Everything is triggering

 I'm waiting on an appointment with the therapist. I'm sure I'll be told that all of this is normal.

Every damn thing is triggering.

Looking at a calendar is triggering. Today is 6 weeks since he was buried. Today would have been my mom's 86th birthday. She died two years ago, on October 4 2021. My aunt died 6 months ago this month.

Looking at the checkbook is triggering. He used to bail me out when I was off by some odd number. He managed the other checkbooks.

Writing the bills is triggering (I paid the small bills, he paid the large ones). Grocery shopping is triggering (Not buying licorice. No need for more wine- I won't drink alone). Making coffee is triggering (he made me coffee every morning). Watching TV is triggering (I'm watching that series that wasn't interesting to him-- at all. I'm watching the final season of that series we watched together).

I'm veering between overwhelming sadness that stops my breath and flat affect- paralysis, inertia.

I don't know which is worse.

Sunday musings

 I'm trying to give myself permission to not-do shit. Actually, trying to forgive myself for not-doing-shit. 

Because I'm not doing shit.

I have this vague guilt/thought/feeling that I ought to be grading papers, contacting students, pushing ahead with the next lesson plans.

I should be contacting all the kind friends and family who have given support and love over the last several weeks.

I should be writing more, cooking more, cleaning more.

I should be working out.

I should...

But I'm not.

I've done a lot today: walked* and fed the dog; rested on the couch so that I could hear my early-rising grandson and scoop him up for morning snack and quiet activities so that his sister and his dad could sleep for a while; made coffee; made breakfasts; watched over grandkids; made lunch; watched grandkids some more...

I don't know what to do about my lethargy, my disinclination to do anything.

Clearly, I am doing what's necessary. I am. 

I will do all those "I shoulds" at some point.

I just don't have the energy to tackle it right now. 

When any one of those items becomes necessary, I will do it. 

But right now, they are not urgent. They can wait.

And I don't want to do it.

*I am trying to walk with the dog every day. Even if it is not far, it is a part of a routine that may help heal.

Sweetest Day

 Today is Sweetest Day, a stupid H*llm*rk Holiday, and I'm hurting.

It's stupid, stupid holiday.

Ken always got my something- chocolate, or flowers.

A night out.

In 2019, when I was with Beth and Effie in Oregon, he had flowers delivered to the home where we were hosted.

In 1980, our first Sweetest Day, he got me a kitten, Jeremiah. Not only our first pet, a real statement that we were our own family. Because of his sister Esther's cat phobia, we weren't "supposed" to have a cat.

He gave me- gave us- a cat.

It's Sweetest Day. Beth is in Oregon, possibly the last time for this particular trip. I am in Illinois with the two kids, now, helping watch over them while she travels.

Especially important, as shortly after Beth left, her spouse Danny tested positive for Covid.

Being useful helps with what I'm feeling.

Being with grandkids helps. 

Sweetest Day doesn't help. At all.

Reality sets in

I had a rough morning. 

There was so much good. I heard happy sounds in the early morning- and found the grandkids happily snuggling together. No wake up tears, just grins and giggles. We had a good morning together.

I would love to share it with Ken. 

The kids were paging through the pictures on my phone, Live Photos of Ken with Matan, grinning. 

I ached. The tears kept welling up- not when the kids were looking, mostly. 

After the school drop off I drove for a while, and picked up drive through breakfast, and found someplace to park, and ate and cried. 

And ached.

When I'm busy, I am distracted for a while. Recently, the distraction is not enough. 

I haven't had break-down melt-down storms of tears. I wonder if I will, or if I will just keep feeling this intensifying ache.

I ache. 

Tears well up and leak.

I ache. Often in my chest- heart-ache, ache in my lungs so I have to remember to breathe. Sometimes in my stomach, my gut clenching.

I ache. I hurt. 

My dad told it would come in waves, and it does, waves and storm surges. More often now, wave upon wave.

I am not sure what to do. I guess, one thing is to make that appointment with the therapist. Maybe there are suggestions that will help.

