Tag: grief

What Day Is It? And Does It Matter?

September 2nd, 2022
I thought Wednesday was Saturday but I knew Thursday was Thursday and, so far, I’m confident that today is Friday (and my calendar says so too). Tomorrow should be Saturday and I just hope I don’t think it’s Wednesday because I have a couple of appointments and getting my days wrong would really screw things up.

I’m still backsliding on blogging and keeping up with blogs (as in, I’m not keeping up with blogs), but I have been writing a bit. Most of my writing has been on Medium mainly because I submit to publications there. I don’t crow about these publications because, although some of them do offer some good reading, I frankly don’t equate getting published in a Medium publication with getting published in a mainstream literary journal. The truth is, I’m always suspicious when my writing is accepted generally as-is, with perhaps only minor reformatting or editing. But maybe my writing is that good. What do I know?

In any case, here are a few of my most recent essays and stories. The following are “friend” links meaning you do not have to be a paid subscriber to Medium to read them, although you will probably have to open a Medium account if you don’t already have one:
- In The Memoirist: Open My Heart Like a Tin Can
- In Crow’s Feet: To Wear a Bra or Not Wear a Bra and How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Aging Body
- In The Lark: Johnny Walker: A tale of two sisters and Diane in Her Glory (these are both short stories)
I also started my own publication on Medium but it’s only for my writing. It’s called “One Sister’s Journey Through Grief,” and I’ll be using it to share my journey of learning to live with my grief over losing my sister. So far, I’ve published two essays there:
- Why Am I Doing This?
- A Love Story That Began Almost 60 Years Ago Will Never End
I’ve been toying with the thought of also using Substack for my writing. I follow a few writers on Substack, and I’ve only seen one writer (so far) who has the same readers on both Substack and Medium … but she writes about Medium so that’s probably why. Anyway, the idea is to expand my “audience” so to speak. And, while I’m used to WordPress and have had this blog here for a gazillion years, the platform can be clunky and temperamental. Life is getting shorter. I like going with the flow but feel I have less time for the ebb.

Meanwhile …

I’ve joined the SmokeLong Fitness Community Workshop which started on September 1 (that was Thursday). You can read about it in detail here: SmokeLong Fitness Community Workshop. Basically, I pay a monthly fee to be part of a small group online workshop. Every week we’ll be given a writing prompt, and we’re expected to provide feedback on each other’s writing. SmokeLong Fitness also includes monthly webinars, discounts on intensive workshops, and “surprises.” It’s only been a couple of days but I’m feeling psyched (and anxious) about writing and reading in a small group. I still have my novel to work on, but I’m hoping that being prompted to write flash [fill in the blank] will oil my writing gears and get me back on track.

Meanwhile …

I’m knitting.

The beginning of a cardigan!

We decided to get out of town for a couple of days and at the last minute, I grabbed a kit for a knitted cardigan to take with me. That was Tuesday, August 23. Today is Friday, September 2, and I’ve completed the back, left and right front panels, and one sleeve. Woo-hoo! At least I’m on a roll with my knitting. This might be the fastest I’ve ever knitted a cardigan. The key thing for me is to keep momentum and not stall when all the pieces have been knitted and it’s time to stitch them together. Finishing a project (much like editing a novel) is my least favorite part of the process.

Did I mention that I now take two Excedrin first thing in the morning, followed by a caffeinated drink? Caffeine is this writer’s little helper.

I close this post with one of my favorite photos of my sister Shirley (courtesy of my niece-in-law).

Miss you, Shirley
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The Birthday Card I Will Never Send

August 2nd, 2022
August 2 is my sister Shirley’s birthday. She would have been 76 today. Here’s the birthday card I bought for her a couple of months ago.

I think she would have gotten a kick out of it.

During the viewing and funeral in early July, many people came up to me and said I looked just like Shirley, that I could be her twin. Growing up, I never really saw the resemblance.

The sisters in 2007. Shirley is on the left, me on the right. Note that in this photo I have 20% less hair and 20% more body fat than I do now. Just saying …

I was blinded by our age gap. Now when I see photos of her, especially those from when she was in her 20s, I’m stunned by how much I looked like her when I was the same age. It makes me both happy and sad. I’m happy that when people see me, they see her too. I’m sad that I only came to know this now.

