Kahlua Night - Pete's Last Hurrah

This is one of those drafts that's been sitting, waiting for me to make some sense of the jumbled thoughts that I had jotted down. I've asked Gina, Georgette, Colleen and Bruce what they each remembered about this night, but no one could really say much, though to each of us it was a very poignant and memorable evening less than a week before Pete left us.

He had been in quite a bit of pain earlier in the day but was more comfortable as dinnertime rolled around. He was much more alert than he had been the past few days and said he felt like eating. He finished most of the meal Georgie and Gina had prepared for him and at some point in time said that he wanted a Kahlua milk shake. I honestly don't know who he told, but I remember being in the kitchen and texting my sister, who had gone to pick up something from Costco, to "stop at liquor store and get bottle Kahlua. Serious." She told me later that it was good that I had included the "serious" and that she got my message as she had just come out of Costco. She headed into the liquor store right next door. While she was getting that ingredient, I think it was Bruce who ran over to the grocery store to get the vanilla ice cream.

I remember someone tried to start the blender but it wouldn't work. It's not one of the appliances that we use very often and apparently the gears had just frozen, so we went with the food processor. People seemed to be busy with glasses and ice cream and Kahlua and I just kept fiddling with the blender, trying to get the blades to move and eventually they did.

I think it was Georgie who asked if I wanted a milkshake, but I just took some ice cream in a bowl, splashed some Kahlua over it and carried it into Pete's room. I remember Pete was sitting up in his hospital bed and I was surprised at how much he looked like his old self. Maybe I just didn't want to see the swelling or maybe it just wasn't as noticeable for some reason, I can't really say. Everyone was already seated, chatting and laughing, as I walked over and sat down in the last empty chair. Gina said she can't recall anything specific, but that Pete kept teasing her as he had so many times, in a loving, good natured brother-sister exchange. Georgie couldn't really recall anything specific, either, except that there was a sense of peace in the room. Bruce couldn't say much about the evening.

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It's been 5 years today that Pete lost his battle with sarcoma. I came here to read some of my unfinished drafts. It's been only 5 years, but  it seems such a long, long time ago. I miss him so much.

A New Life - Part 1

It's been quite some time since I've mentally been able to sit down and add anything, but I'm going to attempt it now.

So much has happened since Pete's death that I hardly know where to begin. Time seems to have compressed and twisted but I will try to give a chronologically correct version of the events that have unfolded. It was sometime in July/August while Bruce and I were camping out in Pennsylvania that I received a call from Gina. She and her husband had been trying to get pregnant for some time and she was scheduled to begin some fertility pre-treatments the following week in preparation for surgery in September. When she asked if I was sitting down I had a very odd feeling, premonition perhaps, that she was going to tell me that she was pregnant. That's exactly what happened.

There were many challenges for Gina, particularly emotional ones, during the course of her pregnancy, and being separated by 3,000 miles made it very difficult for both of us. She was hoping for a girl so was very disappointed and even angry when given the news that she was carrying a boy. It was especially difficult for both of us when some well-intentioned people would, with crass insensitivity, say how wonderful that we could look forward to having a child to take the place of Pete. Fortunately, those people were few in number.

I flew out to California in the fall for a week and Gina flew back to New Jersey during her winter break. It was during her visit back east that Pete's girlfriend was able to do something that I truly believe was tremendously helpful to Gina in altering her psychological disengagement with the little creature growing inside her and, despite Gina's protests contrary, began to awaken in her an awareness that this was a tiny being with fingers and toes, intent on growing and eventually emerging sometime around his projected due date of April 7, 2012.

As Bruce and I had approached retirement we had often talked about the possibility of moving out of New Jersey but when Pete was diagnosed those thoughts evaporated. After his death, with grandparenthood on the horizon combined with my increasingly emotional reaction to more and more things that ignited painful memories of Pete's ordeal, those thoughts began to resurface.

The Month of February

It's been almost a year. The closer it gets to February 23rd, the more often come the choking tears. I fight them back because they start at the most inopportune times. Sometimes I know what triggers them, other times they seem to spring unexpectedly.

Bruce and I were driving up the parkway to drop off papers for our tax accountant the other day. Watching the trees, buildings and landmarks that Pete had watched as I drove him along this route to doctor visits, treatments and hospitals filled my mind with wondering what he had been thinking on those many trips, and the tears came, as they are coming now.

I've been packing for our move. There are tools, so many tools, and I'm having trouble trying to figure out how to pack them. Some belonged to my dad, some are mine and some are Pete's. I picked up a pair of pliers. My dad's initials, JT, were deeply scratched into the handle. Then a pair of nose pliers with cushioned handles, part of a set that belonged to Pete. A set of ring pliers that Pete had bought me. Some people cherish a china figurine or a photo. For me, each tool I pick up holds a wealth of memories and using them to build, fix or create is a link to my dad and Pete. At least that's what it feels like to me.

I really haven't worked with any tools for quite some time. I'm packing them up so it will be some time in the future when I'll be able to start again. I'm looking forward to the peace it brings me. Working with those tools is a way for me to communicate with my dad and my son, to feel their presence, to feel their love.

