 
This page contains Bob's last two
published works:
The Journey Continues and The
Turtle
Journal 23 - Memories
THE JOURNEY CONTINUES
FOR GINNY
Robert Mendenhall
August 4 - 7, 2003
PART ONE
When I talked about Evy, in the poem "The Journey’’, she is a
character from Stephen Levine’s book about death and dying called,
"Meetings at the Edge" - and one person who really struggled with ALS.
What I did not say was that she did try assisted suicide.
When I first read that about 9 months ago or more,
I just could not stop crying.
I found it so desperate, difficult, unthinkable, unforgivable, hopeless.
I felt so bad for that woman,
so much so that I even left it out of that poem I wrote.
I didn’t want other people to know she suffered.
I didn’t want to admit how afraid I was.
But as it turns out, in her case it turns out even worse
than imaginable for she did not have the strength
in her arms or in her swallowing
to be able to swallow pills that would put her to death easily.
As a matter of fact she was gagging and choking,
and what it made it worse was that there was a nurse on call,
but the nurse was not allowed to be in the same room.
In fact the nurse parked herself across the street.
Evy could still use her legs, so she hobbled and hobbled
trying to call the nurse because the pills either stuck halfway down,
or she couldn’t get them down or something like that.
Finally the nurse did help her and eventually Evy died.
I don’t know exactly how long it took.
It took a long time though.
I was struck with the irony of how someone who was in such suffering and
pain,
who wanted to end it all in her own way,
could not even do that.
It became even more painful and a misery.
I have had many times to think about that scene.
I read it over a few times more.
I had to go deep into my psyche to come to terms with someone trying that.
I felt you must have un-believable pain,
and no spark of hope to choose that as an ending.
Since that time my body has progressed.
This is August.
I finished "The Journey" in the beginning of January of this year.
It’s been seven months now, almost 8 months.
A lot’s happened in my psyche and in my soul, spirit, and body.
My body has progressed, as I have written about in other poems
like "I am not in this chair" and "Fighting and Melting",
(although I think I wrote that about a year ago).
But, there have been times when I really wanted to end it all,
when I really would have done anything in my power
to end it all in a moment.
It was never an easy thing, lot’s of tears, torture to contemplate it.
Memories of my mother’s attempted suicide, thoughts of the fate that would
lie ahead of me if I chose to kill myself, guilt about the suffering that I
would cause Ginny and others – but the fact is I’ve had moments when I’ve
felt so much pain and suffering that I did not know what else to do. I have been
blessed to have the help of angels and loving people to get me through those
moments. Unfortunately Evy did not have that support. It is one of the saddest things
that I have come across in my reading or in stories that I have heard while I’ve
been sick with this illness. Life should not cause that much suffering.
I had about four serious choking incidents.
One that lasted 4 hours on July 4th,
one before that that was in the middle of the night
with my nurse friend John Burkhardt there,
and Ginny, and Lyton, and it just would not stop.
It would not stop, and scared me.
Scared me,
scared me,
scared me.
I think most of the choking incidents are done.
I found a way to go through it.
If I do choke I know how to go through it,
with the machines I have,|
with the techniques of staying calm, breathing,
and with the help of somebody pushing me forward.
Not even using the Heimlich maneuver.
What’s important to know is that with one of the machines I have,
the BIPAP machine, I can breathe through it, even with a little liquid or
saliva in my throat.
Normal people could just clear their throat.
Those are times that scare me,
then I saw the panic on Ginny’s face.
and I didn’t want to go that way because of her.
Sometimes I wonder, if I’m going to choke
why don’t I just do it?
But I don’t have enough strength to do that.
Believe me, it’s so painful and so scary
that it’s not a way you choose to go,
even if you think you can choose that way to go.
PART TWO
I’ve been wanting to write this poem,
this continuation of "The Journey" for awhile
and struggling with things to say.
At first I was going to call it "A Few Last Words"
and let it be published posthumously.
But now I think it’s important to try to start another poem
that really is just a continuation of the journey,
the journey, that includes all of one’s life.
The last "Journey" that I wrote had a lot of uplifting, spiritual
metaphors, experiences, hopeful pictures. We’ll see about this one.
PART THREE
The hardest place for me to get through,
as I’ve discovered in the last 4 - 6 weeks
is almost constant nausea, with my stomach…
I won’t go through all the details,
but I’ve not been able to eat more that half a meal a day, if at
all. Most
days I only take in liquids. I try to keep my fluid intake up, but
when I’m
nauseous, it’s even hard to drink.
On the rare occasions when I have eaten without nausea, the food tastes
glorious. There are certain people who appreciate every nuance and taste of
every bite they take, you can see it on their face, Ginny is like that - she
also has a photographic memory for every good meal she has ever eaten. So I can
say that on those rare occasions I now have experienced some of the pleasure
that Ginny often has when she eats.
The nausea is sort of under control now.
I have round the clock meds that we’ve been playing with
for 3 or 4 weeks to get them right.
Mornings, around 5 or 6 o’clock are the hardest.
Sometimes the evenings equal the morning.
But in the morning I wake up in tears.
I wake up in pain.
I wake up wishing that I were already dead.
Sometimes I have the realization that I have more to do,
more to go through.
At least that’s what I think.
Recently, with the help of Ginny,
I realize it’s not more to do.
It’s more to open,
more to open to.
My tendency is to give and give
and create more and more, start new projects, add on to or complicate the
ones I have going (just ask my friend and sound expert Tommy Megan, if
he can
keep up with me),
I keep busy with friends,
entertaining or being with them, enjoying them (it’s a way to avoid being
quiet and letting go and taking care of myself).
I don’t want to live past when I can’t talk anymore.
Right now I have to use the BIPAP
in order for my voice to have any sound.
Right now it’s nothing more than a whisper
most of the time.
I’ve been flooded with letters,
peoples’ visits,
letters from people I haven’t heard from in years
telling me how much they appreciate me,
telling me things that I would have forgotten.
Telling me they love me,
hundreds of people.
I’ve been reminded that I’ve touched many, many people
through the Turtle Journal.
And yet there’s this black dark spot in my heart
that has a hard time really believing it.
But Ginny has been telling me that the nausea and the hurt in my heart
is a part of me that doesn’t believe
that I am loved, or will be, or deserve to be.
And that is my last struggle so it seems,
and that’s what I am trying to open to.
PART FOUR
I’ve talked about the beginning of my life in other poems.
