Home Team, Conquering Heroes

The memorial weekend is over, and the home team (Michael, Shea, Kearney, Brad, Jovanna, me) can be considered victorious in every respect. The dinners at High Street had good food, pretty table settings, and were harmonious and pleasant events. The memorial itself was everything we’d hoped for. The speakers were perfect, the room was lovely and the food was great, even if the caterers did arrive more than an hour later than we expected. Kearney, especially, gave a nice talk. We’d catered for 40 and the quantity of food was fine even though we had 55 show up by the time it was all over. We’d had 46 RSVPs and I had figured we’d have enough food--and it still worked even with the last-minute overflow.

At the house, we had 15 people one night and 19 for dinner the next night. I ran out of energy a few times, but the home team stepped into every breach--and then some. My dad had left two enormous bottles of wine (methusalehs, or eight bottles of wine) in our basement, and we opened one for Saturday night’s dinner. That was special--we’ll save the other for use on what would have been his 100th birthday. With all hands on deck, we managed every event and everything was cleaned up and restored to “normal” by mid-afternoon on Sunday. Michael and I then slept for hours.

We’re seeking permission from the various speakers to post their segments of the memorial program on YouTube; we’re doing a dry run this evening with mine and will report on our success. We’ve done absolutely no editing beyond dividing into segments of the proper length and will be posting the ones for which we get permission. We’ll likely do editing and some refinement later for burning DVDs complete with the slideshow and the memories we collected on camera during lunch, but thought we’d give this a try for rapid sharing. Let me know if you want to see any of it.

The next two weeks are going to be hard. For that matter, all of April is going to be a challenge. The goal will be to keep pacing things at a maintainable, slow hare pace. Starting it all as depleted as I am today raises the stakes. We’re culling through the calendar and delaying or rearranging everything we can to to try achieve a rate that’s sustainable through the month. Plus, the six-month MRI is coming up. That will assess the re-occupation of the tumor void and early signs of tumor recurrence. By now, we're told, the brain will have reoccupied as much space as it ever will, which in turn apparently bears on later recovery/cognitive improvements. We’re interested to see what there is to see.

A new series of exercises in my PT is revealing some remaining balance issues: doing cross-over walks (one foot crossing over the other, going forward, backwards and sideways) with my head turned is stable with my head turned one direction, and completely unstable when I turn my head over the other shoulder. Having identified the severity of the difference means we can work on it in a more concentrated way--at least that’s the bright-side view. So that will be part of the coming weeks.

Meanwhile, we’re glad we got through the memorial week-end with our pride and dignity intact. We’re proud of the standard we hit and maintained, pleased with the graciousness of the many who came, and awfully, awfully glad it’s all over. We think it will make for interesting stories. Later. We’re holding our heads high.

Memory is a Funny Thing

When I was very small, men still wore hats to work. I have a vivid recollection of my father coming home from work and playing a game where he would pretend to be putting his hat on the shelf in the front hall closet and instead pick me up, swing me in the air and place me on the shelf “by mistake.” Then he would close the door (the closet light stayed on) and go searching for me. “Where’s Tina?” “Where could she be?” Then, after looking in two or three ritual places, he’d look in the closet, find me to great astonishment, and we’d go through the whole process two or three times, trying to “figure out” how I could have been mistaken for a hat and ended up on the top shelf of the closet. As I remember it, this game involved much giggling.

Knowing something about memory and how little I must have been to fit on the closet shelf, and considering how I remember this game, including my outfit, I’m guessing the visual parts of this memory must come from a photograph. We only lived in that house until I was 12 or so, and the memory is old enough that Michael has never heard me talk about it. If this picture exists, its whereabouts are unknown, though I’d like to find it. Even more, it would be interesting to know what has brought this memory, above so many others, back now; something must be stimulating it, but I’m clueless about what might be. Working on obituaries (one for public consumption, one for the scientific press), we’ve been looking through old records and that has been refreshing my memories about many of the scientific colleagues and students who populated my childhood, but all of those efforts have been focused on professional accomplishments and connections.