Help - I need help. The one who always helped me is gone. 

It helps when I help- so being here, helping with the grandkids, has helped. 

I miss him. I miss the way his eyes lit up every time he saw me. I miss kisses and hugs and more. I miss laughing with him. I miss every silly little thing- had to have a napkin, so neat with his mustache and beard. Always checking the door was locked, sometimes twice or three times. Choosing the pie crust cookie that had almost no sprinkles of cinnamon sugar.

His response whenever I referenced how I looked:

Gorgeous. You're gorgeous.

I miss him when I have to look at the news- he would be with me in having such complex and painful reactions to all that is happening.

He would be loving all the pictures I would send of the grandkids. 

The grandkids are our future. The children all over the world are the future- if we can have a future.

I MISS HIM.

I'm holding it together, mostly. Trying to drink enough water. Trying to get enough sleep.

One night I'm up too late, getting up the next morning too early. The next night I'm in bed much earlier, but not sleeping.

I am literally at a loss. This loss is coloring all of my days, all of my plans. The world is in peril, I know it, I try to take it in, but I am overwhelmed by my personal loss. 

Today is a hard day, harder than yesterday. Will tomorrow be harder still? Will the next day be harder than that?

Who knows? 

I feel paralyzed, like I can't plan anything. I need to set meeting times with students, plan when to meet with friends, plan how to take care of the next details of life: paying bills, buying dog food, clearing out some drawers and closets.

I have no initiative. I am so tired.

Exhausted.

Grieving

 For the first month, at least, I was numb. Disbelieving. Could not accept that Ken's death was real. I wasn't happy but I didn't feel "sad," really. I didn't feel much at all. 

Suddenly, unexpectedly, I would be stabbed by the thought that he was gone. Sometimes it happened when I saw something and wanted to share it with him, or when I heard a text alert and had a microsecond when I thought it might be him.

Sometimes it just came, suddenly, for no reason that I could discern. 

Most of the time, though, I was just numb. 

I was tired, and I still am tired.  I know that is a symptom of my grief, my loss.

My brain is foggy; my short term memory is far worse than usual. This too is a known symptom of my loss.

Sleep disturbances. Loss of affect. Low motivation. 

Just lately, I am feeling the surges of grief more strongly, more often, more demanding. I did the math:

Ken died 5 weeks ago this past Saturday. On Tuesday, two days ago, it marked 5 weeks since the funeral.

My body remembered, even if I didn't, consciously, at first. Five weeks is about the longest Ken and I were ever apart since we became a couple 43 years ago.

Maybe 3 or 4 times we were separated for about 5 weeks- once or twice when I spent time in Chicagoland with my daughter and her small child(ren) when Ken was still working. Perhaps when I traveled abroad.

I think my body remembered. The loss has started to become real.

There's the business aspect too- changing the name(s) on bank accounts, credit cards, utilities, insurance policies. Changing beneficiaries.

It feels disloyal. It feels like he's being erased.

Part of me can't WAIT to get it OVER with and behind me.

Part of me feels like... well, he's still here, right? He is still somehow present on these links and emails and scraps of paper and contracts.

Silly. Painful. Confusing.

We're having a rough time of it here. I'm in Illinois, with my daughter's family. My daughter has work travel out of state; she didn't want to go. Her anxiety and her grief both wanted to stay here, stay with family. 

I'm here, and her spouse is here, and she left for the the work commitment, more than a week away, more than a week far away. 

We have FaceTime and video messaging. It's not the same. She wants to hold her children, and hug me and share our grief.

Still.

We were making it work.

We are making it work.

Even though the day after she left, her spouse tested positive for Covid and has been isolating, away from me and the children.

Both of the kids have colds. Not Covid: I've tested them both, over howls of protest.

And my grief is rolling in like a storm front that cannot be outrun or dodged, only endured.

In many ways it is healing for me to be with my grandkids. It helps to know that I am helpful, wanted, needed. 