Coming to this earth was very difficult.
I almost died while my mother was giving birth.
My father was not around,
he left me before I was born.
I never knew him after that.
Then my mother left me after one month
and I lived with a very loving family.
Thank God, because without that I don’t think
I ever would have had the courage
and the strength
or the love to go on after three years old.
And then at seven, I drowned
and made that contract with my mother
to take care of me,
and you can read all about that in my poem
"Two Miracles In My Life."
I have some idea that the beginnings before my beginnings on this earth,
were difficult too – in fact, I know there was much struggle, maybe a huge
spiritual battle, but it’s all very vague. And I believe they are related
to the difficulty I’m going through now in leaving this body,
the difficulty in making the transition to the next phase.
PART FIVE
There’s a cloud waiting there for me.
And today I had a visualization with Ginny,
and her small hand touching my heart.
Her little hand started cleaning out my heart,
taking all the guck from long ago,
all the pain, the terror,
cleaning it out.
All the pain and sorrow from being abandoned as a little baby,
having no mother,
no father,
from the bottom of Lake Geneva when I drowned.
Her hands supported me from the time I had no mother,
from the time I had no father, from the bottom of the lake.
Her hands made a circle around me, creating figure eights around my body (in
the Waldorf tradition this is a very healing movement and we call it
lemniscates)
at the bottom of the lake, reuniting my spirit and my body together
– helping me
to have a second chance, until the angel brought me out of the
water.
And Ginny was the angel that brought me out of the water
to let the human angels bring me back to life.
And Ginny was the angel that turned the corner at Another Season Restaurant,
and we bumped into each other
and she said I looked familiar.
She recognized me from a former time.
Then we enjoyed working together.
Then we became friends, fast friends.
She likes to remind people that the very first day
she got her car, her very own first car,
I asked if I could borrow it.
I didn’t see any problem with that, and apparently neither did she
because she did let me borrow it.
Then we became more than friends,
but that’s another story.
In the image that I had today,
Ginny kept cleaning,
holding her hand to my heart,
caressing my forehead with her other hand,
telling me that I am loved.
Making more room
and more room
in my heart to open to love,
to open the space, creating emptiness,
for love to enter in.
Twelve angels descended.
Twelve glorious and silvery angels descended
with one archangel holding court,
watching over all.
And with Ginny by my side,
and patching up my heart
the angels took me to my cloud
far, far, far, far away.
Farther than you can see from earth, high above the earth.
And as I ascended with the angels,
Ginny let go
and one of the angels floated her back down to earth
to continue her journey.
And there I went to my cloud
to rest and
to rest and
to rest
until I had rested enough
that I could soar like an eagle.
It is the eagle that we saw, John Phillips my dear old Boy Scout friend and
I, all those years ago. I remember when the eagle took off from that tree so low
to the ground – the tree shook so much we thought it would break. One loud and
piercing shriek sending an ancient message to my soul that John Phillips talked
about so eloquently in his letter to me. It is now that I realize, thirty odd
years later, that that eagle is me. And the promise I made on that day as I
followed with my eyes his spiraling ascent to heaven; one day I would follow him
and merge with him. So I look forward to that cloud to rest until I am ready to
gather my wings and circle the earth, as I promised I would.
"I gather my long tail feathers as I fly, I circle
around, I circle around,
the boundaries of the earth…"
-Native American Chant
PART SIX
From the vantage point of being an angel,
of being with the heavenly bodies
I could see now how inconsequential
my hurt, my sorrow, my pain was,
but I could also see how real it is.
Very human.
But once I was up in the heavens
I could see that none of it really matters.
None of the sorrow,
none of the depth of loss,
sadness,
pain, misery.
None of that mattered.
The only thing that mattered was joy, faith, love and hope.
Here are some thoughts that I wrote before I soared up to heaven, that take
on a different perspective from the heaven bound beings; From my new
perspective, I have to laugh at myself, see the humor, let go of the heaviness,
be light, light, light…
Today is July 15, 2003
Honestly, I really didn't expect to live into July. Living and dying and
waiting to die and wanting to live and wanting to die are all such funny
things. We humans are such funny things aren’t we? Animals, I think must
be much smarter. They don't worry about dying, they just live. When you have
so much pain for a number of weeks as I have, you really want to die.
What has been really difficult for me is to be quiet enough and let
myself go to the place of feeling and flying inside toward Heaven, toward
the angels -- to let the angels help me. I often ask for help -- every day
I've asked my angels for help, but to really be in the quiet place and
witness, be in that place and let whatever feelings come up for me...
Sometimes I have been able to get there a little bit more easily with Ginny
-- she has been meditating and I think getting to that place more deeply
just lately.
I've been visiting and saying goodbye to people, and it feels kind of
strange – first, of course, it's been very emotionally draining -- I
wouldn't say only difficult, because it's been very rewarding to look at
people straight in the eye and tell them what I feel, and hear from them,
cry with them -- it's been very beautiful. It's been tiring. I wish I could
take it in more easily -- like an angel. I think life as an angel, though
not easy, must be easier than being human. I imagine, in fact I believe that
angels work very hard to serve humanity, to serve God -- but I don't think
that they are so attached to these Damn Emotions -- that's what makes us
human. And to let go and allow the flow of emotions really to go through us
and not get stuck in us -- well that's just part of the journey. And how
each one of us does that, makes us who we are as individuals.
Ginny and I have been blessed -- and I especially have been very blessed,
to have Ginny who works endlessly on my behalf. There is so much that I
cannot or would not deal with that Ginny does.
We are merging our love together at the same time we are saying goodbye,
we are separating, parting. There's a bigger love that will be there with
both of us, that will carry us through this. I cannot describe it, all I can
say is that we have felt it -- sometimes it has been very hard to trust,
other times it's just there and we can't escape it, we are enveloped by it
and we enter in. And I ask the angels again and again to help me to enter in
-- as Rumi says: "I close my mouth here and I open there..." with
so much love and ahh, and relief.
At night when I go to bed I pray. Usually I pray for the angels to make
it easier for me, to make my passing easier. I'm usually so tired that I
fall asleep before I finish praying. I would like to float off on a cloud in
a blue sky, then when I'm ready I will soar like an eagle -- like that eagle
so long ago and in the beginning of our great & deep friendship, that
John and I saw canoeing, coasting down the Wolf river in northern Wisconsin.