In any case …

Happy Birthday, Shirley! I love you and miss you bunches.
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I’m Running Out of July

July 27th, 2022
I’ve got only a couple of days before the month of July is over … to which I say, Good riddance, July! For those of you new to my blog, let me start with the painful acknowledgment of my sister’s death late on July 1. For context, I have three siblings and our birth order is as follows: oldest sister (C), Shirley, brother (G), and, finally, me. Shirley is (and always will be) my second sister, separated in age by just over 11 years. As I was growing up, she was probably more of a babysitter than a sister to me, an authoritative but protective figure; hence, my primal scream when I learned of her death.

We went to the viewing, the funeral, and the burial with my 98-year-old mother in tow. Admittedly, I was initially surprised that my mom wanted to go at all. The grief etched on her face was often difficult to bear. No parent should outlive their child, and the anguish in her open-mouthed but silent howl broke our hearts many times over. After the burial, when I thought for sure she’d head for her bed, she sat in her chair and asked, “So what’s next? Where are we going?”

“To the Auspelmyer’s [my sister’s home]. There will be food. Do you want to come?”

“Well, yeah. I don’t want to miss anything.”

I think I found the secret to my mother’s longevity: She doesn’t want to miss anything.

I want to share this memorial card. I think it was my oldest nephew who selected the poem. It’s perfect. It’s how I want to think of Shirley. Not gone, but always with us, in our hearts.

Here also is a link to her obituary: Shirley Auspelmyer. If you have time, a lovely 9-minute video is also on the website.

Shirley and I started to become close after I left home and crashed my way into adulthood. With every passing year, we missed each other more. When both of us started showing gray hair, the difference between us of 11 years became irrelevant. It didn’t matter that we were a bit like night and day. Shirley had embraced the life of a traditional wife, marrying at 19 and embarking on her sole mission in life: raising a family. She wanted children and grandchildren. She especially loved babies.

I didn’t marry until I was 32 and after I had made sure I’d never have children. I like kids well enough, and I always had fun playing with my grandniece and grandnephews when I visited home. But I didn’t have a mission in life, a desire to propagate unless you consider raising a herd of cats a mission. Although we had our differences, and maybe because of those differences, my sister knew me better than I often knew myself.

For my 30th birthday, she sent me a book of poems. Does anyone recognize this book? I’ve kept it now for 35 years. The pages are brittle but still intact.

Shirley attached a note with the book, and I’ve opened the book to a poem that reminds me of my sister.

The “Ted” she refers to was our neighbor who treated us as if we were his own children. Growing up, Saturdays were shopping days with Ted. He’d buy us anything we wanted. As we got older, Shirley and I became less interested in what Ted might buy us and more satisfied just being with him.

I miss my sister. I won’t ever stop missing her, but I know I need to resume my life. I’m taking baby steps. I’m in no hurry.
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I Could Have Been a Better Sister #grief

July 2nd, 2022
I could have been a better sister.

I was only nine and you were nineteen when you married and left the family home.
As you took your vows, I sat in the pew, steeling myself to be quiet,
voiceless cries whirling in my head: “Don’t go! Don’t leave me!”

I was only nine and, although you left, you didn’t leave me.
Instead, you gave me
the gift of a strong, silent, and steadfast brother in your husband,
the gift of three tall, handsome, and intelligent nephews,
the gift of eight beautiful and gifted grandnieces and grandnephews.

You never left me. You never let me go.

I was the one who left, who packed up my few things and moved across the country,
first to the West, then to the South, never back to the North.

You never let me go. Your letters followed me everywhere.

If only I had thought to tell you that I kept all the letters and cards you sent me.
Over thirty years of missives about the weather, the farm, the boys, your work, your life.

If only I had thought to remind you of your funny stories,
like that time in a hotel when you got locked inside a bathroom
and it took four men and how long to get you out
while you sat on the toilet and patiently waited.

Or how you used to joke about wanting to experience an empty nest as
your two oldest sons cycled through your house as they cycled into adulthood,
first one and then the other,
rinse and repeat,
testing your patience but never your love.

You were always there for your sons,
for your husband,
for our father,
our neighbor,
your friends,
our mother,
our siblings.

For me.

Family was your mission in life.

I could have been a better sister.
I am afraid of life without you.

I wanted to take for granted that you would always be here for me,
that you would never leave me.

When your husband called to say you were in the hospital again,
I felt that nine-year-old girl uncurl in my heart,
her hot fingers clenched as this time she screamed the words, “Don’t go! Don’t leave me!”

You are gone. Not from my heart, not from my memory, but from my future.

I could have been a better sister.
But I could never have been a better sister than you were for me.