My father took me, and then my sister and me, to breakfast every Sunday morning at the Urbana Lincoln Hotel, so my mother could sleep. I had toast with the edges cut off, and cut into triangles, with chocolate milk. (The idea is now totally revolting, but it did help make me more accepting of the food preferences of small people when our own children were small.) Then we went to the lab to “work.” Large chunks of my early life took place in Roger Adams Lab. I had a small work area, did many “experiments” and wrote up their results. Later, after nepotism rules were eased enough that my mother was permitted to work again, I spent many hours at the lab with her. She’d been, in her day, the youngest woman ever to earn tenure at Cornell, but wasn’t permitted to work at Illinois when they first arrived. When she did go back to work, it was officially as a lab technician. Even later, when I was in high school and college, I did my stint processing BBRC manuscripts in that very same lab. (And still I turned out to be a lawyer.)

Even if I didn’t pursue science, and thus became the stupid, black sheep of my family, my upbringing among scientists shaped my career: I like scientists, appreciate they way they think, and enjoy big personalities in smart people. Even more, I have a high tolerance for conflict and clashes, even among big personalities, which has more than once opened opportunities that others passed up, leading to great chances for me.

Thinking about how we lay down childhood memories is interesting. My father often talked about the teacher at the one-room schoolhouse he attended with his sisters, and how important she was in his education. Her name was Evangaline McArthur; she was so important to him and he talked about her so fondly that I still remember her name. It’s probably been 15 years since we last had one of these conversations, but they’ve always stuck with me.

Another memory that’s been jogged by recent events is that both of Michael’s parents considered their deaths to be very private, and neither wanted a funeral or a memorial service. They couldn’t have been more different than my dad, except in this aspect. I’m wondering if this is generational? Geographic? Cultural? Something about growing upon farms? Dunno. Certainly I see notices for funeral services for people in their generation, but all three were adamant and went to great lengths to manage their final illnesses as privately as possible. My father died at home, and not “in a home,” which was of paramount importance to him. (I wish we could say the same for Michael’s parents. It’s clearly what they wished for, not the hospital deaths they had.) Michael and his brothers created a memorial to his parents that restored 12 acres of prairie in one of their favorite parks, and we held a memorial service for both of them some months after Ernie’s death, when the restoration was ready to begin. It was a wonderful celebration of two incredible people and made for a happy family reunion weekend. Thinking about that, and its timing, has been helpful to me, as its timing was similar to what we’re planning now. There’s some solace there that our absence of ceremony now does not prevent a suitable remembrance later.

Part of becoming more tortoise-like is learning to balance the urgency and imperatives of “to do” lists with the bigger picture. This is hard for me, as items on a “to do” list have given structure to my life. Cleaning our attic a while back, we found a list I’d made while in second or third grade that my mother had preserved; I seem to have been making lists since learning to write. And once an item is on my list, it generally gets done. There is much to do right now and my energy is still limited. Even more, the items on the ICG list are often emotionally costly to complete, there are many of us who must collaborate to get them done and there are raw feelings all around, even if the tough-guy contingent is being stoic about it all. Meshing so many styles would be complicated even without the emotional load. With it... Being gentle with each other and pacing ourselves must be a priority. I’ve put it on the list.

As I’ve been both tired and sad, symptoms are flaring up again: the headaches are back, my reading ability is coming and going, and my stamina is down. There’s good news in all of this, though: I’ve clearly made great strides in my tortoise lessons, as it’s become almost second-nature (well, let’s be honest, fourth-nature) to stop and rest and to heed the signals. If my head hurts, I take the meds and lie down. I’m even getting better at asking for help and delays where indicated. As always, the responses are fast, warm, generous and loving. It’s not getting any easier to be helped, just easier to recognize that it doesn’t make me defective or bad to need it, and that, were the tables turned, I would be glad to be asked. You’ve all made these points in many ways, and truly, I am learning.

We couldn’t have gotten this far without the great kindnesses and caring of so many. It seems inadequate to say “thanks,” but it is heartfelt. Thanks.

I Am Not Having A Bad Year

After my father’s death on top of my brain tumor, a lot of people have been commiserating with me about my bad year. As always, the support and kind wishes are welcome. We need all the support we can get, just about now.