If any of you see a hawk or crow or an eagle or bluebird or maybe a robin or
red-bird. That just may be me taking off to Heaven. And if it is not me yet
then maybe it's a reminder or a visit to you, to ask your help for a prayer,
for praying for me, for praying for you, for praying for us all -- that life
and death and the passing in between may be easier for us all. Glory be.
Amen.
PART SEVEN
Everything Comes from the Heart
There are many things
I wish I could say to all you friends
that I leave behind.
Too many to fill the pages of many books,
and most of it would probably be preaching
or teaching because of my nature I am a teacher.
One thing for sure I will say
Is I don’t listen to anybody with great enthusiasm
who says that they can cure you physically,
and then has not the heart or the character
or the courage to admit their own shortcomings.
That is a dangerous person.
I ran across my share of wannabe cure-alls before I learned my lesson.
And the lesson I learned is
to trust from within your heart what is true.
Everything comes from the heart.
I would like to indulge myself here by reprinting a letter I
wrote to a good friend. It is a response to a very loving letter from him and it
is my good-bye letter to him. I have adapted it to be a good-bye letter to all
my loving friends and relatives.
An Open Letter to Friends and Family
My dear…
What a beautiful letter you wrote to me. I appreciate that so very much. It
is exactly what I need and what gives me joy and peace right now. I especially
honor your honesty. Sometimes I wonder what I would do as a friend or relative
for somebody who is in my position.
I am very glad that you read the Turtle Journal. It is my way of
communicating to people, of saying goodbye, of finding a creative outlet for
all the emotions and distress and joy that I go through. It has been also a
way for me to document -- not all, but some of this process, this journey. I
want you to know that while in some ways I would rather not have this illness,
I would rather live a long happy life, I would love to be with my Ginny, my
love and all my friends for a lot longer, but there is much more to this
illness than pain, suffering, misery -- in fact there is a good amount of joy,
of learning how to love more, how to be patient, how to appreciate the
thousands and thousands of streaming love—drops, rainbows, that come towards
me, that fill me from within and without. This and more is what I tried to
express in my letters, in my poems and in my writings in the Turtle Journal. I
hope you and your family and others will see it as my gift to you, my legacy
if you will.
By the way, thank you so much for the gift pack that you sent awhile ago.
Thank you for the Turtle, it's very sweet. I hope you don't mind, I gave it
away to my god child. Yes, I have a god child. She is almost two years old,
and she is the daughter of one of my long-time and truest musician friends
here in Boston. She is the most beautiful girl that anyone could have in the
whole world -- and I get to play with her, and Ginny gets to play with her.
Jenny Stirling played on the benefit concert that we had in November. Her
daughter's name is Katherine -- but we all call her Fishy -- long story there.
You should be receiving a gift from me in the mail very soon. It is a long
time in coming, but finally we have a beautiful CD of the November benefit
concert that so many of my friends participated in and my students and many
people helped to produce and almost 400 people attended, and we raised
thousands of dollars. It was a beautiful night one that I will never forget
and hopefully many many many many people will always remember for its beauty,
high spirit and love. And, you will be able to hear me on it -- both reading
poetry and playing the cello, -- I added a couple of excerpts from concerts in
the past. Yet another friend was able to use his sound expertise and technical
wizardry to put that onto the CD. I'm also working on a number of CDs of my
poetry, reading my poetry aloud onto CDs. This project has given me a lot of
joy and satisfaction.
I appreciate your prayers and your thoughts, your well wishes, your faith.
And my wish for you is that you find a way to forgive, to truly dig deeply
into yourself and forgive and start again with your loved ones, with whomever
you have difficulties and with whomever you need to forgive. My experience
with my friends and family in the last year or two has been quite loving,
though I have also been frustrated with some inability on the part of some
people to go beyond their fears, to go beyond what they see as difficult,
scary, angry, fearful -- even terrifying. I know what it is like to be angry,
to have relationships that are so difficult it seems not worth it to work it
out. This has happened to me a few times in my life. I finally realized that
some relationships could not be healed as completely as I had hoped. In the
end, I believe that has to do with forgiving oneself. I have more to say about
this in Part Eight.
I certainly am not one to criticize others. And I apologize right now if I
come across as critical. It is more my feeling that I wish I could help others
not have to go through some of the pain that I've gone through because of the
inability to forgive, to forgive myself, to forgive others. To get out of my
own way and let love be, let love and light hold us and guide us. As far as
I'm concerned that is a bigger demon to live with than living with ALS.
Anyway, I think there is a possibility of so much love and beauty and
friendship. Of course it would not be without work and pain. But I really
think it is worth it. I advise you to try.
I can tell you are a very spiritual person nowadays. I'm glad for you.
Thank you again for your letter.
Much, much love, Bob
Another lesson I learned is that healing is not about the physical.
Healing is about the total person,
the total being-
physical, emotional, spiritual, mental.
Healing goes on and on just like love.
PART EIGHT
Good-Bye
On July 15th, 2003 I had an urgency to write about
comfort and discomfort – it really turned out to be a meditation on
forgiveness. This journey, every aspect, inner, outer, up, down and around –
with friends, with Ginny, with every single loss that I experienced through the
illness which were too many to keep track of, in the end had to do with
forgiveness and acceptance. I don’t know whether or not this is a fitting way
to end this poem, this part of the "Journey" – but I think that as I
come closer to dying the two parts of my heart that are working hardest are
those parts that are forgiving and forgiving and forgiving, and that other part
is opening to love.
Comfort/Forgiveness
I've had a lot of thoughts today and frankly for many days about it:
comfort.
There is bodily comfort -- being out of pain, with which I have had a
little too much experience for my own "comfort" so to speak -- and
that encompasses quite a lot I would say -- more than I really want to talk
about, because I don't have a lot of breath and dictating like this is not
"comfortable". So let me try to be succinct, which is not usually
very easy for me.
I'm reminded of people I know who work their whole lives, all of their
lives -- everything they work for, everything they try to show for is about
comfort...
I'm so very tired. I am letting go finally of holding onto comforting
others even trying to comfort myself, -- there is the kind of comfort that
comes from feeding your child, watching a child go to sleep at night, watching
your children grow, finishing a task well done -- whether it is vacuuming or
dusting or by doing the dishes, or writing a long poem, digging a ditch, or
writing music, playing the concert or building a skyscraper.
