Running

In the fragile days after Errol's death, art therapy, grief counseling, and Camp Carousel at Hospice has been a salve for our mourning family. There isn't much I'd run a mile for (much less 3.1) but Hospice has kept us moving, and so on April 16, I will run for Hospice.

I don't set an alarm for 3 in the morning to practice getting up each day, and being opposed to the idea of running, I had decided that my training for the 5K would be the race itself. But after numerous warnings about the necessity of training, the fear of being lapped by toddlers, and the beautiful April weather, I began my 5K training in earnest last week.

The hardest part of the training was the first block, I cursed the asphalt, rued the invention of running, and scorned my shaky body that disobeyed all my positive thinking. But as my panic passed, my muscles relaxed, I settled into a rhythm with the breeze, and thoughts of Errol propelled me along under the bright sky.

On Saturday, April 16, with Errol's name written across my shirt, in a sea of runners propelled by memory, your generosity will push me through the day, as I run in honor of Errol.

Hope Run

I hate running, but Hospice meant so much to our family that I'm running the annual Hospice Hope Run 5K in honor of Errol.

Birthday

Errol was born on March 8, 2006.
He loved to celebrate.
It's hard to believe Errol won't be with us for his big day.

Labyrinth

Spring’s first attempt comes early, as the fledgling January sun pokes a hole through the winter, and warm sky fills with cotton candy clouds. Owen and I return to Hospice, and when his art therapy session is over, Owen bounds happily into the hallway, “Daddy!” he shouts. His smiling counselor, following behind, suggests Owen and I walk the labyrinth that is laid out on the floor in the conference room.

A table covered with candles, sprigs of sage, and a basket of small smooth pebbles sits just inside the conference room. Owen and I light a candle each for Errol, I slip a soft cool pebble into my palm, we slide our shoes off and walk towards the labyrinth.

The circular design of the labyrinth comes from the 15th century floor mosaics of Chartres Cathedral. There is one narrow path that twists and turns around and around itself, leading to the center of the circle and then out again. I step into the labyrinth, and follow the path through the lunations - the partial circles that form the outer rings of the labyrinth – and towards the labyrinth’s middle. The journey in is supposed to center my mind on Errol, and then after I leave my stone at the labyrinth’s center and follow the path back out, quiet my mind.

I step across the shards of light that break across the path, and Owen rushes ahead of me, tongue clicking – his happiest noise - hoping to beat me in the race he has imagined. The lane I follow coils in upon itself, snaking at once towards the center and then suddenly back out. My mind hums and crackles, alive with memories. Then Owen comes abreast of me, we are separated by only a thin line, and as he plunges ahead I hit one of the labyrinth’s 112 foils, which doubles me back upon myself, and away from Owen and the middle. The farther we walk, the farther we seem to get from the middle, but Owen doesn’t care, and skips happily onward, at triple my speed, his bobbing head catching the late afternoon light. “I’m already on my way back, Daddy!” he shouts out, triumphantly, as he passes me, returning from the middle. He skips across the labyrinth like a stone, while I sink deep into thoughts of Errol.

Long after Owen, who is already untying the knot of the maze, I arrive at the middle of the labyrinth. I uncoil my hand, and there is the pebble I had forgotten I was carrying for Errol. As I stoop to drop the stone in the basket, I see that there are already nine stones there: nine other lives, nine other deaths, nine other memories. Who are these rocks are for? I wonder. At the end of the day will these rocks be returned to the table for tomorrow’s mourners to carry with them? It all seems so futile. The maze. The circles. The rocks. Around, and around, and around we go. But Owen is smiling and running, running, down the lanes, making a game of it.

And then I drop, unexpectedly. I find myself on my knees, like a penitent. I should get up, I think. This will look odd. With the sunlight streaming through the window, and Owen hopping across the lines of the labyrinth, I think, What a silly thing to be on my knees, trapped in this web. I peer down into the basket, like it might hold an answer.

I remember a day almost twenty years ago when Cary and I were just married. It was late Saturday afternoon, the rains had left the city wet, and now, the sun had come back out for one last stand, the asphalt paths in the park steaming. Everyone had retreated inside, and as the sun returned for a moment before being swallowed back up by the evening we had the park to ourselves. I rode my bike ahead of Cary, following one pleasing sight and then another, and then I rode off the path and out into a wide green field that was bisected by gigantic power lines carrying electricity above the earth. Then, finding just the right place, I came to a stop and dropped my bike beside me onto the ground, and the next thing I knew I was on my chest, lying flat in the field, holding tight to the earth. I let go, turned over, and my eyes swept up and down the power lines, following the gray cables to the horizon where they stretched on, beyond my seeing. I imagined that the lines ran so far that they circled the earth, and met back here above me. The lines buzzed overhead, house lights brightened, the evening swelled like a wave, and I breathed in as much of it as I could. Twenty years later, back on the ground, encircled by lines, I exhale, stand up, and walk back down the path towards Owen.

Following his own rules, Owen speeds down the path like it is made of ice, heading back for a second pass. After a moment, we cross each other again as I head out of the labyrinth, and Owen, always in transit, skips away. As I shuffle forward with my eyes focused on the path, my vision narrows, and the room flattens like a horizon. The more I concentrate on the steps right in front of me, the further all thoughts fade until I find myself, back outside the labyrinth. Owen slides past me, “I won, Daddy!” and we sit beside the burning candles, put our shoes back on, and slip back into the warm afternoon.

