Christmas at ManorCare

   

     Gram worked hard all her life, at home of course, but also forty years as a gown presser at Carlisle’s Bridal, several years in the laundry department at AGH before that, and I won’t even get into the few days she spent as a barmaid. Working was one of the many ways she was a role model.

     Gram never had much. She lived a modest life in a modest home that she often called a dump (it was not). But she always believed in helping those less fortunate than her. The only stipulation was that she would not give cash. If a young mother on the street asked for money for shoes for her kids, Gram would say, “I won’t give you money, but I’ll take your kids and buy them shoes.”  That doesn’t begin to demonstrate what she did for me and my family over the years.

     In the nursing home, her giving instincts continued even as dementia consumed her mind and body. She often wanted to share her food or treats.

     Each year at Christmas, while she was at ManorCare, to continue that tradition of giving, I worked with the staff to identify residents who either didn’t have family or didn’t have visitors. The staff would indicate on the list what each person liked, and I would buy Christmas gifts for each of those residents and sign them, “from Gram.” Instead of doing it myself, I would turn the gifts over to the staff to hand out to the appropriate residents. This part, I knew, would be too emotional for me.

     Once Gram passed in October of 2016, this tradition of giving became even more important to me. I wanted to honor her in some way.

     For the last 2 years I’ve done similar, except I now sign the gifts, “from Santa.”  I also started handing out the gifts to the residents myself along with staff members and my sister. As expected, it was extremely emotional, but I now wonder why I didn’t do this before. To see a resident hug and cry with gratitude over a gift of socks is something that I won’t ever forget. Those days were filled with many hugs, many tears (for all of us), so much gratitude and perspective that I don’t know how I could not do it again. For some, this will be their last Christmas.

     So, this year, the tradition continues. I will wake up Christmas morning and make my way to ManorCare to hand out gifts to these wonderful residents once again.  I look forward to seeing those from last year again and I’ll say a prayer for those who have since left us.

Spiritual Reunion, Over Tea

     "You should probably talk to them,” the hospice nurse handed me the phone. She spoke softly as we both sat quietly in the presence of Gram’s body, which couldn’t be removed until the funeral director came to get it. I could feel my brow tighten and furrow.

     “Hello, this is Michael?” My voice was defensive.

     “Hello Michael, I was just telling the nurse that unfortunately, we just closed the Etna location. We are actually in the process of sending letters today to those who completed their pre-need with us.”

     There was a pause.

     “Uh, so what do I do now? I need to get my Gram picked up, laid out, and buried.”

     “We can recommend another funeral home in the Dignity network that’s close by.”

     “Ok.” I didn’t realize Ogrodnik-Hahn had become part of a network, although I wasn’t too surprised, since so many other mom-and-pop funeral homes were being eaten up by large networks.

     “We can recommend Healey-Hahn in Millvale or H.P. Brandt on Perry Highway.”

     “Let’s do H.P. Brandt.”

     “Ok. We’ll contact them for you.”

     “Thank you.”

     As I said those words, my mind took me back to the meeting Gram and I had with the funeral director at O’Grodnik-Hahn back in 2009 when she was pre-planning and pre-paying her funeral. “I don’t like doing this,” she said. “I don’t trust anyone. What happens if you go out of business?”

     “Don’t worry ma’am, people are always going to die. Besides, your money goes into a trust fund so it can be transferred to another funeral home.”

     As I handed the phone back to the nurse, I looked up, “You called it, Mum.”  I couldn’t help but smile.

     Who would have ever thought this place would become a coffee shop? I thought this afternoon as I sat down a at a table in the exact spot where my Papap Burroway was laid out back in 1974 when I was 11. I can still remember every detail of his stiff, lifeless body as it lay in the coffin. I never realized how broad his shoulders where. Perhaps the navy-blue pinstripe suit brought that out. His blue shirt was crisp and his striped tie was perfectly centered. His hands were neatly folded, and I could see remnants of dirt under his long fingernails perhaps from the tinkering he liked to do around the house and with his car. Or maybe it was ink from the teletype machine he used in the print shop where he worked part time. He had so much thick, wavy hair at 53 and only a few strands of gray. I remember, too, noticing the bruise on the left side of his forehead that the makeup didn’t quite cover and concluding that it was from the blood vessel that burst and killed him. It was probably hard to cover up, I thought, if the burst was large enough to kill him instantly.

     Papap Burroway was the first death of a loved one I experienced. But there were many more over the years. Sitting here, I see each of them: Joe, Aunt Estelle, Uncle Eddie, Aunt Mary, Stella, Stevie, Grandma Burroway, and many other aunts, uncles, friends, and relatives. The last time I was here was when my Uncle Chubbs was laid out back in 2002. Pancreatic Cancer had devoured his body and soul and he looked so small lying in that coffin. His was one of the most difficult, but it was a relief to not see him suffer any longer. On the last night of viewing, I stood here, in this room, in front of everyone and read a story I wrote to honor him. I sobbed so much while reading that it probably rendered me incomprehensible.

     Today, as I sit here, I can see the caskets, the beautiful flowers and the dimly lit torchiere lights that seemed to rise majestically from each end of every casket. I can see the wooden, curvy-leg tables with lamps that were strategically placed between the tall, earth tone-colored, comfy wingback chairs or at the end of the Chesterfield or settee style sofas, each displaying a box with tissues sprouting out and ready to soothe the tears that would inevitably fall. I smell the aroma of the fragrant eucalyptus that is a staple in funeral floral arrangements and always reminds me of a funeral home.

But most of all, I can see the people, the deceased, the mourners, the visitors, the distant family members, the work friends – those who quietly pay their respects and sneak off without much ado and those who embrace the loved ones and spend time comforting and sharing memories. I can see the busy-ness, the laughter over funny stories; I can see the sadness in the quiet moments when loved ones experience, for a moment, the reality of their loss. And I can see them light up again as another visitor steps up and gives a big hug, offers condolences, and relives some story about the deceased. “We need to get together during happier circumstances,” I hear repeatedly. I can see people taking their coats off and putting their coats on. I can see it all in this moment - in the present, but at the same time flashing before me across time - all the deceased, all the mourners. I can see the mourners who subsequently became the mourned. They’re here now together in this same place. I can hear the clamor of voices, the many different conversations happening throughout the funeral home and in the crowded hallway. I’m in the midst of a spiritual reunion of lost loved ones that crosses over four decades. It’s confusing and it’s wonderful – a fantasy land that I don’t’ want to leave…

     “Would you like another iced tea?” The owner approached me.

