perspective, and completely rocked my world.

If you want to know what speaks to me it’s How People Are Meant to Do Something. How are people meant to run? Well, in the 70’s, two pretty smart guys from Nike started a movement. The movement was Your Body Isn’t Good Enough, You Need Supportive Shoes To Run, The More Support The Better. And people started responding to that need and have forked out billions and billions of dollars chasing the perfect supportive shoe because they thought/think their feet need help. And the injuries started happening and now people have the idea that running is inherently dangerous! If you look at the statistics on running-related injuries, you’re almost guaranteed to have an injury at some point if you take on the sport. And people just consider that to be normal and, in fact, they blame it on their bodies and run out to buy more supportive shoes.

Consider this: If you put your healthy arm in a cast (it’s so supportive!) after a period of time your arm muscles are going to become weak, your arm is just not going to be living up to its potential. It’s the same with our feet in running shoes – the muscles of the feet don’t get a chance to fully develop and naturally support our bodies.

So every morning I wake up at 5:30, drink some water, check my email and go off for a run in my Vibram Five Fingers (which is similar to being barefoot) or do pilates to strengthen my core. This has been going on for about 3 weeks, so it’s starting to become a (drumroll please) HABIT. My first run was .7 miles. My run yesterday was 4 miles. As my mother-in-law said, the journey of 1,000 miles begins with a single step.

This journey… seeing the shoes in Kauai, being attracted to (and blown away by) the book Born to Run (we are!), being at a place in my kids’ lives where they’re independent enough for me to take on a passion like this… this perfect storm has solidified. And part of the solidification is my realization that I need a place to put my grief and the shame that I feel.

Setting aside the shame for now, the grief is really the juicy bit. I’ve been wondering for a year now – what does a person do with overwhelming grief? How do I talk about the whether and diaper changing / nap needs with my cohousing friends? How can I feel like I *belong* with this overwhelming grief I feel? I’ll repeat what I’ve no doubt written before: I HAVE LOST TRACK OF THE NUMBER OF PEOPLE WHO HAVE DIED IN MY FAMILY IN THE LAST 7 YEARS. Sometimes I’m not sure how to talk about that, but I want to somehow find a voice, an expression of it.

Having a sense of belonging, I’ve come to realize, is very important to me. And being someone who’s not normal in the sense of typical Americana, I either stand out or get ignored in a way that feels uncomfortable sometimes but empowering most times (I have values that I feel strongly about and that keeps me strong). Being in this place of grief has propelled me into feeling like I don’t belong, in spite of having ample resources I can call on.

I’m obsessed with Runner’s World magazine, and their December 2009 issue had an article about a woman grieving her friend’s death. She concluded the piece telling about a morning with heavy rain, matching her tears, she tied on her shoes and ran out, bracing herself against the weather and her sorrow, telling herself that the wet, the cold, the pain, the literal workout of her body was – and this is what grabs me and pulls me forward – that this running reminds her that she’s still alive.

I realized that I’m running for the children in my family who are dead. I imagine Liam running like Gianna (they’re the same age), the way Gianna forces her elbows back and forth when she runs, like a dedicated athlete in the context of serious play. I imagine Liam running after her and I remember that, in my self-obsessed way, I can do that for him.

I’m running for Aiden, who, unlike Liam, never had the opportunity to breathe on his own, let alone run. He would be walking now, playing with his sister, wearing little boy clothes, looking at little books his Aunt Caity would send him. I’m running for him.

And then there’s Andrei. He would have loved my obsession with running. He would have helped me figure out ways of training my muscles on “rest” days. And while he wouldn’t agree with my raw diet, perhaps, he would be cheering me on and celebrating with me. He was passionate about personal development and working out. I’m running for him, because I haven’t been able to put his death to any kind of rest. His death stands out as unimaginably painful… the kind of disbelief I can’t put my heart and head around yet. So he’s standing there next to the road, waving me on.

I got my tshirt in the mail today. It’s what I’ll wear to Kauai in September.

Visited Aiden Today

Caity — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 23:09:30 +0000

The kids ran through the cemetery, reading the stones, commenting on the difference in the sizes. They figured out that the larger ones were bought by people who had more money.