A New Year

It is the evening of the first day of the new year. It has not been a good day for me. I made it through Thanksgiving and Christmas with some difficulty, but today? Today was near impossible. My eyes are burning and I've had a headache much of the day, no doubt from crying. I woke with tears in my eyes, and except for a few short periods here and there when I was able to hold it in, I have cried just about the entire day. The time between these kinds of days has grown as the months have passed, but when this kind of day does come...

I miss him terribly every day. I guess it just builds and builds inside of me until I just have to let the flood gates open. Why today? Part of it is because he was still here in 2011. He was still undergoing chemo and radiation this time last year but despite the fact that the future was looking more and more uncertain he was talking about working on his boat and going fishing with his friends.

In August my daughter gave us the news that she was pregnant. The baby, a boy, is due in early April. I'll be going out in March and stay until after the baby is born. I'll come back to NJ and then Bruce and I are planning on moving out to California soon after. I need to be near my daughter. I need to be near my grandchild.

Order to Destroy - July 14, 2011

Pete received a notice in the mail a few weeks back from MAZE Laboratories. I knew it would be coming but holding the envelope in my hand made it real. I couldn't bring myself to open it right away but when I finally did I didn't read the whole letter, there was no point. My eyes just focused, or tried to focus, on the paragraph that began "If you choose to discontinue storage..."

This is not my choice because I have no choice. This is something that I have to do and the deadline is close. I can't put it off any longer so I made the call to find out what paperwork I will need to send in along with the form. All I need, it seems, is to sign the form, have it notarized and send a copy of the death certificate because Pete had provided my name as the person authorized to order destruction of his specimens if he was unable to do it.

To say this is difficult is an understatement.

It's Hard to Say Goodbye - June 26, 2011

I asked Gina to write something for the blog the other day, as I've just been unable to write anything myself. Here's what she sent me:

It's hard to say goodbye.

Still, it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be to commit Pete's ashes to the Atlantic Ocean during his final memorial service June 18. He grew up with a fishing pole in his hand and spent many summers out on boats - first our grandpa's boat, then headboats and party boats, and finally, his own - so I can't think of a more fitting final resting place for him than in the place he loved best.

I have to admit, I was a bit uneasy about this trip. Since Pete's cancer, trips home were awkward and uncomfortable for me. Living in California, I had some distance from the reality of his illness, but having to face it was really hard for me. I never knew what to say or do for Pete and my mom, and inevitably, I would say or do the wrong thing. This time, I would have to deal with the added reality that my baby brother wouldn't be there, and even worse, never would again.

Shortly after arriving, I went down to the basement where Pete's things are packed (mostly cartons and boxes full of clothes, fishing gear, books, and some mementos). I cried. Two days later, I went down to pick out a shirt of his to wear out on the boat for the memorial. I chose a blue T-shirt Pete bought in Dana Point one spring when he came out to visit me and Doug, a year or two before he got sick. When Pete was broke, my mom would buy his ticket to California during my spring break from teaching so he could come out and visit us. Pete had been so excited to go sportfishing in California, but the spring before, it rained almost every day and he never got to go. This time, he had great weather, so he researched the different fishing boats and chose one in Dana Point, a little over an hour away from where I live.

I got us a hotel room and we drove out the night before; then, I got up with him at 4 a.m. to drive him the mile or so from the hotel to the boat. We both got to do what we loved: Pete spent the day fishing, and I took the opportunity to go shopping at my favorite mall. When I returned from my outing, I headed back to the harbor and anxiously looked for Pete. About a half hour later, the boat pulled in and I saw Pete. He wasn't smiling. Not only did Pete not catch any fish, apparently, nobody did. He was not a very happy camper. He did leave with a hat, a shirt, and a pen from the gift shop - and some memories - but that was about it.

Last Christmas, I came home for a visit. I don't remember who sent it, but I think a friend (friends?) of his from Costco gave him a small framed three-dimensional "picture" of a small fishing boat heading out to sea. At the top of the frame is a clear glass piece that allows light to come in, giving the boat and the waves added dimension and life. It was beautiful, but its title "Last Catch" gave me a chill. I thought it was prophetic, and I really hoped Pete would beat the sarcoma so he could have many more catches and many more boat trips in his future. Sadly, Pete left us two months later.

So, on June 18, a boat full of about 90 of Pete's family, friends, and coworkers set out to say our last goodbye and take Pete on his final fishing trip. Three miles from the dock, the boat stopped and we took turns scattering his ashes and tossing flowers into the ocean. At the same time, somebody called our attention to the large school of fish breaking the surface not far from the boat. Afterwards, we all headed over to Farrell's for food, drinks, and friendship. It truly was a celebration of Pete's life. I was sad, yes, but what surprised me was the tremendous sense of peace that I felt. People who Pete loved and who loved him in return were there, and we were surrounded by that love. I knew that this is what Pete would have wanted. I knew that after two-plus years of fighting this disease, he was at peace. I will miss Petey forever, but I also know that he is home.

Random Thoughts - May 1, 2011

In cleaning and going through Pete's things I also am going through some of my own things that have been stored away for what seems like eons. Before computers and blogs I wrote with pen and paper, using notebooks to hold my journals, poems and ramblings.

Though I wrote this in November, 1982, it seems to fit well with my thoughts of Pete today.

Reverie
The beauty of the day
And warmth of sun
I wish to share with you.
The peace and strength
I search for
I find in thoughts of you.
The fields, the trees,
The laughter of children-
More beautiful because of you.