There is one point worth noting for the record, though: I’m not having a bad year. At worst, I’m having some bad months. There’s no disputing that September and October aren’t in contention for the greatest-month-ever award. That doesn’t pollute their neighbors, though, and while November looks to hold some challenges, we’re not writing it off yet. Many of the months before September were great, and some of next year looks both challenging and fun. I am not conceding the entire year for the unwelcome elements of two months.

The events of the last few days left me, predictably enough, pretty tired, and I spent most of yesterday resting and/or sleeping, aside from one ethics discussion in Chemistry. The rest helped, and I’m hoping will help me recharge before the week starts.

As always, the kindness of people is overwhelming. We are leaning on many.

We have made progress on the things needing doing and are starting on the next steps. We need to finish obituaries, both general public and science-centric versions. There’s a monument to be selected and ordered, and a spring memorial service to start thinking about, including venue, so we can notify people with the announcements we also need to think about. J will be handling all the estate details, though we’ll offer whatever assistance she needs or wants. Before we can finish the obituaries, we need to tie down details of where to send memorial contributions. Some of these tasks require a weekday and others will just take more work and time. All will be fine with the tortoise approach.

Kearney and I worked on a first draft of an obituary and then sent it off to the rest of the family to edit and improve. Going through that effort highlighted the scope and achievements of Dad’s eight decades in science. (This floored me the first time I saw it, too: he went from a 1935 bachelor’s degree to a masters’ in 1937 and completed his Ph.D in 1940, immediately assuming a faculty position at Cornell. He left his last job, for the EPA in Florida, in 2004.) Remembrances of him from all corners of the globe highlight his contributions to the learning and lives of generations of students and colleagues. It was a big life that is leaving a big hole for many, not just his immediate family.

Adjusting to the changed geography of the emotional landscape will take some time. That’s aside from the shock of opening the door to J with a canister of ashes (I believe the polite word these days is “urn” but it sure looked like a black plastic box to me), instructions and news. It was hard on her, hard on us, and hard on the family, but it sure got the job done in the way my father wanted. With some drama, which was also one of his predilections. (Here you can see a major influence on my personality in my distaste for drama.) His method was abrupt, but completely effective in achieving his wishes. Keeping quiet the news of his final illness is the same: it accomplished what he wanted to do with a minimum of fuss—to him. He wanted to move from treatment to palliative care and maintain the peace of his environment. Those are completely understandable goals. I’d wish for the same things for myself and for anyone I love. I’d just do it more directly. Now you know how I come by being so straightforward, too. My goal is to find a good balance and pacing for getting done well the tasks before us. All my work on tortoisedom, as slow and fitful as it has been, will surely help.

Meanwhile, my arm has been untaped most of a week without serious bad effects, and continues to get stronger all the time. Yesterday and today, it was sore; tomorrow brings more occupational therapy, so we’ll consult then about whether that’s a sign of progress or something to address.

Headaches still calibrate my activity levels: too high, and the headaches come back. Hitting the mark, and the headaches are absent. I might have chosen another signal, given the opportunity, but seems to fall into the area of “don’t get to choose.” That is a big category these past two months. I’m making my peace with it.

What an Odd Choice of Words

The beginning of yesterday’s post about learning of my father’s death is not some strange metaphor that didn’t work. It’s literal. Following his instructions to the letter, dear J traveled from Alabama to our house with his ashes and rang our doorbell, which is the first we knew of his deteriorating health or his death. His (extensive) instructions, which she is lovingly carrying out, prescribed every step. It was an odd way to learn of a death, though completely consistent with the life that preceded it.

While a completely different experience, it reminded us of our experience with him and ashes when my stepmother died. I was in law school, and we’d been helping him with paperwork and arrangements. As an aside, this is how we came to be reading hospital bills for her surgery and hospital stay, and concluding there must be a secret guild of people trained to construct unintelligible medical bills. We couldn’t make heads nor tails of most of them and ended up hiring a specialist in reading medical bills to help us through the maze. It was a trial. Anyway, one day, my father asked me to go by the funeral home to sign some papers. Thinking it would be a short errand easily accomplished on my way to class at the law school, I set forth.