Comfort, comfort -- it's not really about that, it's about feeling good
inside -- feeling comfortable with yourself yes, feeling comfortable with your
friends and loved ones, your partner, your love, -- but a lot of doing the
right thing in life is not about being comfortable. I think it really is
something I've thought of throughout my life. I've never really settled for
comfort -- I never really wanted it, wouldn't even know how to get it in a
sense. But now that I am dying and I do want to be comfortable -- that is
pain-free -- even some of that is really too highly rated because one learns
from, one grows through pain. Not always of course, and I really do think that
we can grow, expand without the pain -- but sometimes we cannot do it. We need
the reminder or something. Sometimes I have had horrible pain and I have gone
into it, it is then that I glimpse at myself and I have glimpsed into and had
revelations about the fact that it has taken this much pain for me to stop and
be with myself, cry for me, give myself the pity, the compassion that I
otherwise would not give. Why is that? Why does it take so long, so many years
for people to have compassion, to forgive themselves?
So much of what this illness has been about for me -- besides adjusting
and learning and loving and healing, besides all of that -- is forgiving.
Forgiving. Forgiving myself over and over and over. And in forgiving
myself when I can -- which usually takes way too much effort than it should
– it’s easy for me to forgive others, to listen to others, to love my wife
the way I really want to, the way it is really meant to be, the way she loves
me frankly. Ginny is a much more forgiving person than I am. As soon as she is
done something wrong -- almost -- she begs forgiveness. But even sooner, when
I have done something wrong -- and it’s usually a lot worse than what she
may have done, she forgives me. I would like to say that I've learned from
that. But unfortunately I go down my own stubborn path, and I really only
learned through my mistakes -- the giant ones. Maybe in the next life I'll not
be so stubborn. Maybe in the next life I will have earned a place to be more
forgiving of myself, more loving to myself, and therefore loving and forgiving
to all. For that is what we all truly deserve. Forgiveness.
So for all of you,
all of you that I never got a chance to say good-bye to personally,
here is my good-bye.
Someone told me recently that
if you don’t get a chance to say good-bye
it makes it harder to say hello in the next life.
Well I am saying good-bye
and I wish you all the chance to say good-bye to me
so that we can say hello when we open the new door.
Glory, Hallelujah,
Amen.
Thank-yous:
Janet Cromer for getting me going and holding the microphone
in front of my face for a half hour while I
dictated my long poem from a dream
state which she and AlLandra helped inspire.
Jennifer Stirling for being a great impromptu audience member for much of the
recording.
Tommy Megan for polishing and editing and general artistic consultation.
Sue Coakley and Ron Hoffman for reading first drafts and inspiring me to go on.
Webmaster supreme John Burkhardt for finding the perfect eagle and for creating
such perfect beauty on the website.
AlLandra for helping to keep the spirit alive in me from week to week - just
lately I’m learning about the
mystery of shape shifters, and how
spirit never dies.
And my angel Ginny, who everyday I see more clearly is truly doing the digging
and cleaning, preparing
the way as Mary did for Jesus.
"The Turtle Journal"
Volume 23, July 2003
"Memories"
Turtle fountain in the Giudeca
neighborhood of Rome.
Photo taken by Dan Gadish.
Quotes of the Month
Mourning and Sadness
What is the difference between mourning and sadness?
Mourning takes hold of one’s heart, but not one’s
mind.
While sadness takes hold of the mind, mourning leads to
thinking, while sadness stops one’s thoughts.
Mourning stems from the light in one’s soul, while sadness comes from the
darkness of the soul.
Mourning arouses one to life, while sadness brings to the
opposite….
This quote came from Janet and Alan
Cromer. They received it in a
letter from Alan’s cousin, Danny.
The following poem was giving to me by my
friend and colleague, Jennifer Smith
a couple of weeks ago. It
expresses my sentiment beautifully.
On the day I die, when I'm being carried
toward the grave, don't weep. Don't say,
He's gone! He's gone. Death has nothing
to do with going away. The sun sets and
the moon sets, but they're not gone.
Death is a coming together. The tomb
looks like a prison, but it's really
release into union. The human seed goes
down in the ground like a bucket into
the well where Joseph is. It grows and
comes up full of some unimagined beauty.
Your mouth closes here and immediately
opens with a shout of joy there.
by Rumi
Ginny and I visited New Mexico three years ago in April. We found it so
enchanting the first time, and our friends John and Jan Phillips were such great
hosts, that we returned the following year. We have very special memories of
spending Easter in Chamayo, touring around Taos, Santa Fe, and Albuquerque. John
and I have been friends since childhood (John says we met in fourth grade – I
thought it was fifth – at any rate we met in Boy Scouts, and did a lot of
camping together in those years). John visited me recently. We had a wonderful
visit (although eventful with three separate health crises). Both John and I
knew this would be the last time we would see each other, so I wanted to make
sure that we were ready to say good-bye – a very hard thing for good friends
to do at our age. John prepared himself by way of writing his memories of our
times together over the years in four letters before he arrived. In the letters
are some beautiful writings, and they have helped me to remember the specifics
of many times in our friendship. I received another letter from a friend of
mine, Barbara Collingnon, who was once roommates with my mother and me. Barbara
now lives in Milwaukee with her husband Marc.
I include both of their writings here, in this Turtle Journal, as a way of
sharing some pictures of me and my friends when I was young, and at various
times throughout my life. It is very healing for me to read these, and I wish I
could do some of the same kind of writing. Lately my energies have been put
towards making recordings of my poetry (with the excellent sound engineering of
our friend Tommy Megan), listening to music, both live and recorded, reminiscing
and visiting with Ginny and other friends when I am not sick. Nevertheless, it
gives me joy to read what others have to say about our time together.
I dedicate this Turtle Journal to the friends, all my friends, who have put
up with me, and even loved me, throughout my life.
The first three letters are from John Phillips, Albuquerque, New Mexico.