Planting

Outside our cozy house the earth is white. Mercifully, this long cold year is finally coming to an end. Perhaps in the new year something will grow from the hard lessons we have unhappily planted in the ground.



Dirge Without Music

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the
love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not
approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the
world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Searching

As we get closer to December 23, our trip to Guatemala for Cary’s brother Roy’s wedding is a warm respite from our swelling grief. The historic town of Antigua sits in a valley between three volcanoes, and one morning, Owen and I sit on the roof of our hotel and watch ash billow from a volcano. The day after Owen’s Uncle’s wedding, the family leaves the comforts of Antigua to climb the 8,373 foot volcano, Pacaya. As we hike above the tree line, steam rises out of vents in the earth, and during a rest break we have to stand because the ground is too hot to sit on. After our break, we continue up, sloshing through volcanic ash, over pumice and rock, making our way, higher and higher. When we stop at a deep steaming fissure, the stick Owen throws into the searing crevice bursts into flame before it reaches the bottom.

One night, back home, the rush of Christmas passed, Owen dreams about Errol. He wakes in a golden mood, and the story of his dream spills from his mouth.
I was in Guatemala. These monkeys were throwing coconuts down to us. My brother was giggling. He really liked the monkeys chittering. We all liked what the monkeys did because most of the time it was funny.

The next day, at art therapy, Owen builds a sand volcano that buries all his figurines. At the end of the session, as Owen squirms between us, his therapist reports, “Owen is really working with an intense volcano metaphor!”
“The metaphor is intense,” I agree, “but Owen really did climb a volcano last week.” His therapist looks impressed. “Well, the volcano keeps erupting and Owen keeps trying to save everybody. And Owen is also scared about what might happen to him. He wants to be invincible.” We both look at Owen, who seems to have grown a foot taller over Christmas. “Remember what invincible means, Owen?” she asks.

Owen looks past us, into the thinning winter light, searching and searching.

Christmas

I can barely remember Christmas day last year, just a day and a half after Errol died. The Christmas presents my mother had bought him were quickly wrapped and stowed in drawers where they remain.

This year, we receive our first white Christmas in memory. We drive through the fine snow to my parents’ house where Owen’s jolly cousins great us, and we march into the living room in chronological order singing, We Wish You A Merry Christmas. After the gifts are opened, my mother brings us Errol’s Christmas stocking, in which each family member has written down a gift Errol gave them: “his smile,” “his courage,” “his laughter.” The children gather around their grandmother, hoping to hear their own memories read aloud. The delicate flakes drift down from the luminous sky and cover the house like a blanket.

Silent Night

On Christmas Eve last year our abridged family awoke without Errol for the first time since his birth; the way we will awake every day for the rest of our reduced lives.

Rescue

I watch the Chilean miner rescue play out in real time. I’m thinking of all the people worldwide who are buoyed by the happy ending, living vicariously through the Chilean miners. My mind veers off into a fantasy and I think that if the rescuers save these miners we can go back and save our own beloved Errol. I think…

They will save the miners.

The doctors will save Errol.

We will be happy.

Everyone will be happy.

But as I watch the rescue capsule emerge from the Chilean mine with the first saved miner, the crowd erupting into cheers, his family shedding tears of joy, I am all alone, sorrowfully gazing into the screen, looking for Errol.

Our kitten goes missing and we look desperately for her, the loss of Errol amplifying our rescue efforts. Two days later I find our shell-shocked cat trapped behind a basement wall, pry her out, and bring her upstairs to the light and heat of the house. But I am distraught. It was so easy. Why does the cat get to survive and not Errol? Why couldn’t we save Errol too?

One morning, out at breakfast with Owen, a smiling woman ambles over to our table. “Errol got me through the ICU.” She quavers, looking up at Owen, her eyes glistening, “I kept thinking about that sweet little boy and he helped me make it.” All this time I thought we were the ones to save Errol, but it was Errol who was guiding us out of the darkness with his joyous smile and his ringing laughter.

Happy Memories from 2008

Traces

As the weather turns colder, reminding us of this time last year, Owen's suffering grows with ours. His grandmother bought him a little notebook with the Eiffel Tour on its cover, and when Cary found it lying on the floor of Owen’s room she opened it to see what it was. On the inside of his book, Owen had written in his sweet seven year old hand, “I Leov Errol pucuz Errol Is SOW FunE.”
I love Errol because Errol is so funny.

When she turned the page over she found scrawled on the back, “I rley wis errol was sdil uliv”
I really wish Errol was still alive.

I don’t know what prompted Owen to write these longings. I don’t know why he took the time to commit his yearnings to paper. Maybe he thought it would make Errol more permanent, or even bring Errol back (at least into his mind while he wrote), or maybe just to let the pain run out through his pencil. I don’t know why Owen writes these reminders, but I continue to find little traces of Errol everywhere Owen goes.

Tonight as we put Owen to bed we found a little exhibit of Errol’s pictures that Owen had curated on the floor of his room. Pictures of Owen holding Errol and pictures of Errol smiling up at us all lined up in a row.

We are building the boat as we sail it through this vast sea of grief.