We're more than halfway through my daughter's time away. It's Thursday, and she is back on Monday. Her spouse is feeling better every day, and will test on Saturday, and hopefully test negative and be back with the family.

I am feeling so incredibly lonely and alone and lost and I truly cannot even think about the future. Locally and globally the forces of hatred and fear seem so powerfully on the ascendant, and I have lost my deepest, greatest connection to knowing love, knowing it is true and real and part of me.

I've been thinking, too, about feelings and the words that describe them: I haven't been happy, really, since this happened (when did this happen? September 1, when we went into the hospital? September 9 when he died? September 12 when he was buried?). I have had moments of gladness. I haven't been sad all the time, but always, whether it was front and center or buried and denied, I have been grieving.

Happiness, gladness, joy. These are all different.

Sorrow, grief, sadness. Different. 

I am fearful, too, and more suspicious and paranoid.

I am also more grateful. I am more compassionate, I think. 

I do not know how long any of this will last. 

Time is strange, too. Since the pandemic, I've had trouble with remembering what day it is. Now, time is weirdly distorted.  An hour seems like a minute. An hour seems like an age. 

6. Second Shiva, Third Shiva and... a New Year

 The second shiva was at our home, and Leonard M led the service. Leonard's 50ish year old daughter had recently died, quite suddenly. The grace and compassion Leonard showed in leading shiva for us, as he was still grieving his own loss, was so kind.

My kids cleaned the house like crazy, moved furniture around to accommodate the expected attendees. we all tried to rest at different times.

Our house was crowded with family and friends. Still so much food. At this shiva, Leonard paused during the service for comments from those attending- to share thoughts about Ken. 

We said kaddish together.

The next night, Thursday night, we had a Zoom only Shiva. Beth and her family Zoomed in from their Illinois home. The other kids were still in our home, and Aaron B and Rob G. I think Phil (our Chicago friend by way of CK and KG- don't remember when he arrived!) was still here, too. Phil had rented a hotel room, and switched it to a larger room so CMK and KG could stay with him. The house was triggering for them- too hard to stay for long.

Leonard M led the service again, this time from his home on the Zoom (at my request). He paused the service again, and more people on Zoom spoke. I especially valued Leah speaking- articulating what has been true for many, that Ken was a friend, support, alternative second father for so many, modeled a different way of being in a relationship, modeled a different way of parenting, than what they had known.

After shiva, there was some good sharing around the dining room table by we few at home of great experiences with our family, with Ken, with us. 

Those memories remain always.

Maybe I will come back, someday, and add more to this. We'll see. 

The timing of all of this is difficult (how could it be anything else?) and strange, too. Ken died on Saturday, September 9- that night was Selichot,  the service before the High Holidays. He was buried on Tuesday, with shiva Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Friday we do not have shiva, as it is Shabbat. This Shabbat was also the beginning of the New Year- Rosh Hashanah. According to tradition, we set aside our grief for Shabbat, for the High Holidays.

Our grief was not set aside, but our public grief became private. At least it was so for me.

This New Year asks much of us. Moving forward is an incredible challenge.

I Zoomed the services on Rosh Hashanah. I Zoomed the Thursday morning minyan. I went with Jacob and his family to Shabbat Shuvah, the Shabbat that falls between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. With Claire, I attended Kol Nidre services- we left after Kaddish, too overwhelmed. I zoomed Yom Kippur day services.

Started, little by little, taking up again the business of life.

Alone.

Not alone- supported by family and friends.

Yet alone.

5. The next days, the funeral, and first shiva

I don't remember Sunday very well. I think I went with Adam and Aaron to the funeral home that day.  I must have- that is the date on the check. I didn't write the check. I tried, but I had to void it. I asked Aaron to write it, so I could sign it. Greg at the funeral home was quiet, deferential, polite. I just wanted it to be correct- kosher- according to the community's practices. 

Ken and I hadn't talked about this part. It was on our to-do list, truly.