6/6/2003
Bob:
Kringle brought it back. Last week in Milwaukee I was at my course and in the
morning they served kringle. Sticky sweet sugar coated pastry, how can anyone
eat the stuff? Remembering of course mailing one off for you (was it pecan?) for
your mom one Christmas in France. She had ALS and didn’t get out much so I was
wrapping up the kringle in the post office, I can still remember the postman
nicely directing me in how to do it and I was dutifully wrapping and taping and
writing the address in the work corner of the West Racine post office when the
service window behind closed (5 o’clock quittin’ time) and the bastard
wouldn’t open it again and I had to come back in the December cold the next
day to finish and mail it off…
Rabbit will sometimes bring it back too, although I don’t eat rabbit much,
who does? But I remember really liking rabbit stew at your home. Rabbit that
John raised in the back. It was fun coming to your house because it was always
different, less boring, than mine. Your bedroom was the entire upstairs (the
small room of a converted attic, but I remember it of course as a huge room with
books and chess and things), John with his handicaps and his snake and that
tactile hanging cloth "sculpture" suspended over the stairs leading up
to your room, the music and then for a short time of course the rabbits out
back. It was never boring at your home. We were eating the rabbit stew and I
remember thinking this is great and asking for more. And once, was it the last I
saw your mom? I was over for supper with you and John and your mom and rabbit
stew and your mom matter of fact saying she needed help eating and you feeding
her and I’m a bit taken aback by the easy kindness of you doing that. It was
such an act of grace. You helped her to bed and John oddly less part of the
scene drifted out and I ate more rabbit stew, alone in the kitchen.
You always did things with grace. Your large gentle hands (your mom’s you
know) making music or writing or playing chess or cooking or wrestling in
Graceland Park, always with gentle kindness, even when I was angry with you.
Much beyond your years even as a kid I knew that, knew you were special and,
although I’ve never said it, I knew I was lucky to have you in my life.
Wondering if I’ve been a good friend and given anything of worth to you,
shared anything you treasure like I do with the treasures you’ve shared with
me.
We were making pizza the other day and something was coming back to me then
recalling those nights at your house making "homemade" pizza out of
the box putting extra toppings on and thinking "wow, we make great
pizza". Out of the box. I recall lots of dinners in your kitchen but did I
walk home afterwards or spend the night? My memories are of it being November,
cold and dark and didn’t I live miles away? Now at my home we’re much more
sophisticated, we buy the crust already made and then add the sauce (out of a
jar) and the rest, and the kids love it.
I had hazelnuts I think for the first time in your kitchen. I recall a jar of
them and John saying they were his favorites because that is your mom’s name.
And I used to make that dish with peppers and black olives and feta cheese
and eggplant all fried together that you showed me. Scraping the wok to get the
congealed feta around the vegetables, red and green peppers among the dark
purple eggplant and jet black olives, the smell of oregano and some rosemary and
garlic still with me. I haven’t made it in years, but haven’t thought of it
until just now. Maybe tonight.
Of course the scouting meals, over an open fire with no doubt dirt and soot
and some of yesterday’s eggs mixed into the night’s stew. Funny I can’t
recall any specific meal. Only the general activity that went into putting it
together. And more, the awful clean up. Scraping and scrubbing aluminum pots and
bent silverware. But what did we eat? I can’t recall a single meal.
My first dim sum was with you. It was downtown in San Francisco back when you
lived there with lots of friends all of whom were musicians it seemed. We went
there with an Asian woman I think (handsome, aren’t they all? a professional
woman I think—architect? financial person?). I remember thinking wow, this is
really great. The food came by and everything tasted so good. And after we were
done we were walking downtown and at a crosswalk I crossed the street you waited
and it was a wide street (?Market?) and it seemed that I may actually get hit by
a car, you chuckled saying I was not from San Francisco the cars don’t slow
down for pedestrians here. That may have been part of the month I stayed in San
Francisco after my first year of med school. You were kind enough to find a
place for me to crash (you’ve always been very generous and kind to me); it
was above the Blue Danube café, in a room where I could put my sleeping bag on
the floor. I spent days in the Haight studying infectious diseases because I
could take a class that way, independent study going through the study modules
and take the test when I returned, I wasn’t the only one studying infectious
diseases in San Francisco that summer of 1983. I hung out drinking tea in some
corner coffee house and we’d meet some nights, what a great city, my first
time there. And I remember seeing slam dancing or whatever it’s called with
you one night there on one of my trips to see you. Vividly recall people
slamming into each other to David Byrne singing "Burn Down the House"
thinking my god, this is so weird and I’m so square and why does someone want
to burn down a house? Now of course I think Byrne is a genius and the song is
very cool.
6/13/03
As I write this the pale moon rises above my neighborhood. Crickets chirp
loudly, drowning out the highway noise in the distance. Tonight it is just me on
my front patio. Stars above, I can make out the big dipper. A shadow of the
sweeping cottonwood tree next door. Everyone is asleep but me on this perfect
New Mexican night. A night like the times when you and Gin were here, fire in
our front patio fire pit, grilled fish and vegetables and red wine, a night
timeless like those around a campfire. Timeless watching the embers burn into
charcoal into carbon to be dated 14 far away in the future when some
archeologist stumbles upon our fire pit dating the remains of a long-fast
friendship too tight to be lost in the bones of yesterday. It is always a pale
moon that rises over the dreams of yesterday.
I recall never feeling better than watching the embers burn around a
campfire. Night noises all around, feeling like nothing has changed, nothing
from the time of those before me, my parents certainly did this, my ancestors,
our African mother in the past of our collective unconscious linking us all
together. We are really all brothers. And remembering the embers with you in the
scouts, with Gary, at Camp Anokijig, rafting on the Wolf River with your church
group, and the other outdoor adventures.
First probably the scouts. First of all remembering you falling. Remembering,
clearly, at Donnie Nelson’s home working on a skit for the scouts. Who are you
but you can fall from the second step on the basement stairs without catching
yourself until the last possible second, beyond when any of the rest of us dare
to go. I was impressed. Catching yourself just before hitting ground and
flattening that generous nose of yours. I seem to recall we were always moving,
all of us little devilish boy scouts, moving around like so many atoms in
whatever we did. Skits or marching with the flag or learning knots in the Fratt
School gym, always moving. I was in the Iguana patrol, you were in another. A
scout is trustworthyloyalhelpful
friendlycurtiouskindobedientcheerfulthriftybraveclean and reverent. Like a
paramilitary prep-school, I ate it all up.