     “Um, no, I’m good, “ I said, startled out of my spiritual place. “This is an interesting place. Many of my family members were laid out here.”

     “Yes, some people say they won’t come in here because it was a funeral home.”

     “Really? I’ve been dying to get here. No pun intended,” I chuckled. “You should have a drink called ‘Death by Caffeine’ to wrap the history into the current.”

I don’t think she was amused.

  

In Honor of National Coming Out Day

As a boy and teen, I was bullied a lot. It took place on the school bus, in school, and at home. It never seemed to stop. I felt like making my life miserable was the sole purpose of others’ existence. The bullies were mostly older than me. They knew I was different; they knew I didn’t like the things they liked. They capitalized on it; called me names, threw things at me, physically assaulted me, and berated me constantly. “Fags listen to that music.” “Fags wear that color.” “Only fags like school.” On and on it went. I was physically attacked more than once while simply walking down the hall between classes. It was usually by two or three guys. Inevitably, at lunch, I would end up sitting across the table from these same guys. They’d call me names there, throw food at me and laugh. I hated them all. And I was trapped because I couldn’t leave the lunch room. If I reported it to a teacher, it would only make things worse. I’d then be branded a “nark” and become more of a target. Back then, teachers were more likely to turn their heads the other way rather than acknowledge bullying. They didn’t know how; they didn’t have the tools that are available today. They left it up to the parents. Furthermore, no one knew how to deal with homosexuality, especially in a small town like Emlenton.

The worst part about those early years was that I didn’t even know what gay meant. Therefore, I certainly wasn’t out. I began to take on shame. I felt like something must have been wrong with me for people to treat me that way. I was flawed simply because I existed. As I increasingly internalized the shame and negative feelings, I felt worse about myself on the outside. I was often depressed.

My dad, too, got on the bandwagon. “You’re not my son; you’re nothing but a little faggot,” he said to me when he was drunk. 

When I was getting ready to graduate high school, he asked what I was going to do with my life. “I’m going to college,” I said. 

“You’ll never make it; you’re nothing but a little faggot.”  (This, of course, was the impetus behind all of the successes I’ve enjoyed in my life. And for that reason, I should thank my dad.) 
I hated every, single day of my youth while living in Emlenton. I hated my dad. I hated each and every day in school and on the bus. I felt small. I felt inferior and full of horrid shame. I wanted to find a place to hide and hope no one would ever find me. I lived in terror each day, never knowing what I would encounter. 

Work became my outlet. I started when I was 11. It was a way for me to focus my negative energy into something physical and productive. It kept my mind on my future, which I was always planning. I planned my escape, too. And on the night of my high school graduation, I packed my belongings into Gram and Pap’s car. We left the high school right after the ceremony. I went home with them and I never looked back.

I’ve been afforded many opportunities since. The opportunities for career and success aside, I was more importantly given the chance to learn about me - that I am ok; that I don’t have to be ashamed. Rather, I can be proud of who I am as a human being AND as a gay man. When I first began “long term intensive psychotherapy,” one of my first homework assignments was to write the following 100 times in the morning and again at night: “I am worthy and capable of being loved.” I did what I was told and over time, my subconscious began to believe it. I began to like myself.

I’ve also had opportunities to heal from that childhood pain and to find forgiveness for those who inflicted it. It has not been an easy road by any stretch, but nevertheless it has given me a great deal of peace of mind. Forgiveness, I’ve learned, is what I do for ME, not for anyone else.

I spent a lot of years contemplating suicide. I don’t know why I didn’t follow through. But I am so very grateful that I didn’t because I have a wonderful life and I’m not finished enjoying all that that it has to offer. It hurts me to hear about young people who take their own lives, especially at the hands of their parents or loved ones or friends – those who are supposed to care for them - but instead reject them.  It especially hurts me when this rejection occurs in the name of religion or self-righteousness. Doesn’t that fly in the face of exactly what religion is SUPPOSED to teach - namely love and acceptance?

For those who may be struggling to come out or who might feel unable to accept themselves or who might be riddled with shame, I say you have the courage deep inside you to carry on. Remove yourself from situations that cause you pain; know that YOU are a special, beautiful human being who is worthy of life and love. You DO NOT have to be around people who abuse you, not matter who they are. You may not be able to escape now, but make a plan like I did; work toward it. You WILL get there. 

Butt Out: The Five Things I’ve Learned about Quitting Smoking

The worse thing about being a non-smoker is….well, there isn’t one. Quitting was the second best thing I ever did (after getting sober).

Today, September 3, 2017, marks ten years since I put out my last cigarette or rather, flicked it out of my truck window onto the highway.

I started at 11 years old. At first, my brother, Chuck, and I smoked together. I loved smoking right out of the gate. Mom and Dad both smoked Kools back then before they eventually switched to Newport because they were “safer.” (They had heard that Kools had fiberglass in the filter which made them more dangerous.) That irony notwithstanding, Kool, and later, Newport became my brand. Early on, though, any brand would do. And getting cigarettes was difficult. We had to come up with creative ideas.

Mom and Dad bought cartons and neither kept track of what the other smoked. We relied on this and took advantage of it. We’d slide a pack out of the open carton that was in the cupboard and push the remaining packs forward so as to not expose the empty slot. It was a masterful plan, but it didn’t work if the carton was either not yet open or there were only a few packs left. Timing, therefore, was everything. 

When stealing packs didn’t work, we’d resort to stealing individual cigarettes. Nobody was exempt from our theft. Nobody but Grandma Burroway, that is. We learned quickly not to mess with her Pall Malls. She counted them! And I think she did so as a matter of course, not because she was on to our game. The first time we stole from her, she busted us and called us out. We never stole from her again.

More people smoked at that time, so there was almost always a pack lying somewhere. The challenge was finding them unattended and if not, finding a way to sneak one anyway. Chuck was better at this than me. He could slide a cigarette out of someone’s pack right in front of them simply by diverting their attention. It was amazing how he did this. Other times, he could stand with his back toward the pack, hands behind him, and inconspicuously slide one or two out and right into his pocket. We developed signals to indicate our successes. Once we had the loot, we’d escape to a secret place to enjoy, the garage, under the front porch or in one of the many makeshift cabins we built to play in.

We’d have to get rid of the smell, too. We were lucky because Mom and Dad, being smokers, couldn’t readily notice the smell on us. However, we still had to be extra careful. Suffusing one’s hands with the aroma of pine, by rubbing pine needles between them, seemed to work well, at least in our minds.

 These early exploits began my smoking career, one that would span 32 years before ending.