I think it was Sunday when Mitchell and Macy, William and Madeline, and Diane all came. Maybe it was Saturday afternoon? I think it was Sunday. Mitchell's birthday! Mitch and Macy, Will and Madeline, Diane spent time hanging with Claire and Kevin as well as me. They took Claire and Kevin for a long walk, spent the time. So important.

I think it was Sunday when my friend Sherry came in. Maybe it was Monday. I can't recall. She drove in from North Carolina, stayed at her sister's house 45 minutes away, and showed up every day to be my shadow, my emotional body guard. 

I think it was Sunday when Adam, Jacob, Jude all shopped for suits, and Beth returned the rental car and traded for our Chrysler Town & Country, and I met with 5 or 6 year old Ellie, and Sara her mom and Miriam, Ellie's months-old sister, and my grandchildren Effie (7) and Matan (2 10/12) and Jude (11) and Lucy (8) checking out the pets in the pet store near the Men's Wearhouse where the guys were shopping. Holding a baby and watching the delight of children looking at ferrets and kittens and beta fish and finches helped.

I don't remember Monday, not really. I'm reassembling the memories based on dates on checks, what I know happened, knowing that the funeral was Tuesday, so on Sunday this must have happened, on Monday this must have happened. 

On Monday we went to the cemetery. That's what the date on the check says. Aaron drove me and Adam and ?Jenna? did Jenna come? I think so- I think she walked with Adam to see the actual plot. I didn't - I waited in the car with Aaron, using his shoulder to cry on. I couldn't walk to see that piece of earth, not that day. Adam- all the kids- tried to spare me the trip to the cemetery altogether, but I had to be physically present. I had to physically sign the papers, pay for the land, receive a deed, contract for services.

Food kept arriving at our house. So much mideastern food. Salads. Vats of tuna fish. We made it through the egg salad. We all ate way more tuna than you should in a month- in a single day.

I texted my brother Monday night to see if he could drive me and my family to the funeral on Tuesday. He was glad to do it. He came as early as we asked on Tuesday. He brought dress socks for Adam, that we'd asked for- although Adam had found socks in the meantime.

Adam borrowed one of Ken's yarmulkes. He asked if he could keep it. I said of course.

Sherry met me at the funeral. Marcey came later, hung out with Kim, who was with Meg and Bethany. 

The most beautiful funeral I've ever seen. So many people said so. It was. It was beautiful. It was heart breaking. It was hard, hard, hard. 

People showing up that I hadn't seen in 20 years. People that were part of our youth theatre troupes. People Ken had worked with. Family. Friends. Standing room only in the temple sanctuary. Zoom attendees were close to 70 screens.

The K-8 school where Ken worked for almost 20 years closed the school so that staff could attend. Half or more of the staff attended. 

I let my brother figure out where to put the car for the processional. Made my way to the bathroom. Sherry was with me, bringing me water and tissues. I hugged some of those arriving, and then was grateful to go to the quiet family room. 

We waited for Rabbi Debbie, coming with Beth from the local hotel Beth had booked for her family, and for Debbie- to be closer to the temple.

When Debbie arrived, we received the kriah ribbons, tore them and said the blessing. Marton was there, and Rochelle, and Aunt Lola. More. Family, Ken's family. 

We went in to the sanctuary. 

Bob G began, playing and singing Blackbird from the Beatles. Rabbi Debbie began. I can't remember the service, only that it was kind, and powerful, and moving, and heartfelt, and so so so hard. I remember flashes: the kids holding one another up after each of their speeches. Beth thanking all for coming- as Ken would have. Jacob declaring that his dad was a monkhead (- and he was). Adam reflecting on doing the dishes with his dad, Adam's evolution of understanding. Claire so grateful that Ken was her papa. Kevin surprising us all with a reason to smile in our pain. Rabbi Debbie reading my words, because I could not, and having a gentle smile but also tears in her eyes. Rising for kaddish. Bob G playing In My Life by the Beatles to close the service.