Camping at Lyle, I will remember until my last days on this earth my first
bald eagle, more important than my first bike, my high school graduation, my
first paycheck, my first girl. At that time there was nothing more sacred than a
bald eagle. To me a spirit never caged or understood. A wild flying soaring
thing that I longed to be. Forever. And I had never seen one until that day I’m
sure you remember too. I forget who was in the bow and who in the stern (do
you?) but how can I forget you fiddling around with that blade of grass, between
your thumbs blowing like all kids do to make a dumb honking noise, finally
getting it right and honk you go me feeling a bit irritated you making such
noise (were you in the stern?) and right in front of us the massive tree shakes
back and forth as it slowly ascends from its perch into the sky, a black whoosh
whooshing bald eagle like an apparition a prayer an adulation slowly ascending
up to the far reaches of my vision, until, a mere speck in the blue, it vanishes
and I’m trembling so far below sitting in our aluminum canoe, together with
you, on the Wolf River in Northern Wisconsin. It was religion to me then, and it
still is now. Like the dying embers of a fire it reminds me of something more
important than today.
Camping at Lyle, can you remember, how can you forget, the frog? Catapulting
a live frog I was never part of it, probably never even asked, but you were.
There I heard as you did the latrine duty. Giddy, I’m sure I let you know I’d
never do such a thing. Unless, of course, I was asked to join the gang. Then who
knows? I don’t remember much of Lyle, although I was there I thought four
years. I remember the Wolf River, beautiful and clean and mysterious with each
bend wondering what was up ahead. I really loved canoeing that river. I really
loved doing it with you. Even then, you were like a brother, someone I’d argue
with and get angry with but always like a brother never had to wonder would you
be my friend tomorrow or stand up for me if I really needed it. Like a brother I
knew you’d be there. And of course I remember feeling pissed that you were
asked to be patrol leader of my (my) patrol one summer at Lyle knowing
but wanting to force the scout leader to say that you were more reliable than me
to be patrol leader. Feeling DAMN IT! this is my patrol -but if I let myself
really be honest, you were more mature than I was then. It wasn’t a big deal I
don’t remember more than that. Much later meaning nothing but much later you
recalled having fumbling adolescence with his son. Much later it still meant
nothing. A scout is
trustworthyloyalhelpfulfriendlycurtiouskindobedientcheerfulthriftybraveclean and
reverent.
Much later recalling another canoe trip with Gary and Scott and for this I
have pictures. Remembering that we were to do a trip to see if it would work for
the Camp Anokijig kids, and you and I and Gary and Scott did it, what a crew...
I recall paddling along sometimes with you in front sometimes with Scott, that
was one thing I was good at, really knew I was good at being in the stern, no
one better I thought. Recalling with quiet pride you saying the difference
between me and Gary in back is that with me the canoe goes straight. Big deal
but for me it was. And recalling going down rapids weeee and in quiet parts
singing and you telling us all what key we were singing in and you in humor too
true saying I was in-between keys kind of off key and me knowing of course that’s
correct, I never could sing but we all acquiesced to your knowledge, you knew
music. And thinking all the while this is really fun I like being on a river in
a canoe doing this even though I can’t sing the rest of them can.
Or visiting you in upstate New England staying for the summer with Louis’
parents going swimming in a small pond like Thoreau must have done swinging from
tree into pond weeee like Frost I’m sure did the swinger of Birches swinging
into the pond into the ouch your heel smack onto something (a rock?) and hurts
you told me the rest of the summer, me wondering why you jumped in with such
abandon? I’d be more careful I thought, like not waiting until the last
possible second to catch yourself from falling…
Or talking with you on the phone just yesterday it was it seems, saying what
I’d really like to do is plan a trip canoeing with you again, maybe in New
England, maybe with my family or just my Michael to be in a canoe with you
again, quietly paddling along, quietly seeing what’s up ahead, new adventures
to be had, wanting to do it with you my friend my brother my world, why why why
is this happening its not fair, I have so few long-time friends, why must this
happen now, now when just yesterday I wanted to canoe with you again some tree
lined river looking for that bald eagle we saw when I really believed, really
believed in things…
I look up now and the moon is high, hidden behind the clouds. It is much too
late to be up. The crickets have stopped chirping and I’m alone, still, under
the cottonwood’s shadow in the pale orange glow of the hidden moon,
remembering the glow of the embers, and of your brotherly love, knowing I’ve
been blessed…..
6/18/03
Thinking about Plato’s Apology and how Socrates didn’t fear death and
lived and died with such dignity and grace, always caring for truth more than
anything and picturing his final act, taking the hemlock from his weeping
jailer, prodding his followers to continue to question and probe the universe
asking that his sons be prodded in kind and, his last words, final thoughts,
remembering he owed someone money and asking the debt be paid. How to reach such
a place?
I recall your mother seemed so calm the last days I saw her. Even as you had
to feed her, strength fading into night, she was as peaceful as I had ever
known. I don’t recall what she said or much of what I was doing besides having
supper at your house, but it all seemed so calm then. The grace of accepting
hemlock and caring about truth and beauty, really caring, and don’t forget to
care for my fellow man, to whom I owe money. I don’t know, wasn’t around for
her last cold January, but I suspect she was at peace then. How many aren’t
though, and how do I find my way there? I think you are trying to show me.
And thinking of the sadness of no children but lots of children really and
people touched and living through us through our children the crazy thought of
going to classical music concerts in grade school. You have touched so many, you
have so many children who will read goodnight stories to their children and
will, for whatever reason, be reminded of you now and then. Maybe a specific
piece of music, or a game, or a book. Or maybe just thinking of you as they tuck
their sons and daughters into bed with a goodnight kiss, maybe a gentle act of
grace will remind them of you and what could be better than that?
Tonight, right now, I look over to my bed and there they sleep, two angels to
me their father, slowly breathing in and out, comforted by each other. Still can’t
fall asleep without someone, Jan at her night class I let them fall asleep
together in our bed, the cadence of their quiet breathing comforting to me,
comforting like the ocean waves washing ashore, like the relentless march of
time. Knowing that your time is coming soon, but mine will be too and I will
have to leave my loved ones, like you, my precious reasons for living, leaving
for what to me is still a frightening blackness, godless void, I wish I could
believe, hoping I will pass with grace as you are, as your Mom did, as Socrates…
This past weekend I watched from inside my kitchen as my son sat dreamily on
our front curb, whittling a stick and mostly looking around in a late afternoon
summer’s day. He’d whittle a bit then I’d see his head bob up for the
longest time, then a moment of whittling more and then more daydreaming. Staring
across the street, up into the clouds. He’s going into fourth grade, the grade
you and I met. Everyone is special, but like you he’s a dreamer. He is the one
day- dreaming so much in kindergarten the teacher suggested he be tested for
ADHD (he’s now in the gifted program, I guess we don’t all learn the same…)
the day-dreamer who was day-dreaming during a basketball game when our friend
noted "I guess you don’t have to be outside to stare at the butterflies…"
like you, hardly a competitive team sport jock. But it’s dreams that keep us
going. He dreams of fantastic voyages and times long ago. Out of nowhere, during
one of my admonitions to do something mundane like pick up your socks, he says
"Dad, did you know that brachiosaurus was as long as two city buses?".