Below are five things I’ve learned from my smoking cessation journey:

ONE:  Smoking is an addiction and I was the quintessential addict.

 Addicts are known to go to any lengths to get their fix. You are about to see that.

As time passed back then, it was clear that I was the addicted one. I needed the nicotine more frequently. Since I wasn’t as good at sneaking them as Chuck was, I had to resort to other ways to get my fix. I loved when people butted their cigarettes long. I could snatch them from the ashtray and get at least a few more puffs out of them. How wasteful they were, but how happy I was! I wonder if my mom ever wondered why I was often so eager to empty the ashtrays.

Later, I resorted to even more desperate measures to get my needed fix. I’d sometimes take a few butts from the ashtray and tape them together. Yes, you read it correctly, Scotch transparent tape. If you’ve never tasted burning plastic tape, you’re in for a real treat. I can only imagine what those chemicals did to my lungs. I also attempted tearing butts apart, saving the tobacco and rolling makeshift cigarettes in regular tablet paper. In my most desperate moment, I even crumbled and rolled dried leaves into paper and smoked it. It was to no avail, though, due to the absence of nicotine.

I got caught, too, and often. Mom never caught me but my oldest brother, Bill, did. He’d tell on me and I’d get punished. Once I had to eat half of a cigar. It was awful, but I chewed and swallowed it quickly. It didn’t deter me at all. I was destined to be an addict and to endure the burdens associated with it.

Most of my smoking life, I smoked a pack a day. However, when coupled with alcohol, this could easily double or triple. Booze and cigarettes went well together, like peanut butter and jelly.

TWO:  There was nothing anyone was going to tell me about the dangers of smoking that I didn’t already know. 

Over the years I had taken many smoking cessation classes, both at work and on my own. I had read about the dangers of smoking over and over again. I read the pamphlets in doctors’ offices and literature that came with the nicotine patch and gum. I had seen the horrific pictures of a smoker’s lungs compared to a non-smoker’s, the black hardened blob, unrecognizable, destroyed by chemicals from cigarettes. Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD) and Lung Cancer were specific, imminent dangers for me. My dad had both and died at 60 as a result. Yes, I was acutely aware. I knew it all. I saw all the charts depicting how many years I was taking off of my life, too.

And I heard the lectures from friends and family members, “You should quit.” All their preaching did was make me want to push them away – to avoid being around them. I was simply tired of hearing it. I wasn’t ready.

“Can you explain why someone with two nodules on his right lung continues to smoke?” My pulmonologist said, bluntly, staring me in the face during an exam.

“I’m an addict. Addiction defies rational thought.”

THREE:  Quitting was the hardest thing I’ve done.

Some say cigarettes are harder to quit than heroin. I can’t say for sure as I was fortunate to never have done heroine (I believe if I had, I’d be dead). I can say with confidence, however, that quitting cigarettes was hardest thing I’ve done. It was definitely harder than getting sober.

I tried many times and many methods to quit, hard core to unconventional. Cold turkey, nicotine gum, nicotine patch, more nicotine patch, Wellbutrin, and hypnotism (twice), each worked in its own way for a while. Sometimes I quit for only days, other times it was longer. The longest was one year. At one point, I was wearing one and a half of 21mg nicotine patches and smoking at the same time. I could have died!

What I learned over these attempts was that there was a physical addiction to the nicotine and a psychological addiction to the idea that smoking cigarettes made me feel better –less stressed and relaxed. The latter, for me was more difficult. I had to become ready; I had to want it. And when I decided I wanted it, Chantix helped with both addictions because it stepped me down from the physical gradually, which allowed time for the psychological addiction to diminish.

My doctor, knowing my history with quit attempts, prescribed 40 refills of Chantix, each for a one-week supply. I took it for five months, which is not typical. But it was before the controversy surrounding Chantix was public. Because of that controversy, I’ve been hesitant to recommend it as a solution. Luckily, it worked for me without any of the adverse effects. I had no bad dreams, no thoughts of suicide, and no physical issues.

On September 2, 2007, I was leaving my gram’s house where I had been for dinner. As I got into my truck, I realized I only had one cigarette left. I thought, what are you going to do, Michael? You either have to stop smoking or stop Chantix. This can’t continue. What’s it going to be? Being unable to think long-term, I decided that I would smoke the last one and not buy any on the way home that night and “see how it goes.” I can always buy some tomorrow, I thought.

The rest is history.

FOUR:  I can NEVER have just one. 

Because of Chantix’s step-down effect, I have not craved a cigarette since that night. Unlike the previous attempts, where the delicious smell of smoke could lure me back like a moth to light, this time was different. In fact, cigarette smoke, today, makes me physically ill. If I’m in an enclosed area such as a bar, I will end up with a sore throat and sometimes even a headache the next day. I have become an annoying ex-smoker. Yes, that guy.

Occasionally, however, a fleeting thought may cross my mind and attempt to glamorize smoking a cigarette. They are not cravings, but just ideas of what it might be like to smoke one. What would it taste like today? Could I smoke just one? Surely it’s been long enough. No! I must remind myself that I can’t have just one and that each time that I quit in the past, I started again because I thought I that I could. The same principle that applies to staying sober applies here. I can’t. One is too many and one thousand is never enough.

FIVE:  My lung capacity did not come back. 

Today my lungs are healthy and there are no signs of cancer, COPD, Asthma, or chronic Bronchitis. After detecting the nodules on my right lung, my pulmonologist had me repeat a CT scan every six months for two years to ensure they didn’t grow or change. They did not. Therefore, he concluded it was scar tissue, not tumors. That was a huge relief.

Furthermore, many of the issues associated with long-term smoking, such as wheezing, spitting up brown sputum with black chunks, and morning coughing, subsided after several months and resolved themselves by year two. Breathing became easier and I didn’t get as easily winded because of the increased oxygen in my blood that was now flowing better. And I know that today my risk of getting heart disease or cancer is greatly reduced.

My lung capacity, although improved, continues to be an issue. I’m not a doctor or scientist and I agree that lung tissue can heal and rejuvenate the way much of the literature says. But I also believe for long-term smokers like me, who smoked for 32 years, my lung capacity will never return to that of a normal non-smoker.

Since quitting, I have strived to work out consistently to improve my lung function and overall physical fitness. But today, when I drop to the floor and give out at the gym, it’s not my body that gives out, it’s my breath.

Smoking cigarettes among younger people seems to be “cool” again. I’ve noticed a recent resurgence, especially with hipsters. I implore anyone who is considering the idea to not start. And if you do smoke already and you’re like me, I can’t tell you anything. So I won’t. I’ll only hope you find your way eventually, as I did.