In memory of Shirley Marie (Bailey) Auspelmyer
August 2, 1946–July 1, 2022

My sister Shirley circa 1992.
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I’m Not Okay But I’ll Be All Right #grief

June 30th, 2022
I am going to take a hiatus from blogging and writing online. Not that I’ve been doing much of either lately but why not make it official.

Here’s the deal: my sister Shirley is dying. The sister with Parkinson’s. The sister who has been dodging health curveballs most of her adult life. The only one of us four who went on to have her own family: three sons and eight grandchildren. The sister who wrote letters to me after I left home. Long letters that I’ve collected in a box for over thirty years.

We visited my family in May for a few days. I hadn’t seen Shirley in almost seven years and wasn’t prepared for how Parkinson’s had altered her. Cognitively, she was still with it. We had conversations, cracked jokes. Still, I was terrified watching her walk about because she was a fall risk. I’d hover, sometimes holding my breath until she sat down and was, in my view, safe.

A few weeks ago, she was admitted to a local hospital for a UTI. Then she was discharged. Then she was readmitted because the antibiotics hadn’t worked. And it has just gone downhill from there. One week ago, we were all worried about her having an antibiotic-resistant infection. The doctors proposed sending her to an infectious disease center. Before they could do that, they had to do a couple more tests to determine if anything else was causing the infection.

They found a large mass in her abdomen; a biopsy confirmed it was cancer.

Here’s where the rage kicks in. Shirley has been under the care of SEVERAL doctors for SEVERAL years and yet this large mass just appeared? The attending doctor suggested that it might have been growing in her abdomen for at least a year. Seriously?!

But it’s too late for rage. The mass is there, it’s malignant, and treatment is not recommended because of her condition. She hasn’t been responsive for a while so her husband and sons have to make all the decisions. She’ll receive hospice care at the hospital.

I don’t want her to go, but I know we have no choice. I only hope that someday I’ll have the strength to write about her and share my memories of her.

I’ve been inspired and comforted by this essay by Eileen Vorbach Collins: My Grief Goes On: A Letter to My Late Daughter. I can and will grieve for Shirley as long as I’m alive. Just like I still grieve for so many other friends, family members, and furred children that I’ve lost. I haven’t lost the memories, though. The memories are my comfort.

Comments are closed because I need to step away for now. I can imagine what you all would say, though, and, believe me, I appreciate it.

So now, find a loved one–whether furred or hairless or both–and hug them tight.
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River Ghosts by Merril D. Smith #bookreview #poetry

June 20th, 2022
I always feel apprehensive when reviewing poetry, maybe more so than when I’m writing the poetry myself. Some time ago, I took an online writing course, and the instructor mentioned in passing that she liked writing poetry because you didn’t need to explain poetry like you would explain a story or an essay. While that idea frees me to write poetry, it definitely makes it more difficult to review poetry.

Poetry is like music, like art. You can admire the technique, the skill in putting words (or notes or paints) together in a pleasing way. But the poetry I’m attracted to does more than please me. It lifts me out of myself and sets me to ponder ideas and feelings I either hadn’t considered or had been afraid to acknowledge. So ends my long introduction to this review of Merril D. Smith’s book, River Ghosts.

Cover art by Jay Smith

But before I begin my review: Just look at that cover! River Ghosts is published by Nightingale & Sparrow, and what a gorgeous book to hold in my hands. When I first saw the cover on Smith’s blog, I knew I had to have a printed copy. I have not been disappointed. In fact, when I wasn’t reading Smith’s lovely poetry, I had her book displayed on a bookshelf so I could enjoy seeing the cover.

The first poem in this collection–“River Ghosts”–sets up the reader for a journey into the past and present, into if and when, with “echoes / over the river.” The reader is invited to “Observe again.” but also to “Now solve the problem.” And that’s just in the first two poems. Smith might not intend for the reader to “solve the problem” presented in all the poems, but she definitely intends (in my humble opinion) for the reader to observe again and again, whether she is observing “a train to hell,” a first love or dark matter. Like a river, these poems meander–at turns edging toward grief (“our mother stopped eating before she died, / now I hear her ghost-laugh in my dreams”), then sisterly fun (“we rubbed the laughing Buddha’s belly for good luck”), but always listing toward the mysteries of the universe, encompassing life and death:

Once some brilliant star breathed time
in the after-wake of explosion and danced across a universe
exploring eternity

The poems were compiled after Smith’s mother died of COVID-19 in April 2020, and so a number of the poems feature her mother in her youth and old age. She (and others long-deceased) also features as a ghost; not a scary, haunted ghost, but:

Not living,
no longer here,
yet not completely gone.