"Your socks?" I say, but he goes on, lost in the world of fantastic
creatures and not capable of even hearing my dull discourse on socks, much less
inclined to pick them up. Your room was always messy as I recall.
And my son gets crazy, loves running and yelling with his friends. Why do
kids always yell when they run around? I remember you yelling, RRRAAAGHH HH! with
your mop of hair flopping and hands waving as you’d run somewhere, you were
always so enthusiastic for things. Someone made a joke about Russian feet, and
yes it seemed to fit yours, always rushin’ around. Big feet size 11 or 12,
like a big puppy leaping energy.
It seems incongruous, but it always seemed you were a manly man. Never much
on team sports, never one for the testosterone locker room banter or the US over
all posture of the sixties Midwestern American, you were strong. I remember you
were built like a body builder only I knew quite well you weren’t spending
evenings toning up in the gym. And you were competitive, you hated to lose to me
in chess, and still do. But you won our last games and I hate to lose to you. We’d
wrestle in Graceland Park as we ran our dogs together, why do I always remember
it night with snow on the ground? I remember feeling great, loving movement,
feeling cold on my cheeks and tackling you to the ground with our dogs loping
around, turning over and over and loving the physical exuberance of being, of
feeling like its really ours this world, this future, this dark cold snowy night
is ours and I’ll never forget my nights confident and safe in my loving
Midwestern childhood. It’s all gotten so complicated now. And our dogs have
died long ago.
But I was saying before I got distracted, before I started thinking about our
Graceland nights with Stormy and Snowball and the moon, I was saying that you
were a manly man. Muscled and strong and handsome, I was aware as we went
through adolescence that you probably attracted more attention than I, the tall
skinny one with a big nose. Whether it mattered or not, girls found you cute,
and you took it all in stride. There are glimpses, snapshots really, why I don’t
know, but I can remember walking you home from Starbuck Jr. High as you taught
me the alphabet in sign -John (deaf and blind) was a new item in your household-
and I remember your large hands and flowing hair. Another snapshot, I recall,
vaguely, doing something with the scouts. Capture the Flag maybe? Running around
in the woods and all of us yelling and you with that crazy mop of hair like a
bunch of little feral children we were. And I remember you picking me up from
college one year, from a year at River Falls you drove all the way up to get me,
I recall being touched that you’d do that, and proud that you were my friend.
And not needing to go far to experience our little bit of proletariat, the
working class, your neighbor Brett Peach whose brother a high school dope head
drop-out, father such a nice man to me recovering alcoholic I think, mom chain
smoking and Brett, a bit chunky and dull but boy I liked playing cards with
them, pennies and nickels, guts was my favorite. I remember holed up in their
kitchen thinking this is really fun, my family is nothing like this…it seemed
to be the only thing we had in common with the Peaches, but I liked them and all
their craziness. Was it when I was taking German or after I’d come back from
Germany for the first time that Brett’s father asked where that was and I
thought it was such an innocent question, not being embarrassed not knowing.
Germany is so far away, and right at that moment I probably just wanted to play
cards. Laugh and wager on 3 card guts.
And your last trip here, watching you argue and play to win against my son
the game of Risk. Dominate the world, it suits you just fine. Him too. Michael
having a great time playing with you, "Dad, did you know Bob has all the
countries except two?" Regaling in his time with you, he thinks you’re
cool, playing games with him. I think he knows you like to win, like to do
everything with the enthusiasm of a child, cheering when the dice goes your way,
yelling when it doesn’t, like Michael like most grade-schoolers I think really
living in the moment and the moment never ends. Marisa too, although she’s
more content to walk with Gin making up songs as they go. Gin. Your writing is
much of Gin, and I see how you have been richly blessed with her love, before
this and through this and evermore, it is so honest. And it has helped me see my
love for Jan, and the blessings I have with each day.
Barbara and my mother were both French teachers. They shared a love for the
language and for teaching. My favorite memory of being with Barbara is flying
kites down at North Beach, on Lake Michigan a few blocks from the house where we
were first roommates in Racine.
June 18, 2003
Dear Bob,
Of course, my memories of you are intertwined with memories of your mother—and
rightly so. Thirty-three years ago I left you and your mom to live with Marc and
Sheila and Jonathan. I can still see you as a little boy….as clear as day.
I remember how concerned your mother would be any time we had a meeting
after school that the meeting would run overtime and result in your having to
wait outside until we got home. I can only remember one or two instances, so
maybe after the first time she solved the problem somehow. You would be very
upset, understandably, and not even able to talk about it…just very angry.
Your mother taught me some good lessons about mothering. She said,
"Never let the sun set on your anger" and she practiced it with you. I
remember she would have long talks with you before or at bedtime, ironing out
whatever needed ironing out with you.
I remember Sunday nights at your house. We would have   down to watch whatever was on the Disney hour for
[Barbara
and Bob in costumes
I remember once you and your friend (I can picture him but
I can’t remember his name) [This was John Phillips.] washed my Volkswagon. I
made you go back and redo a spot that wasn’t clean and I only paid you a few
bucks. I could have been less particular and more generous. I must have a
picture of you washing that car. You really did do a great job!
I know that not having a father present was a very painful thing for you
both. Once we were eating in a restaurant and you said, pretty much out of a
blue sky, "I wish I had a father". It was a painful moment for all
three of us. I never knew what to say. I do know that your mom made special
efforts for you to interact with father figures like Bob Brenneman. You
certainly understand now how hard it was for her to be a single mother. Whatever
ideas I may have had about single unwed mothers certainly changed upon knowing
your mother and understanding her predicament. I became much more understanding
about the feminine condition…and about children in your position.
I remember you practicing the cello and I could read the concentration and
determination in your face. It was obvious—you stuck out your tongue or rolled
it to the side of your mouth. I do believe you overcame that little
idiosyncrasy. It was charming at age 10 but wouldn’t have been so cute later.
I always enjoyed hearing you practice. I even tried to play the cello and
enjoyed it a lot.