Might Be An Alcoholic

Recalling what that weekend was like seventeen years ago still evokes painful memories. I hope it always does. For when I can look back and not remember the pain, I will have entered a dangerous place – a place that could take me back out. So today, I remember. I reflect. I feel. I stay sober. 

Throughout the early part of 2000, I had been on and off of work due to anxiety and panic attacks. The characteristic body trembling, hyperventilating, and often uncontrollable sobbing would occur suddenly and render me unable to function. On two occasions I ended up in the emergency room with nurses lain on top of me injecting me with large doses of Xanax. There were other times that I had to leave work abruptly and call my therapist for help.

What began as a couple weeks off in January, that year, evolved, by February, into several months of medical leave from work. The panic attacks ensued and I began seeing a psychiatrist for medication consultation in addition to my therapist who is a licensed psychologist. The psychiatrist prescribed several psychotropic medications: Depakote to stabilize my moods, Risperdal for the mild Schizophrenia that had me hearing sounds in my head, Zoloft as a general anti-depressant, and of course, Xanax for the anxiety. I saw the psychiatrist each month for 15 minutes for medication evaluation. The sessions resulted in a series of ongoing adjustments precipitated each visit by the question, “How are you feeling today, Michael?” If I said, “Good,” then she would reduce one drug, remove another, and adjust dosage on another. If I said, “Bad,” then it was the opposite: increase one, add another, etc. On and on it went. Furthermore, I took these medications for months before getting sober. Not only was that a deadly combination, but the alcohol negated any effects they might have had. Some years later, when I requested a copy of my records from that psychiatrist, I was astounded to find hand-written in the top margin of the very first page of notes, “Might be an alcoholic.”

The weeks leading up to admission into outpatient rehab on September 1^st were tough. I had been arrested for a third DUI. This time, however, I was not only drunk, but high on cocaine and pot, which combined with the host of prescribed medications, made me zombie-like. “I’ve been following you for four miles and you cannot stay in your own lane. You’re all over the road,” the state trooper said when he approached my truck.

“There’s no need to make me take the roadside sobriety test,” I replied. “I know where I’m going. I am messed up.” He kindly obliged, cuffed me, and helped me into the back seat of the squad car. I did know where I was going. On some level, I was relieved.

That latest DUI was a result of my attempt at coping with a brief, tumultuous relationship that had recently ended dramatically. Additionally, being off work for months afforded me the opportunity to drink more and do more drugs. I had been stockpiling pot, too – I’d ask everyone at the bar if they had some and if they did, I bought it and stuck it in the bottom of my entertainment center. I’m not exactly sure why I hoarded it, probably because it was the only thing that could help me sleep at night. I was on a downward spiral.

I was sick, too. I trembled constantly. Each morning, I’d walk through damp towels strewn all over the floor of my bathroom and bedroom from the night sweats that I didn’t even know I was having. I paced constantly.  I didn’t eat - I couldn’t, and the stomach pain was unbearable at times. I lost a lot of weight. I stopped driving because I didn’t’ feel in control and was afraid I’d hurt someone. If I needed cigarettes or booze, I walked. I was restless and didn’t know what to do with myself. Alone in my house, I played Solitaire over and over to keep my trembling hands and implacable mind busy. I drank more and smoked more. I made contact with almost no one. I didn’t take calls or return them. I only went to Cumps. I was in distress and ashamed of my current self- imprisoned state.  

I looked around the dimly lit bar that had been familiar to me for so long, and then slowly down at the bottle of Coors Light sitting in front of me. Both seemed suddenly foreign to me. I shook my head slowly, “I can’t do this anymore," I said to my friend, Kaaren, who worked at my favorite bar that July 29 night, even as I slowly sipped that beer she had habitually placed in front of me. I never sipped beer; I downed it. Everyone who knew me, including her, knew that. I had gotten plenty wasted the night before and awakened that morning hungover - something that had become all too normal for me. 

My mind wandered. What will I do if I quit? I thought to myself. If not here, where will I go? Am I prepared to not see this place anymore? What about Kaaren?

I jumped as she abruptly stopped washing glasses, stood up and stared at me as if she didn’t recognize me at all. “Do what?”  

“I can’t drink like this anymore. I need to stop,” I said, turning away to avoid her gaze. 

“What are you doing to do?”

“Rehab, I think,” I muttered.

 “Good.” Relieved at her approval, I turned back to her and could see the corners of her lips hint upward. Kaaren was insightful and I think she had seen this coming and actually hoped for it for a long time.

That brief conversation with Kaaren was my moment. It was that life-changing moment whereby one all-of-the-sudden sees clearly what the problem is, envisions the person they want to be, and sees the path clearly laid out before him. Some call it a spiritual awakening. It’s that defining moment that becomes the impetus for change. I don’t know what brought it about then and not the previous times. For some, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime moment. Others, sadly, never even get the opportunity. I was one of the lucky ones. I didn’t realize it that night. I was too terrified of the journey that lay in front of me.

Sobriety, I’ve learned, is elusive. Most, even if they manage to quit drinking, don’t make it long term. Countless others who, by virtue of not having that moment of clarity, never get to try. I always knew I was an alcoholic. I just assumed I'd live out my life that way as so many in my family before me. I never realized I had a choice. That moment allowed me to see that I did, indeed, have a choice. The most significant discovery for me in early recovery was that notion of choice. “I choose not to drink today.” I am grateful for the gift of choice.

I had hit my bottom, finally. Twenty years of abusing my body and reckless behavior had finally caught up with me. The DUI was just the tipping point and the latest incident. My irresponsible money habits along with drinking and drugging- and now more fines and attorney’s fees, had left me virtually broke with a credit score that was abysmal. Even though I was receiving short-term disability benefits while off of work, I was still unable to pay my bills. I withdrew all of the money from my retirement account that I had managed to maintain for seven years. It covered me for a little while, but killed me with taxes and penalties.

Every other aspect of my life was a disaster as well.  I couldn’t maintain any relationship because of the abandonment and trust issues that were exacerbated by the incessant drinking. I had no friends, except Kaaren. The others were just “drinking buddies.” I had avoided and neglected most of my family except my gram and certainly had hurt them over the years by causing them worry and distress. At work, my company was bought and reorganized. I was told I had to apply for my own job and I didn’t get it. (I did maintain a position there for a while after.)  Life was simply not good.