Jerry Podell

Caity — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 05:05:05 +0000

Holding his hand while he talked, I asked him, “is this comfortable? Is your arm OK in this position?” Yes, yes, it’s fine, he assured me. He told circular stories, images, of his childhood. “They didn’t want us to go to that side of the city – they told us we might get beat up by the blacks. I took the trolly car down this long main street,” (gesturing with his hands) “and it ran parallel to this other main street. Oh, I wish I had a big piece of paper I could show you more clearly.” “That’s OK, your description is perfect. What would you do when you went downtown?” “Well, first we’d have to get on the trolly. It was 5 cents and we’d get on and go down this large main street that ran parallel to this other one…” Later I kissed him goodbye. I remember the first time I took that risk of intimacy, knowing that it was perfectly natural at that point to give my father-in-law a smooch on his head.

Up until this year he’d tell us clear, non-circular stories about his life in Philadelphia and Atlantic City. He remembered details about his childhood and the war… but of course he couldn’t remember what he had for lunch.

Alzheimer’s disease took pieces of him away from his wife moment by moment, day by day. We’d visit and notice extreme differences, but he was the same Jerry in many ways – so quick with an effortless joke, worried about the door being unlocked. His expressions of love for us became more frequent… he’d tell us how happy he was to see us. The children were a huge source of joy.

And the music! Jerry knew upward of 2,000 songs from back in the day. He’d play his sax or clarinet. Stefan learned piano so that he could accompany his dad, and it absolutely ignited Jerry. Playing music was a way to bring Jerry back from Alzheimer’s land, but he’d get tired from the exertion of playing.

He died on Sunday. He was 89. Stefan saw him four days before and he asked about me and the kids. We’re happy that he still remembered who we were – the disease hadn’t taken that from him yet. He was at home with my sister- and brother-in-law. We think he was comfortable, asleep, ready.

As usual, I think of this experience in terms of how our children are effected – what this offers them, how the story of their grandfather weaves into their lives. And I envision them telling friends in the future: “my grandfather was a pilot in World War II! He got SHOT AT!” And he was a tenured professor and he was an incredible musician who inspired his sons on so many levels.

He and the family are freed from the grip of Alzheimer’s disease, but his death brings up the tenderness of his love and the depth of his life… a time for reflection and clarity. We loved him.

You Choose

Caity — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 03:49:05 +0000

Life or death? Living in life or living dead?

I get to choose. Every day, every moment.

I didn’t want this day to end – the most beautiful day at Pismo Beach we’ve had. It was Anders’ birthday and the sun was out, the waves were perfect, there were dolphins, no wind. Absolutely beautiful. Stefan was there, we rode the waves. Celebrated with cake from New Frontiers. Colin hunted clams and crabs, as usual. Gianna rode a boogey board, as usual. Everyone smiled. Stefan and I briefly talked about Andrei and I realized that I have been sinking into all the death, all the shit. Am I dead? I envisioned a reporter asking me, “how did you get through that period of your life?” and my answer was, “well, we either respond to grief by becoming very alive or essentially dying.” And I realized, once again, looking at those beautiful waves and watching my children explore their world, that I get to choose.

Send in the Shrink

Caity — Mon, 18 May 2009 02:27:11 +0000

Guess Colin’s most frequently asked question of late:

A. Can I have some candy?
B. What time can I watch The Magic School Bus?
C. What does that big yellow M stand for?
D. What happens when we die?

If you answered D: What happens when we die? you get the grand prize.

Today I dragged him to Santa Maria to see SteveSongs perform live in concert. While all the preschoolers around us danced and sang and generally acted cute to the extreme, Colin did not. Eventually, he asked over the music, crying, “before we die, do we go to the doctor?” It was time to go.

This isn’t a new question – it’s a regular need for him to discuss his fears around dying – except he’s never brought the doctor into it until today. His interest in knowing there’s a doctor who’s going to help us before we die tells me that his little boy brain is looking deeper for answers, looking for more specific reassurance.

We talk about it, I ask him questions, I tell him my perspective. In one of our conversations, I asked him where he thinks Uncle Andrei is. He answered, crying, “HE’S IN A BOX!” It’s true. When we visit Grandma, he sometimes pays Uncle Andrei a visit, checking out his ashes, blowing out the candle next to the box.

We’ve visited Cousin Baby Aiden at the cemetery. He’s in a box, too, but underground. This is way too much, me thinks, for a 4-year-old to deal with – within the context of a culture that doesn’t acknowledge death, that doesn’t talk about death. He’s just not sure where to put all the death in the family into his picture of the world. And it didn’t help that there was marital strife to the extreme and a terrifying fire last year.