We followed the plain pine coffin out of the sanctuary, out to the hearse, the pall bearers walking along side. Will and Mitch. Aaron and Rob. Who else? I will need to ask, I can't remember. 

Grief induced brain fog. Common, I'm told.

Claire had been holding up so far, better than expected. She was ready, however, to have a Xanax before facing the cemetery and the burial. She needed food with it. We were in our car, and I had no food. Sherry (still my shadow) saw Danny. "Danny will have food!" We flagged him down, and of course he had snacks in his Dada Backpack, and Claire took the Xanax with a kid's granola bar.

We drove to the cemetery.

It was raining that day (it was raining: family joke, on me). Somehow the rain stopped, once we were assembled by the grave. Brief graveside service. Kaddish again. Lining up, each of us, to put a shovel or two of dirt into the grave.

Some of us left. I left, giving permission for many in the processional to head toward the temple and lunch.

Many stayed. Marton organized the folks to shovel the dirt, the last gift given, covering the grave by the work of human hands, one shovel full at a time. My kids all stayed. Rabbi Debbie stayed. 

Jake told me the rain lifted while they shoveled; started again when they had to wait for more dirt to be brought. The rain lifted again when the dirt arrived, and the shovels came out again.

They all stayed to the end, Jacob told me. Until it was done. 

By being at the temple, I was able to - by my example- give permission for others to eat. It was important for my dad and his wife Doris, other elders. Doris exclaimed over the delicious food. I'm sure it was. 

I'm sure it was.

After a while, those who had stayed at the graveside returned to get something to eat. Maybe Adam and Jenna had gone back to our house? I don't remember- I know they were there at the lunch for a moment at least, found Marcey to ask her to make the EARLY morning drive to take Rabbi Debbie to the airport the next day.

I tried to sit for a moment with people who had come so far, to appreciate them, their kindness and care. I sat with Bob-with-a-beard. I sat with Kim and Meg. I spoke with Leanna and Reva. I know I spoke with others, too, but... so much is lost in the fog of grief.

I went home, eventually. I tried to rest. 

We assembled again at the temple for the first night of shiva. Back in the sanctuary. Debbie had brought her shofar- mostly so that it wouldn't be left behind during her rushed flight. It's Elul, she said- should I sound the shofar? 

 YES, I said.

So we had the abbreviated service for afternoon and evening, an opportunity to say kaddish again in community.

Debbie blew the shofar at the end of the service.

That was the right thing to do.

4. The week it happened September 5-9

It all blurs together. I know it was a roller coaster again. We would be given some crumbs of hope, then confronted with blunt words that left us reeling.

Tuesday September 5- We all came to the hospital. We checked in with Cardiac ICU, we heard no change. We were essentially told to go home, if you stay it's just for you, it's not for him. The team is taking care of him. He had a balloon pump taking on some of the heart's work. He had to be sedated while the pump and ventilator were on. He couldn't talk to us. Go home, they said. We won't be trying to lift sedation for a couple of days, they said. We won't have any new information for a while. Just one person to call. I can't remember who it was then- Adam? already Jake? Jake was the one to make and take calls later in the week for sure.

So Beth and Adam were about to leave, to drive home to Illinois, to collect their families and come back. 

Just as they were about to leave, the Good Dr. M arrived. As I recall, he was more optimistic- crumbs of hope. 

This was typical of our time here, by the way. We were told to go home, nothing will change- and then there would be a doctor with updates, or there would be a change to report- after we'd been told to go home...

Grateful that they had been able to hear the update, Beth and Adam headed back to Chicagoland to get their families.