 Some say it was a higher power that intervened that night at the bar. I couldn’t have seen it then, because I had given up on any idea of God. But I’ve learned a lot since then about how I view God versus a higher power. I had lost all faith in the God of the Bible when I was a child and I’ve never regained it. I probably won’t either since I see this God as a man-made deity not a spiritual concept. Back then, while Dad was beating my mom and siblings and cheating and drinking and threatening and constantly causing embarrassment, I prayed to this God of the Bible. I prayed hard for the violence to stop –for Dad to be the dad he was when he was sober – calm, quiet, non-violent. Over and over again, I lay in my bed, terrified and trembling, praying and begging God to make it stop. It only stopped years later once Dad was legally removed from the house.

Today, I wholly embrace the concept of a power greater than me, but I don’t see this power in the form of God as the Bible asserts, but rather as something that I don’t need to define clearly. It’s more of a sense, a feeling – of rightness or connected-ness. This “spirituality,” as opposed to religion, allows me to see the beauty in the world – even in the midst of negativity, disaster, and hatred. Religion is often black and white. Spirituality is the gray area that transcends the black and white and allows me to see that beauty. Consequently, I can better accept the ugliness and maintain some faith without all of the rules, expectations, and judgement that man-made religion supports. In the end, though, the most important thing for me to remember is that whatever my higher power is, it is NOT me.  That keeps me right-sized, humble, and sober.

Why that moment of clarity happened that night at Cump’s, I don’t know. But that fleeting moment changed my whole life and probably saved it. I am eternally grateful for it. Today, I have a life that is beyond my wildest dreams. I have become the person that I had previously only wished I could be. I love and appreciate myself and life and strive to give back in gratitude. That moment afforded me a whole new level of consciousness.

“So, what brings you here today, Mr. Burroway?” the cheerful intake counselor at Gateway Rehab asked on July 31, 2001 at 1pm when I showed up on their doorstep.  “I am completely mentally and physically in-ca-pacitated. I can no longer function in life.”

“You’ve come to the right place.”

The Final Journey Part 14 (The Dream)

Wednesday March 15

She’s there! I exclaimed to myself as my eyes popped wide open. It was my first thought after awakening from a deep sleep. I was lying on my back feeling elated and the most rested I had in a long time. I didn’t want to wake up. I wanted to go back to my dream. She must be settled in by now, I thought, or maybe I hadn’t been ready to receive her until now.

Some say that those who have passed on visit us in our dreams. Being a practical guy and not falling easily for esoteric, new age ideas, I would never have believed it myself, but it happened to me once before. When Gram’s son, Chubbs, died, he too, came to me in a dream months later. My therapist says we dream every night, we just don’t remember most of them. I’m not sure about that, but I do know that I only remember a few dreams per year. And this one was significant.

On the surface, the dream was weird – the scenes were choppy and incomplete - as I suppose most are. But as I recapped it in my head and with my best friend, Natalie, the next day, I believe it was deeply symbolic and meaningful.

It was nighttime and Gram and I were sitting at Del Frate’s bar in downtown Pittsburgh, a place where I spent a lot of time in the late 1980’s. It was dimly lit and we were amid the constant din of voices, some conversing with us. I couldn’t see faces, only torsos, and I don’t know who these people were. Gram didn’t drink and certainly didn’t frequent bars, so I’m not sure why we were there. Gram broke through the noise, “I have to go. I’m getting the bus home.”  

“No, I’ll drive you.” I was always afraid for her walking around or riding the bus at night in the city, which she did for many years while working at Carlisle’s. Within seconds, I was in the passenger seat of my car, which was in a parking lot across the street, looking at Gram sitting in the driver’s seat. I wondered why she was there. She never learned to drive. “I’ll drive.” I said.

Suddenly we were in a large field with lots of people. The field was situated on a large, grassy hillside. It was a cloudy day, which made it easy to see the circular grove of trees at the very top without having to squint. The hay-like grass was long with blades of brown intertwined – typical of late summer. A path had formed where the grass was worn down from the foot traffic. To the right was a long, galvanized, chain link fence that separated those of us walking up the hill from a soccer field and an adjacent baseball diamond. I couldn’t tell if anyone was playing there, though. The landscape was vivid, but there were no faces on the people and there were no sounds coming from them.

There were people of all ages, too, on this hill. They were walking about purposefully and in unison – in the same counterclockwise direction and never stopping. It was not a hustle and bustle, they were moving more slowly than that. Yet they were not zombies.

Gram and I were walking up the hill along with the others. Gram was walking a few feet behind me and to my right.

We turned with the crowd, toward a plateaued area on our left and continued to walk. This area was grassy, too, but it was much greener, shorter, lawn-type grass. There were white track and field markings chalked onto it. Children were running around and playing here. I could not hear them and they were not in unison with the adults.

I looked over my right shoulder to check on Gram and my heart dropped suddenly when I realized I had lost her. In her place, now, was a white-haired woman. There was no face on this woman, only white hair. She walked with me as I re-traced my steps in an attempt to find Gram. My body began to tremble and I felt that familiar, uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Have you seen Gram?” I asked people as we walked. But no one responded to me. They kept walking.

As we walked over the plateaued area and back down the hill and began the ascent back up to where we started, I was puzzled as it became clear to me that we were all simply repeating the same large circle - up the hill, left to the plateau area, then back down. No one ever made it to the peak where the trees were. I didn’t have time to figure it out.

As the white-haired woman and I made it back around along the fence, I, once again, turned to my right side and noticed I had now lost her, too. I was suddenly alone and confused. I stopped dead and turned completely around and there, about 20 feet down the hill behind me, was Gram. She was with the white-haired woman and giving her hell about something. I could not hear words, but I could see Gram waving her finger at the woman.

It was only then that I finally saw Gram’s face and image clearly. I noticed in that moment how beautiful she was. She was the young, vibrant, and healthy Gram of earlier years. Her hair was dark and neatly curled. (It was still dark when she died, too, but had recently become streaked with gray.) She was wearing lipstick and had powdered her nose and cheeks like she used to. She had on a two-tone blouse, whose turquois and blue colors were soothing. It reminded me of some sci-fi women’s styles from the 1980’s. It had stiff, pointed shoulders that protruded over her arms. Perhaps something you’d see on Joan Collins back then, but Joan’s would be power red. The blouse went to the waist and covered the top of her dark wool slacks. Upon seeing her, I immediately stopped trembling and my stomach settled.

I woke up.

As I lay in bed contemplating my dream, I wondered if I had visited heaven. Is that what the field was? Were the people there those who had passed before? Or, rather, was the field symbolic of life here - more specifically - the circle of life, represented by the young, the old, and the repeating of the circular movement through the field. I suspect it was the latter.  

