Would You Please Witness Me?

These last two months (hell, two years) have been among the most intense of my life.

I’ve longed to share and connect with you all, but have held back until I felt more regulated, until “the bigger things happening” settled. 

And yet, more things keep happening. If there’s one thing these past 2 months have taught me, it’s that real connection, real sharing, real vulnerability is everything…. AND, allowing yourself to be SEEN while IN the pain, the grief, the longing… it’s a special kind of “we’re all just walking each other home” experience.

I’m sharing from the messy middle, ya’ll. And thank you for seeing me.

On Aug 28th, my beloved, dapper, ornery-as-hell, brilliant, creative StepDad went into the hospital with pneumonia. He was on the road to recovery when he had a heart attack and passed on Sept 6th. It felt sudden, and shocking… yes, even though he was elderly and in the hospital.

And, it was also a thing of grace…. 

He had been done with this world for months, existing solely on chardonnay, cigarettes, and an occasional egg McMuffin. I was at a total loss as to how to be with that. What was my duty of care for someone that didn’t care?  He had been falling regularly, sending us all into emergency mode at least once a week, refusing care…. only to rinse and repeat the next week. We had been on pins and needles for far too long and our edges were coming unglued. 

I feel exposed sharing all that. Can you please hold the nuance with me… a valuable soul, a good man, who had unraveled in the last months of his earthly experience? 

Thank you. 

Something even more tender to share…. I was blessed to be with him as he passed over. 

I had been prompted to bring him an old school walkman with his favorite music. His room was drenched in sunlight. I sat next to him. He listened for about an hour straight, tapping his fingers, smiling over at me. And then, unbeknownst to me, he started to have a heart attack.

In the space of 5 minutes, things went from a sunlit room of peace and simple being-ness... to a flurry of ordered chaos, people dashing in and out… to absolute stillness and… death. 

The sun was still shining. His body, lifeless, tangled in the sheets. The walkman, now lying on the floor. It must have fallen in the chaos. 

What. Just. Happened??! And thank you. And whaaaat?! And thank you. 

A rush of feelings both strange and intense coursed through me. 

Holy shit, what just happened?!

I am left alone with him. 

I placed my hand over his heart, and wept. The words that kept coming out of my mouth were, “you did it, you did it!” 

It sounded odd, but it was such an authentic expression of my grief in that moment. I felt both sad AND congratulatory as hell. 

You lived, you loved, you made it back to the other side! You did it!! You graduated from Earth! You left on the frequency of music and beauty! That was YOUR frequency! You did it! 

Thank you. Thank you for being here. Thank you for being you. 

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And then... I just leave?! So weird. Someone passes to the other side and… you just leave??! 

But he wasn't there anymore. That was no longer him. 

I left. 

I drove to my Mom’s to tell her in person. My Mom has dementia, I couldn’t stand to tell her over the phone. She collapsed in my arms. I held her tight, we wept together. I told her the story of his passing. And then I repeated it a little while later. I reminded her that she talked to him an hour before he passed…. that his last words on the phone to her were, “I love you, Baby.” I reminded her that she saw him the night before, and although the last several months had been stressful between them, that they doted on each other, and said I love yous. 

Because of her dementia, this has now become our ritual. Tears, hugs, the telling of the story. It is repeated often. I am the keeper of the knowledge, and the witness to his passing. It all feels so sacred and large and intimate.

Doesn’t life shut down when things this sacred and large and intimate happen?!?

Of course, it doesn’t. Life continues to Life. 

A flurry of paperwork, handing of the affairs, talking to people I'd rather not talk to in that moment. 

Driving across town to my Mom. Tears, hugs, the re-telling of the story. 

A mere 3 days after his passing, a remodel that had been scheduled weeks prior began… initially to get our downstairs ready for my Mom and John to move into. Now, just my Mom.  It felt even more important. A primal urge driving me… I want her close to me, I don’t want her to be alone. 

Construction, noise, dust, chaos. 

Paperwork, handing of the affairs, talking to people I'd rather not talk to. 

Driving across town to my Mom. Tears, hugs, the re-telling of the story. 

And squeezed in-between all this, my own floodgates of grief would open and pour out. 

I was so deeply overwhelmed. My mantra: chop wood, carry water. Show up, this is temporary…show up,  this will soon feel settled. You’ll have time to process later. You’ll have time to relax later.

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And then... this unexpected thing called Hurricane Helene arrived in our very landlocked town. In the middle of the might, I hear the tree right outside our window crack and fall. It falls away from our house. Several homes in our neighborhood were not as lucky. When the sun comes out, we’re in shock. Huge trees that were so strong and mighty, now lying in the streets and some crashed into homes. 

Neighbors sharing tarps to cover the damaged roofs.  Chainsaws roaring to life. Fallen power lines. No power, no wifi. 

Our felled tree blocks our cars in the driveway. How will I get to my Mom?!?

Without knowing my dilemma, our neighbors band together to saw a giant grandfather tree blocking our cul-de-sac, and then help us with our own felled tree in our driveway. My heart warms from the kindness. 

Marco and I drive back and forth to my Mom’s to charge her hearing aids and phone, to make sure she has food for the day, and that she feels connected to us. 

Dishes pile up in our sink. The refrigerator food slowly rots, but we make rice and beans over the propane grill and delight in how good it tastes. 

It takes me a good 24 hours to even realize that my beloved Asheville wasn’t just a little worse than us… it was 100x’s worse, completely devastated. Trying to reach friends, thankfully they are safe. Hearing more of the trauma, the decimation. Seeing pictures. In shock at what I see. 

Marco and I carry lanterns through the house at night, we hold each other tight… we feel so thankful for batteries, a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and someone to love and hold close. 

What has kept me sane is the through line running through ALL these latest life happenings… only love matters, and it’s  in the tiny acts of kindness and connection that love SOARS and SHINES above all else.  

I’m late on paying some bills, I have to reschedule clients. I’m absent online. I look like a yeti, my hair is a mess, my legs are hairy, I’ve worn the same outift for days.

None of that matters. What matters is the way that my friends banded together to offer support, to hold space for all the layers of grief. What matters is that I know my Mom feels safe and cared for. What matters is the kindness our neighbors extended to us in our moment of unspoken need. What matters is my partner’s love for me standing steady throughout it all. 

I realize how much I have let the outer world start to tell me what matters. Most of it, if not all, illusory. It shatters into pieces in moments like this. 

Only love matters. Kindness. Connection. Generosity of spirit. 

Asheville is in deep grief and trauma, and will take months, if not years to recover. But talk to anyone there and you will hear awe and reverence for the numerous ways in which this community has come together to help, to heal, to support. It has been a thing of beauty, love and grace.

My Stepdad was a very flawed man. He was impatient, ornery, and saddled with addiction. He had unprocessed traumas that leaked out as anger, anxiety, isolation. But what cracked through in the end was that he was there for me every single day of the 46 years I knew him. I mattered to him. He laughed at my stories, he was interested in knowing about my life,  he told me how pretty I looked whenever I got a new haircut. And he loved my Mother with every fiber of his being. I knew I mattered to him. And he mattered to me. 

His love is what remains. It lives in me, it’s woven into the fabric of my life. 

There are lessons in all this that will take a while to fully digest. But the biggest one, and it’s really the ONLY one… is that only love matters. 

Thank you for witnessing me.

*Our last dinner out together. 12/29/23. John was so content to treat his ladies to a nice dinner. I will treasure this night, always.