December 7th means two things to me – Pearl Harbor and the day my mother died, almost 12 years ago.
Both events caused mass shock and destruction, albeit on different scales – one historical, one deeply personal.
Pearl Harbor, December 7th, 1941.
I know it probably seems strange to you that I even note the connection between these events but as a writer, I’ve always appreciated the ripe imagery here.
My mother’s death was not a surprise attack – she had been battling a wicked head and neck cancer with weeks of radiation and then chemotherapy. The results were cruel – she lost 50 pounds and her voice only to learn that a previously undetected tumor on the base of her tongue was discovered.
I know you know – cancer sucks.
She was devastatingly brave, making even her aloof oncologist shake his head at her steely grit. He told us she probably had a couple of months left so we approached the holidays with a “We are the World” attitude, thinking we could turn the tables on cancer and make it a Hallmark Christmas.
A C. diff infection obliterated that plan pretty quickly and she died peacefully in a hospital on a blustery December night as I held her warm hand.
This is how I remember the Virginia sky the evening my mother died on December 7th, 2002.
I was happy she was no longer in pain and that her exit was full of grace and a peace that she rarely found in her life.
My bombs dropped later, as I dealt – or more accurately, did not deal – with a paralyzing grief and despair that I had never known. And there were many causalities – my loving partner (irreparable damage), my relationship with my sister (since repaired), and my own certainness in the world (a work in progress).
I eventually made my way back to the living and my life – a new life, not the one I had always imagined. And I always think of my combat experience with grief when December 7th rolls around each year.
I think it’s important for me to remember it all – the pain, the destruction, and the armistice I finally brokered through a lot of hard work in therapy and a renewed relationship with my faith.
My mother died young – 70 – and in the past several years I’ve seen many friends navigate these same battles. I try to help in meaningful ways but for the most part, I think it is a solitary journey for each of us.
And I think Winston Churchill got it right about war, any kind of war, when he said, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”
This boot was made for touring. Our journey is outlined in red.
Andiamo!
That’s the Italian word for the phrase “Let’s go!” – and that was pretty much the mantra of my recent trip to Italy.
We andiamoed all over the boot.
My wife and I decided on Italy as the destination for a belated honeymoon after our wedding in May and the actual planning of the trip taught me that compromise is an important part of a successful marriage. You see, my wife wanted to book at tour – a big fat tour – two weeks, 16 cities, with 43 of our closest personal friends that we had not yet met.
I had never been on such a tour but somehow knew that I would hate it. I don’t really have control issues (no, really) but I don’t much like being told what to do and when to do it. I had more in mind a smaller more intimate kind of trip. In the end, we compromised and booked the big fat tour.
What? I want to stay happily married for a very long time.
Selfies are just as silly in Italy as they are in North Carolina. This one was taken in the beautiful fishing village of Burano.
And to my pleasant surprise, the tour was not the least bit awful and it gave us access to so many unique opportunities we would have never had on our own.
I am now, of course, an expert on Italian tours and will share with you some important keys to having a positive tour experience. Prego. (You’re welcome.)
First – make sure there are lots of Australians on your tour. This is essential. “Aussie” is apparently universal slang for Most Fun People on the Planet. Seriously. We had 13 Aussies on our tour – ranging in age from 15 to 70+ and there wasn’t a dud in the bunch.
The folks from the land down under are a joyous lot and we closed the bar with them most nights. Actually, they let us hang out with them until we fell over and they closed the bar down. Apparently, Aussies also have hollow legs, allowing them to hold greater quantities of spirits.
And then there are those fabulous accents. They told us that they hate that Crocodile Dundee is the image most Americans have of Australians. I told them that we have similar fears, namely Honey Boo Boo.
They even made me a little Aussie dictionary, on a cocktail napkin, of course, with a bunch of their fun sayings. They call vacation “holiday” and all candy is a “lolly” – cute, right?
The next key to a great tour is a great tour director and we scored on that one big time with our guide, Muris, a handsome and charming Italian man – but then again, aren’t they all?
Muris is in his forties and has been a travel director for over 20 years. He was the perfect dispenser of interesting information without being professorial, enthusiastic but not perky. But what I loved most about Muris was how much he loves his country. He talked about Italy in the way you would talk about a beautiful woman and he wanted us to fall for her, too. And we did.
We’re just mad about Muris. Here he’s schooling us on Positano in the background.
He spoke English lyrically with a sexy Italian undertone and would woo us with phrases like “hid-in treazure” when a surprise stop was upcoming. And he threw in some very special touches along the way – like popping bottles of Prosecco and offering a toast when we disembarked after our gondola ride in Venice.
Most of us – men, women, and lesbians – were in love with him by the end of the trip.
Another key to enjoying your tour is to prepare yourself by letting go of the following three things:
1. Sleep as you know it
2. Trying to not look like a tourist.
3. Fear of the bidet.
Allow me to elaborate. On most travel days, your bag has to be outside your hotel room door by 7:00 A.M. Yes, it’s rough, but nothing three Advil and a double espresso can’t cure.