Wednesday September 6, Thursday September 7- These days are a blur. At some point, Claire and I got Princess from the Golden's, and met with Aunt Diane, who took over with Princess. At some point, Claire and I sweated bullets waiting for Kevin to arrive from Traverse City, scooting in the pouring rain. At some point, Beth and Danny and Effie and Matan, and Adam and Jenna and Luna caravanned in from Chicagoland, and found a better hotel. At many points, Jacob was waiting in the ICU waiting room, knowing it was for him, for Jacob- but needing to be there nonetheless- and therefore being there when there were updates. We all took turns being there, waiting. We heard scraps of encouraging news. We heard devastating blunt things. At some point, we heard that they brought him out of deep sedation to light sedation (we still couldn't go in) and he was responding to their questions, with nods or finger squeezes. At some point, the cardiologist Dr. NoRelation (his last name being the same last name as Jacob's wife's maiden name) urged us to think of "goals for care" and emphasized that "at his age, he is NOT a candidate for a heart transplant." The balloon pump came out, and a stronger Impel pump went in. Kidney problems. Dialysis. Kidneys responding. Heart resting, heart weak. 

At some point, I talked with Jacob's friend rabbi Sarah.

Claire and Kevin and I were staying nights with Beth and Danny's family in their hotel suite. Adam and Jenna spent one night at Rob G's house, and then got their own hotel suite next to ours on Friday.

Friday September 8- I don't remember how this day went. We were taking it in shifts to be there. At some point, we said a Misha Beirach with Rabbi Debbie on a FaceTime call huddled in a room within the larger ICU waiting room. 

Jacob brought in a CD player and the Beatles CD library to play in Ken's room. I took off my sweater and had them keep it with Ken. We came in to see him, in groups of two or three. He was sedated. He was swollen from fluid retention. Danny and Beth were tag-teaming with the kids. We were all reminding each other to drink water. We made each other eat food.

Jacob went home to his family for the night. By this time, Jacob was our "one person" who could call or be called. The others went to the hotel suites.

Danny was staying with me for the late shift. For the first time, when we went in to see Ken after official visiting hours, there was hesitation. We'd heard the next day they might try stepping down the stronger pump, see what the heart could do. 

The ICU nurses this time were different. They told us to "go home" (home is an hour away or 6 hours away). They said there would be no change. They said, don't even call until around 8:00 am tomorrow, so that the doctors check in, do rounds, so we know more. Go home.

They barely tolerated our last visit, Danny's and mine. Danny drove me to the hotel suite. I showered, read for a few minutes. Tried to sleep.

Saturday September 9- Saturday morning at around 8:00 am, I got a phone call. Are you Lisa Kander? Murray, Ken Kander's wife? Yes, I am. The nurse on the phone identified himself as the ICU nurse with Ken. He asked, Are you here at the hospital? I nearly screamed, you TOLD us to leave, but I didn't say it; instead I said, no, but we can be there in half an hour or so. Yes, come,  he said. Then there was hesitation. Ken lost pulse around 7:00 am. We brought back but... he lost pulse. Another pause. He lost pulse for four minutes.

I didn't look it up. I still haven't looked it up. It doesn't matter. 

I woke the others up. I called Jacob. I told him to promise he would have someone else drive him to the hospital. I told them what I'd heard. We moved fast. We checked out of the hotel, we made sure the kids were fed and dressed. We went to the hospital as quickly as we safely could.

When we got there, they told us to wait. We waited. We were waiting for Jacob. The Good Dr. M came, before Jacob got there (I later learned that Jacob had heard in a phone call already.) He's gone,  he said.  You understand? He died about 7:00 this morning. We brought him back, but it's just the machines. We kept them on so you can say goodbye.

It was hard to remember to breathe. It was me, and Adam, and Beth, and Kevin and Claire. Jenna was with Luna. Danny was with the kids. We still were waiting for Jacob. We were stunned. 

We were waiting for Jacob, so we could say goodbye. 

Jacob arrived, with Jessica who had driven. He already knew. 

It's not clear to me now entirely how things progressed after that- how and when Danny and Jenna were told, when and how many of us were in the room with Ken and the machines to say goodbye. Someone asked, Do we want to say the Shema? and I said, yes. We said the Shema. In one way or another, we did our best to say goodbye. We collected the CD player. I asked if my sweater could stay with him, and they said, sure, of course. They tried to give us the hospital-supplied teddy bear "Sir Coughs A Lot" and I felt enraged. That bear is for people who SURVIVE the surgery, who are to press it to their chests when they do the necessary coughing to keep their lungs active. How DARE they?

