Sitting in my studio writing about grief, it occurs to me that I am being enfolded by a chair that used to be in a dear friend’s home. Her daughter gave it to me for my studio when she died. The thought makes me break down in tears again. God, I miss Jan so much. All the other griefs come at me like an unexpected and unwelcome guest - crashing into my house and demanding attention. While I am weary of tears, I’m not done crying. Some days I turn to food for comfort. Some days I have no appetite but want to sleep all day. Experiencing grief and working through it is hard but it needs to be done. It is not pleasant work and there is a danger of getting stuck at some point. With that in mind, I have signed up for an online calligraphy course with a world-renown artist from Europe. The beauty of the internet. With this class, I have something to focus on. While I do not feel like being creative, nor do I want to be in crowds of people, this is an effort of being proactive. Believing that grief will diminish and that life will continue. Creativity will at some point take place once again. Baby steps. Addendum - if you are grieving and not sure how to process here are some things to consider.
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Several weeks ago, I got a series of cryptic texts from a good friend’s husband. She had been hospitalized for a couple of weeks and had been moved into rehab. While she has an incurable form of breast cancer, with treatment the oncology team said she could live another ten years. That was three years ago, but lately she’d developed an intense headache that wouldn’t go away. Numerous tests and scans showed nothing, but after a year of non-stop head pain, it had increased to a point that was unbearable and she was experiencing blackouts. Neurological tests, blood tests, CAT scans, MRIs, and more revealed little. Medications were tried, some were adjusted and there was some relief of pain…sort of. While all this was happening, she was also unable to swallow and was losing weight that she couldn’t afford to lose. After some time, the swallowing issue was finally addressed and she was able to start nibbling some food again. But the doctors remained perplexed. She was moved to rehab to work on various therapies to strengthen and keep her balance. That made me quite hopeful. During our visits I always made jokes to make her laugh. I love to hear her laugh and laughter is good medicine. But then the texts came. Could I come by the rehab around six? No, my husband and I had plans to go out to dinner but I could come after. That wasn’t going to work but he wouldn’t say why. He started floating out other times for the next day, I kept texting questions and he kept dodging. Finally I called him, but I was still not getting any straight answers. I told Mike something was up and we changed our plans. I texted that I was coming and with that, in my flowing long skirt, I went to Mary Free Bed to see my friend for another time that day. Her husband met me at the ground level. He was still obfuscating but I figured I’d find out soon what was up. It was her birthday in a few days - maybe they wanted help planning something. It was a long shot, but I just could not figure out what was happening. When we got to the room, another couple was there. They are close friends of this couple and I am acquainted with them so we chatted amiable for a bit and then, as calm as could be, my friend told us that the doctors had finally discovered the problem. It seems that one percent of breast cancer patients develop a secondary, aggressive form of cancer. This is what had happened and it had wrapped around a nerve cluster in the brain stem radiating pain to the left side of her head and face. And then she told us the prognosis. Four to six months to live. That was with the radiation that was going to be started immediately. We talked, asked questions, teared up a bit, and laughed a bit. She was tired and we left her to rest. Hugs, kisses, and ‘see you soon’s. I talked a bit with her husband in the hall. He was devastated but holding up for her sake. So much to do with out of town family coming. Lending support as much as I could, keeping myself composed. I left him to go back to his wife while I made my way to the elevator. Down in the lobby, I took off my badge, went through the first set of double doors and then to the parking lot. Next to the door was an iron bench with a worn chartreuse cushion. The parking lot was empty and I sat on the bench and sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed some more. And then, because I have a convoluted artist’s way of thinking, I thought of the Van Gough drawing titled “Weeping Woman.” It captures the expression of grief. Then I pictured my black flowing skirt, the bench against a concrete wall with the solitary light fixture illuminating the entrance with it’s cold light. And I thought it would make a good composition for a painting reflecting grief. Solitary, hard, barren, with washed out color. I am entering that world - the world of grief - again. But to wish away the pain is to wish away the love. And the is something I cannot do. A few weeks ago, Hospice called to let us know Dad was entering into his last stages. He had been winding down for a long time and often the end stages of the death process can last weeks. We kept visiting, but did not see a precipitous decline the way my own mother had died. After some consideration, I decided to take a quick trip to Muskegon while Mike visited Dad. His first visit found Dad sleeping so he came back in the evening. Dad was still sleeping so Mike stayed with him about an hour just talking to him. He decided to go and come back the next day. Half an hour later, when the aides checked up on Dad, he was gone. Mike felt he should have stayed longer. I felt I shouldn’t have gone to Muskegon. But the truth is, we took good care of Dad, loved him well, and a few days short of his 98th birthday he was ready to go. The following day found us taking care of business. Contacting the funeral director, calling friends and family, arranging with my sister-in-law to come and stay with us, contacting the church to arrange the funeral, and by the end of the day we were spent and sad. I was staring out of my office window when I noticed a butterfly in the back yard. Frequently, there are monarchs or cabbage whites in our yard but this one was unusual. It was an Eastern Tiger Swallowtail. Usually butterflies will flit from plant to plant and then leave. Photographing them has always proved challenging. This one stayed in the yard for over twenty minutes. It was if she were posing for the camera. I called Mike to see it and we watched for several minutes. I decided to get my camera and take some photos. I opened the window, hung out the side of the house and took about fifty shots. There is a tradition among some that believe that the happy dead in the form of beautiful butterflies will visit their relatives to reassure them. A sign for those who are grieving. It is a comforting thought that Dad stopped by to say goodbye. There are those who would criticize me for being superstitious at this point. I prefer to look at it as a gentle kiss from God assuring us that all is well. After all, God is an artist and a poet. Dad passed away late Thursday night. While he’s been winding down for a long time, the end came rather quickly. We are taking care of all the details that come with the end on one’s life and it will be a few weeks before I’m back posting anything.