Furthermore, I don’t think I lost Gram when I turned around. I think she broke away from me or perhaps, more appropriately, released me. I believe she was conveying a message that it was ok for me let go of her and get on with my life – that she was fine and didn’t need me to worry about her anymore. And those 1980’s references – the bar, Gram’s outfit? I believe they harkened back to a time when things were better, when Alzheimer’s wasn’t even a consideration and when Gram was vibrant, active, and healthy.  And I believe they aided in reinforcing the message that she was whole again and I could move on to seek my new purpose.

The white-haired woman was Jude, Gram’s daughter-in-law. I’m sure of it. Gram was giving Jude hell as she often did throughout the many years of their love-hate relationship (mostly love). Gram would definitely want me to be there for Jude, but perhaps she was telling her to take care of herself so that she would stay healthy and stay around for a while. Jude and I also share a bond and losing her will be difficult. Gram knew that. Or perhaps she was simply giving Jude hell because it’s what she always did.

As I got out of bed to start my day, I thanked Gram for the visit and the message. She may never visit me again, as Chubbs never came again after that first visit. But I take solace in knowing that she is ok and our bond has been re-established. 

The Final Journey Part 13 (Provincetown)

Wednesday October 19

The drive up Route 28 north was different this time. Nothing had changed on the route; it was still 35 miles on the highway before switching over to the mostly two-lane, twisting and mountainous, country road. The drive was dark and especially quiet at 5:30 a.m., interrupted only by the occasional lights and passing of an 18-wheeler. It would be 90 minutes before I reached I-80, the interstate that would take me across Pennsylvania.

There was an eeriness to the drive this time, though – not only was it dark and quiet, but a thick layer of fog neatly hovered between the road and the sky, as if suspended on cables. That fog would stay with me until daylight. I noted how it metaphorically resembled my own recent state of mind. This first part of the drive was always the most peaceful part of the trip. I could relax and let my mind drift. The few vehicles on the road at this time of the morning meant that I only had to keep my eyes peeled for deer, especially once I hit the two-lane portion of the road. It was normally a long, lonely drive to I-80, but this time it few by. The radio was blaring with the KDKA morning show, but I didn’t even hear it. I was deep in thought and not in my usual frame of mind.

My October Provincetown trip was historically about Alcoholics Anonymous. It had been more than ten years since I first attended the Provincetown AA Roundup. I loved it immediately and I haven’t missed a year since that first one. Close to a thousand gay and gay-friendly alcoholics would descend upon the tip of the Cape and we would enjoy a long weekend of friendship, fellowship, sobriety, and fun. In stark contrast to my annual summertime visit, October in Provincetown is a perfect time for sobriety, recovery, and peaceful reflection.

As always, there would be friends, too, those who were residents and who I often didn’t even see during my summertime visit as they were either hiding away from the crowds or too busy working seasonal jobs, or both. There would be those acquaintances from all over the country that I would see from year to year.

And so these were the things I usually contemplated on the drive  - who I might meet or what AA events or workshops I would attend; what new restaurants may have opened since summer or which would still be open this time of year; or which restaurants I wanted to try but couldn’t during the summer because they were too busy. Where would I eat? I’d wonder. How would I spend my free time? How much time would I spend with my friends? These were all the normal things.
This time, however, I wasn’t thinking about the normal things such as AA events or restaurants and food or friends. I was consumed with deep thoughts about my now life. I was wondering what this trip would be about. What did I hope to accomplish? It had been only nine days since I lost Gram. I was experiencing a major life change and I was lost. My therapist had suggested I was not only mourning Gram, but also my job as a caregiver, and my purpose, which had, for all of my adult life, been to take care of her in one way or another. Therefore, I was seeking purpose, direction, and faith. Four days in Provincetown wouldn’t be enough to find it, I knew, but I wanted time to reflect and I wanted to write in hopes of attaining some guidance.

As I drove, I reflected on the days since Gram passed.  I remembered how I thought this trip may not happen. When Gram stopped eating, I didn’t know how long she would live. I honestly thought it might be a month or so. And perhaps had she just stopping eating, it may have been a month. But when she stopped drinking, things moved quickly. The body can survive a while without food, but without water, only days. I realized, too, she had been slowly starving for the couple of months that I had been struggling to get her to eat. Of course, I would have canceled my trip in a second to be with Gram had she not passed when she did.

At home, I had put off doing Gram’s last loads of laundry. Some of it I had at my house before she died and there was that which I brought when Michelle and I cleaned out her room that morning she died. Doing her final laundry was difficult, but I wanted to get it done before Provincetown and donate it to ManorCare as I had done with the rest. I had procrastinated doing it and now scrambled to do so the night before I left.

As I reached in to gather the last load of clothes from the washer to place it in the dryer, I saw something in the bottom of the drum. It was a rusty nail. I immediately broke out in laughter. Over the years, I had found some bizarre things in the washer that Gram had picked up and stuck in her pockets – plastic gloves, cups, and money, to name a few. But the nail was a first. I picked it up, clasped it between my fingers as I shook my head and smiled. For a few minutes in my laundry room, I leaned on my washing machine, reminisced, and got comfort from a rusty old nail. I decided immediately I would keep that nail forever. It’s a perfect reminder of the character Gram was, especially in her disease – mischievous and curious, and in many ways, childlike. It was sad, but at same time sweet and funny. 

Before finishing up the laundry, I pulled out one of Gram’s favorite sweaters and a pair of PJs to keep for myself. I placed them safely in a plastic bag. They would provide me with comfort any time I needed to remember her smell.

When I arrived at ManorCare to deliver the clothing, I wasn’t ready to go downstairs to where Gram’s room was. Luckily, the woman at the front desk was there and told me I could just leave the bags in the conference room upstairs. She held the door for me, expressed her condolences, and thanked me for the donation.

I was exhausted and fell quickly into a deep sleep that night when I got home from ManorCare. However, I woke up middle of the night, terrified and confused. I sat up in bed. I rubbed my eyes and my head trying to determine if I was awake. I momentarily lost track of reality and I wasn’t sure if Gram was dead or alive. I struggled to get to reality. It took me several minutes to talk myself down and to realize that she was, indeed, dead.

By the time I had arrived at the ShireMax Inn, 11 hours after I set out, I had come to a couple conclusions about the trip.

First, this was not going to be a social trip for me. I just wasn’t feeling that way. Depending on circumstances in any given year, my participation level for the AA events varied. I decided I would not participate much this year. I yearned for alone time – for my thoughts and for my writing. I was so desperately afraid that if I focused on anything else, I’d forget Gram.