But I didn't say it.

I also didn't take the bear.

As we were stepping out of the room, a nurse expressed sympathy, and said (essentially) that once we contacted a funeral home, the funeral home would take it from there. Nothing for us to sign. Nothing for us to do.

Go home.

I blinked. I was stunned. 

Is there someplace we can go? I asked. Our family? Somewhere private, where we can talk, figure out what is next?

Oh! Sure! 

They found a nurse or nurse assistant or someone who looked around and found a corner of a waiting room that was unoccupied while we tried to figure out what to do. How to move. How to breathe.

There was no social worker. There was no offer of a chaplain. There was nothing.

Go home. 

We sat. We cried. We talked. Some of us took walks with our person.

I didn't. My person was gone.

Eventually, we decided to drive to Jacob's house to be together. To figure out next steps. To eat, to drink more water. Beth, Danny, Effie and Matan would spend the next night or two at Jacob & Jessica's, while Claire and Kevin, Adam & Jenna, would eventually come home with me.

Jacob and Jessica were fostering kittens. Once our caravan arrived, we had kitten therapy as momma cat and kittens mewed and crawled over us and slept on us. Some one brought food. Jacob pulled out the artisanal cheeses and crackers. We reminded each other to drink water. 

We made phone calls. We divided up the list of who would call whom. I called my brother, who was with my sister, as it happened- cleaning my house, and mowing my yard. I'm glad they were together. I called my dad- first, texting Doris his wife to make sure she would be there with him.

The kids handled the other phone calls and emails to notify folks. The kids handled the "business" calls.

Calls about the "arrangements." Calls to my friend Carol, to find out what our options and protocols were in Flint. Calls to the funeral home, to the director of the Beth El section of the cemetery, to the cemetery itself. Calls to our friend rabbi.  Rabbi Debbie would come in from Jackson, Mississippi.

Everything was being handled. I am forever grateful. 

I don't remember when those of us heading to my house headed out. I don't remember when Aaron B arrived - I don't remember when Rob G arrived- I know they both did. 

I don't remember how we got Princess back to our house- I know we did. 

I don't remember how I got to sleep. Maybe I didn't. Maybe I just stared at the walls.

I don't remember.

3. The week before: Saturday and Sunday; Monday surgery

Details are already blurring; memories are confusing. I'm doing the best I can.

On Saturday September 2, Beth and Adam drove in together from Illinois. They arrived at the hospital in late afternoon, visiting a while with Ken and me in the hospital. I headed home, and they headed to a hotel they had rented nearby.

Jacob called several times, and was ready to come when needed. He blocked off time at work for the surgery Monday.

Claire started home from Traverse City. She stopped at Grandpere and Doris' home- where Diane and Thomas were visiting for Diane's birthday. It was awkward, but all the times were awkward. Claire came home to our house (an hour from the hospital) to check on Princess and be there for me.

Sunday, Claire and I took care of tasks at home for a while. We arranged for the Goldens to watch Princess- was this on Sunday? I think so. 

We all went together to the hospital. I think. We visited. Ken took notes on a tissue box of the doctors' comments because he didn't have paper. Ken had intermittent fever, and his blood sugar was higher than anticipated. It turns out he may have had diabetes for months... unsuspected. He didn't eat sugar all his life- after his dad died of complications of diabetes-, hardly at all, maybe that was why he had no symptoms. There were concerns. We were told it was serious- but bypass surgery has a great success rate.

Surgery would be the next day, Monday, Labor Day, and we learned he would be prepped for surgery at around 6:00 am so we all needed to be there early.

Claire and I went home. Beth and Adam went to their local motel. Later, Beth and Adam came back to visit again, as Ken was restless and unable to sleep.

 Monday September 4 2023

We all came back to the hospital the next morning. The drive from Holly was much shorter with no traffic at 4:30 in the morning. It was surreal; the hospital was empty, like a ghost town. All day.