Instead of papers to sign, however, once I arrived, the funeral home receptionist handed me Dorothy’s ashes. In what looked for all the world like a two-pound coffee can covered with contact paper. A trick of memory or story-telling embellishment leaves me with the distinct feeling that the plastic lid even said “Folger’s,” though that seems unlikely. Arriving at the law school, it felt wrong to leave Dorothy in the car, so I took the can into the building with me. Waiting in the hallway for the door to open, classmates kept saying “hey, are you going to share?” and otherwise joshing about this odd package. Taking my seat, it felt incorrect to put Dorothy on the floor—disrespectful, somehow—so I put the can on the desk, which caused the professor to say, “Ms. Gunsalus, how nice of you to bring the coffee!” It was trying and awkward.

Leaving class and going to work, the dilemma re-presented itself: it didn't feel right to leave the can in the car, so I took it into my office with me. Same scenario: everyone who saw me carrying this coffee can commented on it in some way, the more so if they knew us well enough to know that we don’t drink coffee. In my discomfort with the circumstances, I finally resorted to saying to “It’s not coffee, it’s my stepmother.” There’s a conversation-stopper for you. It made for a good story, though, after the services were over, the ashes scattered and some time elapsed between the experience and the telling.

This is all a diversion from thinking about what it really means for my father to be dead. He was a complicated person of great accomplishment who powerfully affected the lives of many people.

A true son of the prairie, he grew up on a farm with smart, hard-working parents who had only elementary school educations. He told us stories about his father who had a gift for machinery, taking apart his tractor on the barn floor on a tarp, cleaning all the pieces and putting it back together to improve its performance. He learned to drive in a Model T. His mother, a woman of formidable will, raised and supported three children after his father’s death in a threshing machine accident when he was a senior in high school. An eagle scout, he started college at South Dakota State University, and then followed his scoutmaster to Cornell, finished college there, got a Ph.D. and became a faculty member. Over his career, he built an international reputation. From his South Dakota roots—never forgotten—he grew into a cosmopolitan, polished presence, teaching himself and many others about wine, music, travel, and life.

A better mentor, probably, than a father, he wasn’t an easy person to be close to: he had the highest of standards and required much of himself and those around him. Passing along what he experienced, his style wasn’t praise but criticism, always meant to spur greater accomplishment. As a small example—one of the smallest, actually—despite my bringing home all A’s from school one year, he asked me where the plusses were. As they didn’t offer plusses, I was crushed and felt unrecognized for my hard work. It almost surely wasn’t meant that way, and to be around him meant coming to terms with the dichotomy between intent and effect and dealing with it. Riding in a car with him one day as he cataloged my (many) failings, he saw a blind woman having trouble crossing the street. Pulling the car across the lanes of traffic at an angle, he got out, held up his hand, stopped all the traffic, went over and escorted the woman across the street. Returning to the car and permitting the traffic to start again, he returned to the excoriation of my conduct without missing a beat. As you can imagine, this style worked better with some personalities than with others.

We all were clothed and fed and got great educations, if not much emotional nurturing. We were exposed to wonderful people, places and experiences. Scores of students attest to horizons opened, opportunities provided and the excitement of the journey with deep gratitude and affection. He was capable of enormous kindness and stimulated tremendous loyalty. His work was meaningful and will be remembered.

You could leave a lesser legacy. We will hold a memorial service in the spring, as requested, once the crocuses are blooming.

The Stream Flows On

We opened the door this morning to the news that my father has died. Today has been a blur of handling notifications and thinking about what next needs to be done. As one of the people I called today said, “No! Gunny is forever!” It did feel like that, as his was a formidable presence and will. He’d been planning to live past 100, though he “only” made 96. Even that, he did his own way, refusing treatment after his congestive heart failure left his dignity compromised. Even more, he restricted the news about his health in the final weeks, not wanting anyone to see him in a compromised state. He died peacefully, without pain and surrounded by caring. You cannot ask much more than that, after a full and eventful life.

For the rest of us, there’s remembering and reconciling to do. According to his wishes, we’ll have a memorial service in the spring. In his words, he wanted it to be “when the crocuses are pushing up.”

More later.