He’s trying to piece together ideas that most adults can’t wrap their hearts and brains around. He’s too young to understand the concept of time, for crying out loud, let alone something as big and uncertain and beautiful/horrific as dying is.

Stefan and I pop Lexapro and see a therapist and think it’s all good. Maybe it’s time to bring in some outside help for our little guy.

Eileen

Caity — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 06:56:16 +0000

A purse she gave me when I was a teenager – bright red with pearly beads hanging down the front and a long, thin strap.

A children’s book called A Handful of Sunshine with an inscription: “To Gianna with love from George and Eileen 2005.”

A magnetic board with Dega’s ballet dancers.

I’m reminded of Eileen all the time, and it’s just amazing how these things in our home represent her now. Things that were gifts from Eileen that I once thanked her for. Of course, I was enthusiastic with my gratitude – they’re really beautiful items – and I always knew Eileen had great taste and had the perfect level of generosity (not overly, not underly). I just never knew that the gifts she gave me and my children would one day BE her in a way.

Jamie calls out “Sasha Eileen McPherson!” and I’m reminded of Eileen again… my brother and Jamie gave Sasha “Eileen” for her middle name.

She was too young and brilliant and loving to die so early, and I’m sorry I won’t see her again. But I see her gifts all the time, and I protect the purse she gave me. It hangs in our bedroom in a corner where the sunlight won’t get it. The kids ask me to read A Handful of Sunshine and I get to remember the sunflowers Eileen gave Gianna that day to go with the book. Sunflowers Gianna danced around with like they were her partner, since they were about her height.

Eileen might cringe if she knew I was writing this, but I’ll write it anyway because I wish she knew: I miss her.

Baby Aiden Anniversary Memorial

Caity — Fri, 10 Apr 2009 05:47:30 +0000

Today we had an anniversary celebration/memorial for my nephew, Baby Aiden, here at the community. It’s been a year since he died at the age of just two weeks. His mom created a really nice gathering in his honor, including food and cake and photos of sweet little Aiden. It was a very touching event to me, but it was light and fun – everyone played and ate and talked. Of course, Baby Aiden’s sister was in the house!!!

She loves the swing…

We’re taking Sasha to Bakersfield with us on Saturday to surprise my brother in The Salvation Army rehabilitation center. She’s going to love seeing him!

The BMW

Caity — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 15:40:22 +0000

When I was a kid, I danced in performances of The Nutcracker and Sleeping Beauty, took ballet classes and wore dresses. I was very girlie… but there was a side of me that wanted to be a boy. In 5th grade I dressed like a boy for school one day – no girl at that time ever wore OP shorts, Vans shoes. (Let me know if that’s not true – it’s the way I remember it.) I remember it felt good.

I get that same feeling when I drive Andrei’s car. I know, it’s a bit of a stretch comparing dressing boyish with driving a car, but that car is still Andrei’s. When I drive it, there’s really a sense that I’m pretending – or that I’m in his world, especially when the stereo is working.

I drove it to Bakersfield on Friday, without the kids, to pick up Sam. I kept thinking, “thanks, Andrei, for letting me use your car.” He’s dead and I don’t think he can hear me, but a part of me is connected to him through that car he loved.

Half way through the trip there the stereo stopped working, giving me the opportunity to talk myself through some video ideas for the smoothie website I’m working on. The BMW has a lot of things wrong with it – the stereo, the sunroof, the gas cap, and other things that need to be fixed or just lived with. The car and it’s little issues remind me of Andrei – remind me of all of us, but particularly Andrei. On the surface he was so beautiful and sophisticated and smart – like the reputation of his car. But under the hood there were some issues that weren’t being addressed.

I wish he were still here. He’d love to get to know the kids. I bet he’d be happy Sam’s in rehab. I’d love to talk to him about my smoothie site. I’d love to watch him drive up in his car.

Ride

Caity — Sat, 07 Mar 2009 17:36:51 +0000

No wonder Stefan’s tired this morning!

We went to the gym together after the papa-back-riding episode. It was so great working out – my upper body is pretty gooshed right now. I was reminded that when Andrei died we vowed to workout more in his honor… he was an avid gym rat. It’s still absolutely unbelievable that he’s gone… how amazing that it can still feel, after 7 months or so, completely unreal. My brain still does a funny trick about him… like maybe he’s still living in Santa Rosa… just for a second. It’s like living in a dream world for just a split second of time. I still have his cell phone programmed in my cell… like it would be disrespectful or ending something or making him more dead if I remove it.

Anyway, we had a good workout. It’s what we have, right?