Claire and I were there first, close to 5:30. Beth and Adam arrived shortly after, around 5:45. The nurse said Ken probably wouldn't go in to prep until closer to 6:30, so I told Jacob not to worry when he texted he was running behind (due to construction?). He arrived about 5 minutes to 6:00, which was a good thing, since the nurse was wrong and Ken was taken to prep at 6:00 or 6:05. We were able to go along with him to the prep room.

Still a ghost town - no one anywhere.

We were taken with him to the prep room. We were with him and the nurses who were all optimistic- after all, bypass surgery is all but routine these days!

We left for the waiting room while he was shaved. 

I think it was at this point that we met with the surgeon. This was one of two brothers. We eventually dubbed them the Evil Dr. M and the Good Dr. M. The surgeon who operated was the Evil Dr. M. His comments were- well, apparently surgeons suck at communication.

 He commented that his team was irritated about coming in on the holiday. Not information we needed! But he said it didn't matter, because he was the one that had a "relationship" with the patient. We kept telling him that Ken is the best guy, the BEST guy. I don't remember exactly what he said other than that- maybe my kids do. I feel like he said again that Ken was very sick, and also that bypass surgery is almost routine these days. Maybe this was when we heard- but I think it was earlier, maybe Saturday, maybe it was just reiterated- that the heart could respond well, and he could be better than he was- or, if the heart didn't respond well, he could "have a really hard road ahead."

I didn't care how hard- wheelchair, oxygen, months or years of rehab. We would adjust. We would do what was needed.

We came back in to visit and give our love before he went in to be sedated.

Ken was emotional. We all gave him kisses and encouragement.

Remember, Beth said. We're all here. We're just on the other side of that wall. 

That was the last time we ever spoke with him.

We had a roller coaster day that day. The OR nurse was great with updates, and the surgery went quite well. "He's doing great!" she kept saying. 

That means we were blindsided by the surgeon's remarks when he came to talk to us. I have since learned (been reminded) that surgeons have the worst bedside manners. Basically the surgeon said that the surgery went well, but that Ken's heart was weak, and had been deprived of the blood it needed for probably months. The hope was that the bypass would resupply the blood and the heart will strengthen; Ken could get much better.

However, there was a lot of damage, especially on the left side of the heart, from the previous heart attack; and because the heart disease (in addition to the heart attack) was so diffuse, and there was significant damage throughout, Ken might *not* have the recovery we would want, and might have "a hard road ahead"- the surgeon also mentioned some "worst case scenario" versions- probably to cover his ass, we thought at the time, but NOT what we needed to hear. The kids and I sort of melted down at that point.

Still waiting to see Ken.

To add insult to injury, the fire alarm went off. We had to vacate the building, hang out outside in record breaking heat while the alarm blared. We used a fire exit, which set off another alarm. 

We were shattered. No one was around. Eventually, some ?ambulance drivers? ?custodians? asked why we were outside. We said, because of the fire alarm! They said, oh, that was a false alarm!

Says who?

Eventually the fire department arrived and checked it out and turned off the alarms. We went back in. After that, we were eventually told by the Good Physician Assistant Laura? Lauren?- we were told that Ken was going to be sedated at least until tomorrow, and we should go home... Home was an hour away.

It was more than an hour after that when we were able to see Ken in the ICU. He was still sedated.

The ICU nurse was much more encouraging. Ken was stable, and at his age, a stay of some time in the ICU would be expected. According to the ICU nurse, Ken was doing fine.

As I recall it, we all went to Beth and Adam's hotel. We took the camp mattresses my friend Carol had loaned us. Claire and I stayed at the motel/hotel. After a while, after eating something, Jacob went to his home. He wanted- he needed- to see his kids.

The hotel/motel reeked of reefer. Not in the room, thankfully, but in the halls and the elevator. It was a place to sleep when we were not in shape to drive. 

The Goldens had Princess. 

We got what sleep we could.