You just have to admit it, Europeans are cooler than us. Period. I don’t care how suave and sophisticated you think you are. And they are impervious to all weather conditions. The first few days of our tour, the weather was unseasonably warm. One afternoon in Capri, we were sweating like Italian sausages in a skillet surrounded by impossibly gorgeous Italians sauntering around with scarves draped artfully around their necks.
Scarves!
Just surrender and clutch your Rick Steves’ guidebook with confidence.
Okay, the bidet. You have to face it – literally, because it’s in every hotel room just staring at you as if to dare you to engage. Australia doesn’t have bidets either and the fascination with this fixture became a running joke with our Aussie posse. One morning, I greeted them at breakfast with a hearty, “Bidet, mates!”
So be bold and seize the bidet.
My optional solo excursion in Lake Maggiore.
I did have a few low moments on the tour when I hit critical mass with the pack and I sat out some optional excursions to just chill out and soak up the local culture or as I call it, wine.
Sometimes it was just too much talking. And those damn radios. Every stop along the way we had a local expert telling us everything they thought we needed to know. Near the end of the tour in Florence, we were viewing the magnificent statue of David and I pulled my earplugs out to just gaze as our guide kept filling us with factoids.
My ever attentive wife looked at me seriously and mouthed, “She’s still talking.” I mouthed back to her, “I don’t care.”
I could have sworn David smiled at me.
The David. No words needed.
But all in all, the tour was a magical experience. Most of our traveling companions were also celebrating special events – milestone birthdays, anniversaries, a grandmother’s gift to her granddaughter, and so on. And there was something very sweet and intimate about sharing a group dream come true.
Maybe that’s why on our final ride to our hotel in Rome on our last night together, there wasn’t a dry eye to be found when Muris cued up his iPod and we heard the romantic tenor of Andrea Bocelli serenading us.
Con Te Partiro.
Time to Say Goodbye.
Sunset over the Basillica of St. Francis of Assisi.
After all the many years of waiting for marriage equality, I never imagined I would learn that I was legally married in my home state of North Carolina from a Facebook post.
But that’s how it happened last Friday, October 10th. My wife (we were married in the District of Columbia in May) and I have a Friday ritual of going to a late matinee. It’s a perfect way to wind down the work week and kick off the weekend.
So there we were sitting in a/perture cinema with a handful of folks waiting for “The Skeleton Twins” to begin when we checked our phones one last time. We had, of course, been following the events of the day via live streams, texts, and yes, Facebook.
The word was that Judge Osteen’s ruling would not come down until sometime on Monday, leaving lots of hopeful same-sex couples standing at the proverbial altar – or more precisely, the Register of Deeds office.
And then the frantic announcement came down – a judge in Asheville had bitch slapped Amendment One to death and same-sex marriage was now legal in the Old North State.
I had always dreamed that the moment of being equal would feel like the scenes from the end of World War II when people ran into the streets and strangers embraced to celebrate.
Instead, my wife and I exchanged no words – we simply looked at each other’s tears streaming down our faces and gently kissed. It was as intimate and reverent and perfect as one moment can be.
My Facebook post celebrating marriage equality.
We thought for a minute about abandoning the movie and finding some friends to celebrate with but we stayed and held hands in the dark for 90 minutes.
No wonder those poor misguided folks were so afraid of same-sex marriage.
Afterwards, we went out for dinner and caught up on the Facebook frenzy. I remarked that I hadn’t seen such a gay FB feed since Madonna’s Super Bowl halftime performance.
It was like the best roller coaster ride ever seeing all the posts, photos and videos of couples getting married – simply thrilling.
My friends Michelle and Karen – with the Rev. Julie Peeples officiating – were one of the first couples to wed once the ruling came down.
Earlier in the day, I was interviewed by a local reporter about the anticipated demise of Amendment One and she asked me if I had any regrets about not waiting to get married in North Carolina. I told her, “Absolutely not.”
We were ready and damn tired of waiting.
I’m just so profoundly grateful that history has finally caught up with our hearts.
After 48 years together, these iconic sweethearts (Pearl and Lennie) are finally legally married in North Carolina.
1. absence of blogging or procrastinating from posting on a blog
2. lame excuse for not blogging
Yep, that’s me. I’m suffering from blogathy and the only cure is to post posthaste.
I can now confess to having a deeper appreciation of those who blog on a regular basis – like more than once in a blue moon. It’s harder than it looks.
Seriously.
I’ve posted several things in my head over the last couple of weeks but even though you read my blog, you can’t read my mind. At least, I hope you can’t, and if you can, Jodie Foster was simply making a cameo appearance.
Truthfully, I’m having a hard time focusing on anything of late but my upcoming trip to Italy with my wife. We got married in May and we’re calling this our honeymoon because sometimes it’s fun to talk like straight people.