There would be two exceptions to my anti-social rule. They were my two dearest friends in Provincetown. I would be happy to see my friend Bruce and I would spend some time with him. He and I had been friends for many years. We met when he lived in Pittsburgh. He moved to Provincetown twelve or so years ago. He was responsible for turning me on to this beautiful place. My first vacation here was with him in 2002. I’ve come every year since.

I would also see my friend Dennis. Dennis has run the ShireMax since the first year I stayed there. His hospitality and upbeat, funny and colorful personality have kept me coming back. The Inn is the only place I’ve stayed since I was introduced that first time, probably six years ago. Dennis and I became immediate friends then. “Michael, if we had met when we were young, we would have been best friends,” he said to me once. I agreed. I cherish his friendship and I always look forward to seeing him and catching up.

Dennis greeted me with a big hug and immediately expressed his condolences for Gram. His sentiments were authentic and felt nice. He knew my relationship with Gram. He didn’t have to say much; I knew he understood. We caught up for a few minutes, but I was restless and tired. I wanted to shower, attempt a nap and scope out places where I could write.

Both of these guys knew me, understood my life, and respected my current challenges. There was no pressure with either. They respected whatever I needed to do. Furthermore, since I had been going to Provincetown 14 years, I was comfortable and knew my way around. I felt at home. This was the perfect place for me to be now.

My second conclusion was about the book I had been working on that would tell the story of my relationship with Gram and the journey through Alzheimer’s disease. The book suddenly seemed less urgent, even meaningless now. Was it still worthwhile? I wondered. I knew deep down that it was worthwhile, but not immediately urgent. For now, I was compelled to write a different story – to chronicle these last several weeks – those that led up to Gram’s death and those after. I needed to document this “Final Journey” both as a healing exercise and memory exercise. It would become my focus on this trip and for some time ahead. I would take a temporary hiatus from the book. Provincetown was the perfect place to reflect and write this story.

My first night sleeping in Provincetown was as equally disturbing as the night before at home. Again, I went to bed early, fell into a deep sleep quickly. I slept over eight hours. However, when I awoke, my body felt fully rested, but my mind was exhausted. It was odd, but I knew there was a lot that went on in my head during the night. I just didn’t remember any of it. I felt turmoil; I felt anger – not toward Gram, but about Gram, I think. I spent that entire day feeling emotionally exhausted. My brain definitely had a lot to work out.

In the end, I had a good trip. It was quiet and low-key. Although I had questioned whether it was a good idea to go in the first place, I learned that it was. I slept a lot. I needed it. I spent a lot of time writing and I spent some much-needed time alone. It was exactly what I needed. It was a good place for me to be at a time in my life that was not so good.

The Final Journey Part 12 (WTEA)

Saturday October 15

In the days following Gram’s death, I was consumed by sadness and engrossed in a deep fog that followed me everywhere I went and rendered me lost and directionless. I was going through the motions of life, but I was not present for it. This fog often left me unaware of my surroundings and it kept me distant - deep in my thoughts and memories. I was lucky, though. I had wonderful memories of Gram, many of which were funny and would have me smiling, and at times, laughing out loud – even at the most inappropriate times. I will always remember what a character she was. Was I grieving her? Absolutely, but I enjoyed remembering her antics and those many good and funny times. I had lost her, but I would always have my memories.

But as the grieving process goes, there were those "first time since” or “last time I did this, she was here” moments that accompanied everything that I did those first few weeks. Common when someone dies, I believe these thoughts are normal and integral to the healing process. They would diminish as I continued walking through my “now” life. They'd be there through the first year without her, though, especially during holidays, birthdays, and special events.  I knew this from experience.

As much as I couldn’t imagine my life without Gram, day by day I was beginning to see it. Life, indeed, did go on, whether I liked it or not. I was alive and I had things to do. Some of these things – those more immediate - would be different now, perhaps more significant and definitely more reflective.

On the Saturday following Gram’s death, I participated in the Walk to End Alzheimer’s. I didn't want to this time, only five days after losing her, but I was compelled. This year, more than ever, I needed to honor my commitment – the commitment to walk each year since Gram was diagnosed with this nasty disease. I had participated in the Walk from the early days when it was held at the Pittsburgh Zoo. A few years ago, it was moved to North Shore near Heinz Field, which was a much better venue, since it had grown so much.

Around the time that they relocated the Walk, I believe, they initiated the Promise Garden, too. This has become my favorite part of the event. Each participant is given a large flower that represents their reason for walking. The flowers are made of large fan-like nylon petals attached to a spinner so that the breeze catches and spins them. The stem is plastic and long two nylon leaves attached. Markers are provided for those who choose to write something on their flowers. The long stem allows for “planting” in the Promise Garden – an exercise that each walker is asked to do as they approach the starting line. At the end of the walk, each person can retrieve their flower to take home with them. Some, though, like me, choose to carry their flowers through the walk, unwilling to let go of them. The Promise Garden, with all of the purple, blue, yellow, and orange flowers spinning in the breeze, is a majestic sight to behold. It especially was on this day. 

For me, picking my flower this time was obviously different and doubly heartbreaking. Traditionally, I picked up a yellow, “caregiver” flower and wrote In Honor of Gram on it. But this time, I picked up a purple, “for those who have lost someone,” flower. It was difficult to find a spot at the table where the markers were, with all the people around it, but I managed to squeeze in and find a marker. As the tears rolled down my face and dripped on to the white plastic table cloth below, I struggled to write, In Memory of Gram. 

She was alive the last time I did this, I thought as I looked out across the large crowd that had gathered and was working its way toward the huge purple balloon arch at the starting line. It was a stunning morning. The sun was shining brightly in the crystal clear, bright blue sky. It was beautiful and warm - about sixty degrees to start - a perfect day to remember Gram. Thanks, Mum, I mumbled as I approached the starting line, as if she granted this day to me specifically.

Over the years, the Walk has been a way for me to feel purposeful about the disease – in hopes of eradicating it; supporting others in my own way; and, of course, to honor Gram. This year, it was particularly so.

Furthermore, participation has been a solitary and solemn event for me. I didn’t socialize much and I walked alone. I was there to remember - to remember Gram, reflect on her life and mine, and to be grateful for her. This year, I avoided talking to anyone and when I saw people I knew, I ducked away or pretended I didn’t see them. I wanted to be alone with my memories.

