On my office windowsill some small and beautiful flowers – some small Petunias, I think – appeared in a small blue jar. The flower seemed philosophical to me, reflective. It shone in the afternoon light.
They say when a loved one falls, another rises. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. They say we learn the most from darkness. The mysterious “they” say so many things, some of them are even true.
Ed was quite honest about himself, I have always appreciated that quality in him.
He said he wished he had spent more time with Carol, paid more attention to her, listened to her more. Ed was never that much of a listener, he was a talker, a lecturer, a teller of stories, an artist making magic. A confident, even arrogant man.
He loved being challenged.
He said he learned from his father to talk and work, not to listen.
It is easy to underestimate Carol, she can be shy and quiet, and she often deferred to Ed. And Ed often talked right over her.
I have this feeling that one of the only men who really listened to Carol for much of her life was her father, who she loved dearly. i don’t know about her sons. But Carol is not a shouter. Ed was a shouter, and if that wasn’t loud enough, he bellowed.
I think Carol is used to not being listened to, not being asked, not always having her opinions respected.
When she joined my writing workshop, I was surprised at how well she wrote and how little regard she had for her writing. She was startled when I kicked Ed out of the class right away, she asked me if he could come back, but Ed was not surprised.
He said he knew it was a good decision, that Carol would grow much faster in the class without him. He was right. Carol dismisses praise, it rolls right off of her, as if it were an alien language.
It is surreal to come to the farmhouse every day and see both of them changing, they were so close and so together for 47 years, now they are on big and beautiful trains, each moving rapidly in the opposite direction from the other.
Every day Ed is changing, getting smaller.
Every day, Carol is changing, getting bigger.
She seems very much in charge now, in so many ways, of Ed’s decline and imminent death, and of the transition of the farm to some of her children and their families. No one has her experience and knowledge, not yet.
Carol, like Ed, knows the dairy business inside and out, she knows cows. She knows when the inspectors come and when the calves are sick or hungry.
There is no one to push aside her opinions now.
And I believe people are listening to her. She is no longer My Farmer’s wife, she is The Farmer. I see her children come to her every day with questions, seeking advice, letting her know what is going on.
She has navigated the awful trauma of Ed’s diagnosis and decline, she is very much a reluctant warrior, but a warrior still. She never quits or breaks.
She seems out of shock now, away from bewilderment and confusion. The strong woman inside of her is emerging, you can see and hear a little more of it every day, even while her heart is breaking, and her husband is literally wasting a way.
Ed has strong opinions about everything, and an iron will. He has a fixed way of doing everything, his stamp is on everything, he took over almost every crisis and managed it, and he thought his way was invariably the best way.
Carol still calls him My Farmer, and always made it clear that she saw and still sees herself as the farmer’s wife, not the farmer. But I have been there almost every day, and I see Carol’s transformation, right there in front of me.
In recent weeks, I have seen Carol suffer terribly, but I have also seen her grow stronger every day, on her blog, in her writing, on her farm, caring for Ed, learning to accept what is happening.
In hospice, there is always the point where someone shifts from trying to keep someone they love alive to trying to end his or her suffering as soon as possible.
I sat with Ed for a half hour today, it was hard to sit with him, he has deteriorated so much, he is hallucinating and fights restlessness and agitation and pain and begs almost constantly for help.
Carol can’t bear to see him like this in the same way he can’t bear to be seen like this. She is holding up because she has to and wants to.
Carol was hoping until a few days ago to see Ed get up and walk or ride in a wheelchair around the farm. Now, we all know Ed is never getting out of that hospital bed, and almost all of us simply wish for it to end so Ed’s suffering can end.
Today, I felt the absence of hope, there is a big hole in that farmhouse, it has been replaced by compassion. No more talk of miracles and magic, of beating the odds.
And soon, the bright light and a thousand tomorrows.
Watching Carol tend to Ed is a testament to faithful and enduring life. Her love for him is so pure and unfettered.
She answers each of his cries, strokes his forehead, keeps him warm, gives him liquid medicine now and soft food because he no longer knows what a pill is or how to swallow it.
She never loses patience with Ed, speaks softly, brings him soothing drinks and whatever food he will take. She rubs his arms, kisses his forehead, holds his hand. Like the hospice nurses and aides, she is always touching him and talking to him.
It is said the dying need to be touched, when I sit along with him I often take his hand.
So Carol is changing along with Ed. They are still together, in sync.