I was very happy to learn you and Ginny had gotten married and was always
happy to hear news of you…I am glad we have kept in touch and I wish I could
be closer to you in these difficult times.
You have borne this illness with such grace and nobility even though I
know you have had bad days, too. The Turtle Journal is a brilliant idea.
These are just a few memories of you. If I think about it, I can hear the
sound of your voice with its own special warmth and timbre. I can still picture
you with those big (I don’t remember the color) eyes that exude tenderness.
You will always be close to my heart.
Don’t forget, "Love is forever", Barbara
This is a poem Janet wrote after our last
Circle of Support meeting [photo
is of April meeting].
Waterfall
I tried to keep streams separate
The streams of sorrow and grief.
I tried to keep the streams separate
Separate, so I would not drown …
Separate, to give each person their due.
One roaring, throbbing stream for Bob
One roiling, rushing stream for Ginny
One parched stream across the merciless prairie for Sherry
One cool endless stream for my first husband Alan.
I tried to keep the streams of sorrow and grief separate.
I thought I could do what nature never intended.
But the streams became a cascade, gathered force,
Plunged over the edge into a roaring waterfall.
Someday this waterfall will be a purifying bath,
A sacred cleansing for the spirit emerged from the ashes
A wellspring for hearts and souls to soar again.
But for now the water is scalding hot, charging with a force of its own.
I can only surrender myself to the plunge,
Throw myself into the descent.
Here are excerpts from notes that Sue Coakley wrote for the last Circle of
Support meeting, Monday, June 30. We will let this serve as the Bob and Ginny
health and well-being update.
Bob is now in the later stages of ALS which causes him to be short of breath.
This combined with daily pain medication, leaves him exhausted much of the time.
Also, Bob has recently experienced episodes of serious respiratory distress. To
help with this, Bob and Ginny are now putting in place arrangements for hospice
care at home. [This has been started this week (July 10).]
It is difficult for Bob & Ginny to respond to all of the phone calls that
come, but truly appreciate the offers and support. Letters and e-mail are also
welcome forms of communication – particularly for messages of support.
Overall, the response to Bob’s condition, including friends wanting to come
visit, is full of love and is welcomed on many levels. However, even
simple visits can be exhausting. Sadly, he can no longer meet with
everyone who calls. Bob’s personal care assistants, e.g., Minerve, often
answer the phone for him. Please leave messages.
Jenny Stirling has generously offered to arrange for music to
be played once or twice a week for Bob. Bob can enjoy music played for him at
home, or poetry and prayers read to him. Betsy Peck continues to manage meal
preparation and delivery for Bob & Ginny several nights a week (thanks,
Betsy!). Janet Cromer and Anne Spitzer continue to bring meals every week
(thanks, Janet and Anne!). Also, accounts (i.e., gift certificates) have been
set-up at a couple of local JP restaurants so that Bob & Ginny can order and
have food delivered any time (thanks for the idea, Ron!).
This has been a particularly difficult time for Ginny. In addition to
difficulties related to Bob’s declining condition, she has been battling with
health insurance to maintain Bob’s current coverage and to extend it to
include hospice. This is a very important time for the love and support of
friends. Though she does not want to be far from Bob, she needs time out with
friends to relax, laugh and cry. It is easiest for Ginny to do simple things
with friends for an hour or two (e.g., go out for a meal, take a walk around
Jamaica Pond, go shopping, etc.). You know she loves great food! Stay in touch
with Ginny to offer the help you can.
Ginny and Bob have appreciated help thinking through options and plans for a
memorial service for Bob. Several arrangements have been made already –
including a memorial bench to be located at Forest Hills Cemetery and
arrangements with a local funeral home to assist when Bob dies. Ginny expects to
hold a memorial service for Bob 4-8 weeks after he dies. The Unity Church in
Brookline has offered this. Bob has specific ideas of prayers, music and poetry
for the service. He has talked with Jennifer Smith, Lynn Nowels, and Jenny
Stirling about some of the musical arrangements for the memorial service.
Ginny is collecting ideas about options for gatherings with friends and
family right after Bob passes. Initial ideas include working with the
Jewish concept of sitting shiva and holding an open house for the three days
after Bob passes so that friends and family can gather to remember Bob, pray for
him as he begins his journey to the next life, and offer support for Ginny. This
may be held at different locations each day so that friends in different places
can easily gather. Shai has offered to teach Ginny and others prayers (e.g.,
Kavod Ha-Met) that are traditionally offered at a Shiva. People who live faraway
will be encouraged to gather together in their homes.
Bob and Ginny are creating a music scholarship fund in Bob’s name at the
Waldorf School. More specific information will be provided later about this.
This will be a wonderful option for friends and family to contribute to a living
memorial that honors Bob’s work with the school community that has offered
such wonderful love and support for him.
On behalf of the Lexington Waldorf School community, Margaret Ris is
arranging for the planting of two trees in early September as a memorial to Bob
in the front garden of the school. The tree planting will probably take place on
Saturday, September 6 as part of the school clean-up and prep work day held each
year to get the classrooms ready for use. More information will be available
later.
Heaven
My legs do not walk me, my arms and
hands do not write me, my voice is scratchy and won't get better, my breathing
very shallow, -- almost everything is difficult to do, especially to talk --
yesterday I tried singing and there was nothing there.
Yet the touch of my wife’s soft hand caressing mine, which cannot move, is
Heaven surfacing me.
The leaves on the trees outside in June grow so fast with all the rain that
we've had -- that is Heaven to my eyes.
And I close my eyes and I see bright blue sky and billowy white clouds all
around streaks of yellow
As I count the Un-ending stream of friends -- in form and in spirit -- that
have helped Ginny and me this year, every month, every week, And Every Day
I know that I am in Heaven.
Bob Mendenhall
June 20, 2003
I close this Turtle Journal with a poem that my friend and colleague, Eric
Ranvig, gave to me by one of my favorite poets, Rainer Maria Rilke. It is an
exceptional expression of the human spirit.
I Live My Life
I live my life in growing orbits,
which move out over the things of the world.
Perhaps I can never achieve the last,
but that will be my attempt.
I am circling around God, around the ancient tower,
and I have been circling for a thousand years.
And I still don’t know if I am a falcon,
Or a storm, or a great song.
From Book for the Hours of Prayer, translation by Robert Bly.
Love and Help is All Around
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