In her poem “Family Ghosts,” Smith makes clear her calling and intent:

Subsisting, existing
their ghost voices sing to me
I hear them
I feel them–ancestors calling me,
this is what we do, generate, create the songs of our hearts forever.

These are poems I will be turning to often as I seek comfort when my own family members become “not living, / no longer here.” I will find comfort in knowing that they are “not completely gone.” Smith demonstrates how a writer could (and, perhaps, should) allow ancestors to speak through her, echoing through the years, so we always remember not just when but if.

River Ghosts is available on Amazon at this link.

Here are links to two more reviews of River Ghosts as well as an interview with Merril D. Smith:
- Review by Luanne Castle
- Review by Elizabeth Gauffreau (In her review, Liz includes a wonderful video of Smith’s river photographs)
- Interview with Curtis Smith
And if you’re not already a reader of Smith’s blog Yesterday and today: Merril’s historical musings, then please visit her here and sign up.

Thank you for reading!

Busy bee on my lavender Penta.
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RIP Maxine aka She Who Must Be Obeyed

December 9th, 2021
I couldn’t get an appointment on Wednesday with Maxine’s regular vet. It was important to us that Dr. C examine her. Continuity of care and all that.

Maxine in a box, just a little over a year ago.

I did make an appointment for Wednesday but the vet on duty was one that neither of us really cared for. My husband got upset. Things were a little tense. I called back and asked about Thursday, knowing Dr. C would be working that day. She was and I rescheduled for 3 pm Thursday.

I was miffed, and Max had created another urinary mess in the back room. While I cleaned up, my husband administered her now daily dose of fluids. When I finished, I found the both of them lying on the bed. My husband said, “We have to make a decision.”

Talk to the paw.

I was already thinking that. What were we going to do? Find out that she was constipated again, would need another enema, another overnight stay? How often were we going to put her through that? She had flinched and complained when I picked her up that morning, a sure sign that she was probably developing gas in her stomach and colon, that she felt pain, that she was likely miserable.

I texted the veterinary hospital because I knew I couldn’t talk. Yes, they could do the euthanasia instead. We can be with her if we want.

Indeed, we wanted to be with her.

Max expressing her displeasure at going to the vet again.

Again, she laid on my lap while we watched a movie last night. She slept in my husband’s room, two platforms with wee-wee pads on both sides of the bed. Still, she peed on the rug in front of my bathroom sometime during the night. And, yes, I stepped in it this morning.

Ah, the life of a southern cat in summer.

Today, we took turns sitting or lying with her, watching her sleep or slurp her broth, or watching her watching us. Many times I wondered if we were wrong, but it was obvious her body was shutting down. No one lives through that.

Maxine-First Contact 2009

It was good to have Dr. C attend to Max and to us. I’ll be forever grateful. In the past couple of years, and especially the last few months, Dr. C had spent a lot of time with Max. We could tell that she was sad, too.

Our other kitties are now running through the house with big, anxious eyes. A new dynamic will have to emerge. It’ll be interesting to see how the pecking order is reordered. Somehow I think Raji will reign. If anyone can herd cats, it’s him.

Maxine, our oldest, with Raji, our youngest.
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Occasional Soulmates free through Sunday!

May 1st, 2015
Here’s your chance for a great FREE read: Occasional Soulmates by Kevin Brennan is FREE to download this weekend only! Get yourself a copy for a guilty pleasure or gift it to friends. It has all the ingredients of a page-turner: love, sex, humor, San Francisco, grief, mystery, secrets, San Francisco … okay, I love San Francisco and I loved this book. Now go get yourself a copy!

WHAT THE HELL

Right on schedule, the Amazon freebie has kicked in, and you can now download Occasional Soulmates for free. The deal runs through Sunday evening.

If you have a spare mo or two, let your readerly friends know about it via Twitter, Facebook, email, sky writing, semaphore, Morse code, secret languages, or even telephone. They need to read this book! Your mom needs to read this book.

If you never thought a dude could write chick lit, Occasional Soulmates will prove you wrong.

Just sayin’.

Grab your copy today, and help move some virtual paper by spreadin’ the word for me.

As always, much obliged!

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Please Help the Family of a Fellow Author Who Has Died

November 14th, 2014
Sad news. In this case, the author no longer needs our help, but his grieving family does. Please share.
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Warriors….

July 14th, 2013
A brave poem by a beautiful warrior about a great loss, a young poet named Shane.
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