She is clearer and more certain on her blog, her and Ed’s Bejosh Farm Journal. She is no longer bewildered by what is happening.
She talks about the farm now with authority and expertise.
Even as Carol writes about her confusion and agonizing choices, she seems to me be clearer and more confident. She no longer has the air of someone who doesn’t expect to be listened to. She makes herself clear. She makes hard decisions, every day.
Every day seems to me to get harder and more painful for her than the day before, I won’t even try to describe Ed’s agony today, it is almost unbearable for me to see, and I don’t talk to him because I don’t believe he wishes to be seen by me in this way.
We are in the testing time, the darkness of the soul. Beauty and release and light are next, they are standing outside of the door, they are just around the corner, waiting in their white robes.
Ed is suffering now, concedes Carol, “We are having trouble with this time of transition, as they call it.”
Tomorrow, I’m spending the afternoon with Ed while Carol gets her hair cut and does some errands. I’ll bring a good book and a heavy heart, it is hard for me to see him like this, but so much harder for him.
“It is very difficult to see all that he is going through to get to his place in heaven,” wrote Carol on her blog today. “I know it is selfish, but when you love someone it hurts to see the difficulty both physically, mentally and emotionally, it causes them to get to where they’re going.”
I wanted to tell Carol that she doesn’t quite understand what it means to be selfish.
According to Merriam-Webster, being selfish is to be concerned excessively or exclusively with oneself: seeking or concentrating on one’s own advantage, pleasure or well-being without regard for others.
Carol is very far from selfish, she is drowning in concern for others, especially Ed, she is excessively concerned with everyone but herself. She doesn’t need me to see this, she will get there.
Carol is learning about selflessness and selfishness. To wish Ed a speedy end to his agony is an act of pure love and empathy, there is nothing left for him on this side of the world. Release is nothing but a gift.
I suspect she knows this now, but it not, she will know it soon enough.
Carol Johnson of FOHA/RI sent me this photo of Gus this afternoon, he is resting from his heartworm treatment and staying out of the torrential rains hitting Arkansas where he is. I was happy to hear he is no angel, he managed to steal a bag of cookies and reluctantly surrendered them to Carol.
(They had chocolate chips in them, a no-no for dogs, although every one of my dogs has eaten some chocolate one way or another with no trouble. I never give it to them).
Gus let the cookies go without a fight, but Carol said he gave her the stinkeye. Good for him. If he’ s going to be Fate’s little brother, he needs to learn how to hang onto what is his.
Several times in recent weeks I’ve inadvertently replaced the named Bud with “Gus,” this prompted a bunch of mail, nothing makes some social media people happier than spotting mistakes and correcting them.
With me, I never know if this name substituting is a symptom of my Dyslexia or habitually scrambled brain. I can’t say I care all that much, anyone who can’t figure out which dog I’m talking about is in more trouble than I am.
And most of the time, I get the names right.
My guess is that both names have only three letters and I’m much more used to writing “Gus” than Bud. This will sort itself out, I suspect, without much trouble or drama. In a month, I will be writing “Bud” much more than Gus.
It is not a big deal to me, but it is to others.
Some people have attributed the name substitutions to me deep grieving for Gus. “Obviously, you miss him deeply,” wrote Jane, “you clearly want another Gus and you might consider changing Bud’s name to “Gus,” that will comfort you and be simpler.”
I am not, as some people know, a fan of projecting our emotions onto our animals, or onto our people either. Jane is projecting for sure..
I can’t really analyze every mistake I make in very blog, but I can say with ease that I am not mourning Gus, or even missing him much. And I loved him a lot. Once a week or so, either me or Maria will mention him fondly, and talk about what a loving character he was.
But the idea that I want another Gus strikes me as bizarre. And quite wrong. I am not into looking back or mourning what is gone or lost. I do not want another Gus, you might recall he had a slow and hard death from megaesophagus. And he is gone.
I never make assumptions about what other people are thinking, it is a recipe for disaster.
I think I’d be dead if I spent a lot time looking back. What for?
The last thing I want is for Bud to be is Gus.
Gus has his time, and Bud will get his.
I don’t think there’s anyone on the earth that wants another Jon Katz to appear after I am gone.
My hope for him is that he will be Bud, period. What is exciting about Bud will be getting to know him, figure out what he is like, how to train him in a gentle and positive way.
I’ve loved a lot of my dogs – Pearl, Lenore, izzy, Rose, Orson, Frieda. I don’t want any of them back, I am not in mourning for any of them, although I think of them from time to time. I am grateful for what I have, I am hanging onto what I lost.