As I walked through the North Shore, carrying my purple flower, my life with Gram, again, flashed through my mind, just as it did a few weeks ago, prior to her death. All the things that took place over many years – that seemed to be frozen in time for the last eight – now all hit me as the stark reality of walking in memory of sank in. This made things real and at the same time, still so incomprehensible. I suddenly saw that old life fall away in pieces right in front of me and disappear – slowly at first and piece by piece – but then suddenly it all came down like an old building being imploded and crashing inward and downward toward the ground. Everything was gone – Gram’s house, the dinners, the holidays, the special Sunday evenings when it was just me, her, and Jude; the yard, the work – all of it. Gone. It crashed down - unfrozen and real. Of course, it had been gone for years, but it was as if it was just waiting for Gram’s death for this huge dose of reality.  None of it happened suddenly, but it felt very sudden that day.

As I continued to walk, my mind also flashed through the escapades of the years since this disease, reminding me that it wasn’t all doom and gloom. Scene after scene passed and I would laugh as they exemplified the foul, funny, outspoken character Gram was. Even the last coherent words she said to me demonstrated it: “I have to get the hell out of here.” I’d smile knowing all the people she had touched. I loved sharing her with others. Her antics were unmatched.

From this day forth, I would be walking in memory of Gram. Indeed the life was gone, but I had my memories. I would cherish them forever.

The Final Journey Part 11 (Goth Girl)

Thursday October 13

I went back to work Thursday. I didn’t want to, but knew it was a good idea. I needed my routine. Throughout the morning, though, I was consumed with Gram’s burial which was to take place at 9:30 a.m.

I went through the motions that day. My heart wasn’t in it and I couldn’t focus. I wanted to, though, and for a few moments here and there I did, but my mind would inevitably wander back to thoughts and memories of Gram as I struggled to believe the reality of what had happened in the past week.

 “You look lost,” one of my co-workers said as he walked past me in the hall. I was lost.

               I would visit the cemetery after work. My mind became focused on that. In doing so, however, I would experience something unexpected and beautiful …

Goth Girl

I was shocked when I opened the mailbox. I’m not sure why, but I didn’t expect to get sympathy cards. I did get them though - a bunch of them. I brought them into the house and placed them on the counter while I took care of the dogs and changed out of my work clothes. I was anxious to open them and read them, but at the same time, not. I know these cards would evoke strong emotions. I’d be a wreck again.

This morning, Gram was transported to her final resting place and buried. Gram hadn’t planned for a procession to the cemetery or a service there, so I hadn’t planned to go. Peter, from the funeral home, reassured me, though, that he would go along and stay until she was properly buried. He would then call me at work and let me know that it was complete. He was a compassionate funeral director who was diligent in his service until the very end. The sales manager at the cemetery, on the other hand, was crass and borderline rude. When I explained to her that there was no procession planned and asked, in case I changed my mind, if it was ok for me to come alone and see Gram buried, she replied, “You can come watch them bury her if you want, but be aware that it will be a bunch of dirty, blue collar guys digging a hole and putting her in it.
“What?” I replied, “I have no problem with blue collar guys and it certainly doesn’t offend me.” Peter’s kindness and compassion was in stark contrast to her nastiness. I really appreciated him.

I wanted to check on Gram anyway, so I decided to take the cards with me and read them at the cemetery. Seeing her grave would get me bawling so I figured I could do all my bawling at once. The cemetery is right up the street from my house, so it only took a few minutes to get there.

I walked over Gram’s grave wondering if my feet would sink into the dirt indicating that some settling would need to take place. I didn’t sink, not even a little. I walked back and forth and around the spray of beautiful flowers whose tag said “Great Gram.” We had placed them inside the coffin during the viewing and asked that they be placed on top of the casket for the service. Now they would remain on top of the grave until such time that the cemetery staff removed them. They were still beautiful.

I sat down in the cold, but thankfully dry, grass next to Gram’s grave. There were remnants of the dirt from the burial scattered throughout the grass – a dusting that gave the grass a yellowish hue. It was cool outside, maybe fifty degrees, with a breeze and no sun.

I began to open the cards one at a time. I placed each envelope under my shoe beneath my crossed legs so they wouldn’t blow away as I opened each subsequent one. I was sobbing as I read through the beautiful sentiments expressed by the cards and the people who sent them.

“Would you like a cup a tea?” I jumped, startled.
“Oh my God, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. She was dressed in all-black - blouse, skirt, stockings, and shoes - a self-proclaimed Goth girl, I would soon learn. At first I wondered where she came from as she seemed to appear out of nowhere. I realized she worked at the cemetery office when she repeated, “Would you like a cup of tea while you sit here?” Her voice was soft and compassionate.

“Yes,” I managed to blurt out between sobs.”

“Would you like sugar or cream?”

“No.”

As she walked away, I continued through the cards and I continued to sob. Once finished, I sat quietly, amazed by the support and love I was witnessing and amazed at the life Gram lived. I looked at her headstone. It was propped up using the vase insert, waiting for her end date scroll to be added and for the dirt to settle before being permanently placed. “Well, Ella, what now?” I asked. (Ella was a name I often called Gram in her pre-dementia days. It was a nickname for her real name, Elizabeth.) I waited quietly as if I expected to get an answer.

The young lady returned and brought me a cup of delicious hot tea in a Styrofoam cup. She also brought tissues. “Here, for the tears,” she said.

“Thank you so much for your kindness,” I smiled at her through my tears.

She stooped down, reached back and smoothed her skirt under with her hand and sat in the grass right next to me with her legs bent together on their sides. In addition to her all-black outfit, she had large, round, plastic-framed glasses that were also black. They completely covered her very white face. I commented on her all-black attire, specifically how it seemed appropriate for her job. “People tell me all the time that I look like the Goth girl, Lydia Deetz, from Beetlejuice,” she said. “I love it.”

We sat and we talked for almost an hour. She listened as I talked about my bond with Gram and the large hole that was left in my life. “I know I’ll be ok,” I said, “And I know that hole will eventually fill.”

“It will fill,” she said, “but slowly and over time.”

She spoke of losing her own grandmother and their bond and pain she endured. We told stories about our respective grandmothers. She cried with me. She reassured me that I would be ok.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Jennifer.”

“Nice to meet you Jennifer, I’m Mike,” I said, extending my hand to shaker hers.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.”

“You’re so much kinder than your manager,” I said. “She was really nasty the other day.”

“Oh?” she replied, hesitant to go any further. Uh oh, I hope that’s not her mother, I thought, as I dropped the subject.

I stood up. “I have to go.”

“OK.”

“Thank you so much again for your kindness.”

“You’re welcome Mike. Take care.”

I really needed to meet Jennifer, the Goth girl, today. Perhaps that was Gram’s doing.