I traveled to Italy four years ago with three other (fabulous) women. I was still raw around the edges after a tumultuous breakup and the journey was a healing balm for me in ways that I could have never imagined.
One day on our trip we were hiking through a tiny Tuscan village when our beautiful guide, Francesca, stopped to speak with an older woman tending her garden. The two women embraced and kissed on each cheek and spoke animatedly to one another for several minutes.
When Francesca returned to our group, I said, “How nice, you ran into someone you know.” She looked at me sweetly with a confused expression and said, “No, I just met her.”
That’s Italy.
Italians savor la dolce vita in all aspects of life – food, nature, people – and you can’t help but fall under this spell when you’re there. The Russian poet Anna Akhmatova eloquently captured this feeling when she wrote, “Italy is a dream that keeps returning for the rest of you life.”
This is the first “big” trip my wife and I have taken together and I’m hoping we’re a good travel match. She’s never been to Italy and has read her Rick Steves’ guidebook from cover to cover.
I’ve tried not to be annoyed at night when we’re in bed reading and she feels compelled to share some unknown factoid about Venice with me. Besides, who knew only three to four gondolier licenses are issued annually? Exactly.
I’m usually an obsessive planner with a vacation but this time I agreed to a tour and I’m blissfully letting someone else be the boss for a couple of weeks. I barely even know our itinerary and that is exhilarating to me.
I just know that some lovely stranger is going to schlep my over packed bag from hotel to hotel for me. What’s not to like?
Now I’m shamelessly hoping that my prologue-travelogue has made you forget about my sorry blogathy as visions from pizza to Pisa dance through your head.
I promise to be a better blogger upon my return.
Ciao, ya’ll!
Italy is a dream that keeps returning for the rest of your life.
The most asked and wholly unanswerable question following a suicide.
I asked that question almost four decades ago when my cousin Russ killed himself with a shotgun blast to the temple when he was 19. I didn’t know any better. I was only 17 and couldn’t imagine why anyone would take their own life.
I did not ask that question a few weeks ago when I heard about the suicide of Robin Williams.
The cover page of my cousin’s suicide note
You see, I’ve learned a great deal about chronic depression over the years, mostly from my younger sister, who has battled it since she was about 12. She was a lone warrior for many years, growing up in a family and a world where such things were not discussed openly.
Lord knows my parents tried to understand and eventually agreed to let her see a psychiatrist when she was 19. My father was a proud and private man and simply couldn’t process the idea of his daughter spilling her guts to a complete stranger.
A frantic phone call from my mother one afternoon telling him to hide his shotgun changed his mind.
I was tone deaf to her depression for so many years. When she bailed time and again on plans we had made because she couldn’t get out of bed, I took it personally and thought she was selfish and lazy.
A glimmer of light appeared one day on the phone when she said to me, “Addison, this would be easier for you to understand if I had cancer or a broken arm – something you could see.”
She was right and I can still choke on the shame and regret for my lack of compassion during that time in her life. But I did begin to “see” her illness through a very sober lens when she told me she was going to undergo ECT – electroconvulsive therapy – a “last resort” treatment where seizures are electrically induced to provide relief from among other things, major depression.
Yes, that got my attention in a big way. I had chilling visions of “One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest” and tried to imagine how desperate my sister must have felt to agree to undergo such an intense procedure – twice.
There was a period of a few years after that when the phone ringing late at night would stand me still. I knew it would be someone on the other end telling me that she had taken her own life.
Today, my sister says she is one of the “lucky” ones because in her late thirties, she was led to a psychiatrist who had done a lot of work around the connection between the thyroid and chronic depression. He put her on a drug combination that pulled her out of the abyss she had lived in for over 20 years.
She vividly recalls the overwhelming awe of experiencing what “normal” feels like after only a few days on the regimen. Is she living happily ever after? No, she still struggles not infrequently with bouts of depression, but she has not experienced suicidal depression since then. This may be as good as it gets for her, but she’ll take it.
My sister and I at my wedding in May.
My wife, a psychotherapist for over 25 years, explained to me that medication treatment for chronic depression is “like trying to hit a moving target” because what is effective today may not remain effective over the long term.
In the aftermath of Robin Williams’ death, my sister and I have had some long and insightful conversations about depression. His death rattled her to her core – that someone with all of his success and resources – could not survive his demons.
She’s told me some things I never knew before – like that her earliest memory of depression was when she was in the first grade. She didn’t have the language for it then but she just knew she was different and that she “wasn’t having fun like the other kids.”
My heart ached for the little red headed girl that loved Hello Kitty and Snoopy and followed her big sister around like a shadow.
She pulled out our cousin’s suicide letter and read it again. Our beloved Aunt Phyllis gave it to her many years ago, knowing that my sister might understand her son’s words in a way that the rest of us could not.
I read it again, too, this time with the wisdom of years and tears and I kept coming back to one line again and again. Russ wrote, “I am not actually seeking death but only an alternative to an unhappy life.”
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