I grieve for my dogs when they die, but I also see extreme animal grieving as a symptom, not a trait. The miracle of dogs is that when one dies, we get to have another one. Why would I be sad about that?
Let’s let Bud be Bud.
I can’t wait to figure out what he is like. Gus has already faded into memory, and when Bud gets her, he will fade even more. I respect life, I don’t deny the reality of it.
I sure like what I hear about Bud. Looks like the beginning of October for Bud to get here.
(I saw this puppy on the FOHA/RI site, it is not one of their dogs but a courtesy posting, the face got to me. Check her out.)
Pumpkin By The Apple Tree
I’m back from our one day retreat to Williamstown, Mass, we had a blast, but enough of that, it’s old news.
I am on fire to get back to doing some good, I missed it. We have already done a lot of good this summer, a month to go.
This summer, the Army Of Good made it possible for eight refugee children to go to summer, a desperately needed opportunity for the to get out of the city, be in the country, swim and relax. Their lives have been difficult, from birth to junior high school.
The summer camp experience has been wonderful for them, and for their families. The alternative activities on Albany streets are not appealing.
We paid some fees, bought shoes, deodorant, soap, sheets and towels, jackets and shorts, insect and tick repellent and sun screen, along with the other things that were required for them to go, and that their parents could not afford.
Without your help, they could not have gone.
This is a stellar example of small acts of great kindness, with these children, a little money goes a very long way. More and more, I am moving in this work to small and bounded opportunities to change lives rather than massive investments of thousands of dollars, which I don’t have and don’t want to ask for.
Staying small and consistent. We don’t have a lot of money, but what we do have counts. Ali and I call it focused good.
I’d like to get right back in the saddle by asking for some help to get kids from the soccer team – as many as we can afford – to Ramblewild, a tree-to-free forest adventure in the Berkshires that was designed to give kids like the refugee children confidence, and foster team building, friendship and life outdoors.
Ramblewild has all kinds of outdoor adventures and hikes and treks, but the aerial park takes place 45 feet above the ground.
It’s a supervised three-and-a-half hour program where the kids climb up to wooden walks high up in the forest, wearing helmets and attached to zip lines. Up in the forest canopy, they walk on bridges, swing on rope swings, climb ladders, crawl on cargo nets, even confront a Nintendo warrior.
It’s an exciting place with a serious and thoughtful ethic. I really like the feel of it and hope the kids can go more than once and take part in some of other team building and environmental activities. It’s very close to Albany.
This will have special meaning for many of these children, most grew up in heavily wooded forests in Asia, and will feel at home.
The owner of the park is a forest foundation – Feronia Forests – that promotes understanding of trees, forests and the environment.
I’ve been researching other trips for the soccer team – the Statue of Liberty in New York, and the New England Aquarium in Boston. My hopes are to send as many as we can to Ramblewild, and the Aquarium, and visit New York City at a later date.
The Aquarium is important, educational and fascinating (there is a giant octopus exhibit there). We’ll get there.
Ramblewild has become my number one priority for the summer, it is just the perfect these for these children now, on top of the other, shorter and easier (and cheaper) activities we’ve planned for them this summer.
Most of these kids have been out of school this summer. Most have single parents, and there is no money and no activities apart from Ali and his heroic red van.
So I need some help, but not a lot of help. The aerial adventure costs $69 person, and I’m figuring on a total of 12 people going, including Ali, who can supervise and translate when necessary. I might join them, but i I do, I’ll pay for myself.
I also want to contribute $400 of my money to this trip. So the tickets will cost $759 – $400 which is $359 for the tickets. Ramblewild is just an hour or so from Albany, and the only other expense will be food. I’ve found a nearby country store that will bring lunch to the kids at Ramblewild, it will cost about $12 a person, so that will be about $150.
I have enough money in the refugee fund to pay for that, and I just got a large donation that will help, I’m splitting it between the refugees and the Mansion residents (they are going on a big boat ride in Sept). There are also gas and other incidentals for the Ramblewild trip – somebody may need shoes or sunscreen and tick repellent. So if I can raise an additional $400 to $500, I’ll be set and will go ahead and order the tickets for a day in late August.
So I’m already close.
If anyone can help and wants to help, that would be great. You can send a contribution to The Gus Fund, c/o Jon Katz, Post Office Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816 or via Paypal, [email protected].
And thanks. It’s better to do good that fight about it.