Peace. About a month or so ago, I heard someone mention the biblical character Zacchaeus and it got me thinking. Zacchaeus was the chief tax collector in Jericho during the time of Christ. We’re told in scripture he was very short. Jesus was in town. He would have been the first century’s version of a celebrity - a social influencer. Everyone was talking about him and everyone wanted to see him and hang out with him. Zac was no different. Because he was a tax collector, the general population despised him. He would be viewed as a sell out to his people, a social pariah. I sometimes wonder if he went up the tree not just for a better view, but a safer one as well. It was not unheard of for a zealot to quietly stab someone like Zacchaeus in a crowd and slip away.
At any rate, he’s in a tree hoping for a chance to see Jesus. Nothing more. Just see the celebrity in town. Remarkably, Jesus stopped under the tree. Zacchaeus has quite a view. His day is made - or he may have thought. But Jesus looks up and then calls him by name. Not only that, but tells his that the party is at his house. The crowd can’t believe it. Was Jesus out of his mind? What could he be thinking? His prophetic vision must be off, because He wouldn’t want to be caught being at a party with him. Try imagining what the dinner party was like. Zacchaeus is suddenly the center of positive attention. He’s the host of the social event of the year. Everybody wants to be there. The teachers and scribes are going out of their minds, seeing the lowest of the low hanging out with Jesus and his crew, and they have plenty to say about that. But rather than focus on their indignation, think about what the dinner conversations were among Zac and his friends with the disciples. One was a Zealot. One was a tax collector like them! A tax collector as a disciple? A zealot and a tax collector hanging out together? All of that was unheard of. Jesus not only engaged with Zacchaeus but had called a tax collector to be one of his disciples! They listened with close attention to Levi (a.k.a. Matthew) relate his story about how he’d been about his business when Jesus came up to him and gave him the offer of a lifetime. The bible story focuses on Jesus’ exchange with Zacchaeus and rightly so. But I have to think the interaction with the disciples at the party had an impact as well. How did the conversation go and how did that reframe Zacchaeus’ world view? We know something profound happened at that event because Zacchaeus made the announcement that he was donating half his wealth to the poor and added that if he’d defrauded anyone he’d pay them back with interest. That’s quite a transformation. From a sinful, greedy, chief tax collector working for the enemy and looking out for number one to an open handed generous man living up to his name. Because his name means “pure” or “innocent.” A prophetic proclamation at birth that became true at his re-birth. It all started because Jesus knew his name. But I think the disciples at the party played a part. It’s something to ponder. It's no secret that I am a Christ follower. But do my conversations with people stir any hope within them? My apologies for being MIA the past couple months. After the medical issues I experienced in spring, friends and family were also dealing with personal crises. Dad is winding down and getting harder and harder to understand. Mike’s uncle had two strokes. A friend has been in and out of the hospital with no answers as to what might be the issue. In fact, I got a text to update me on her situation as I sit and compose this. One thing after another and after a while I’ve just lost heart for writing.
But I have been working on painting and photography. Images work when words fail. At least they do for me. The painting is mostly abstract work. On Mondays I volunteer at an urban coffee house where coffee and bagels are free and the cafe is a safe place for people in the neighborhood to create community. I was talking with one of the guys over coffee asking me what my paintings were about. I told him it was about the mystery of prayer. That the paintings were black on black with metallics thrown in to represent what prayer is like - a spiritual quest to represent prayer in paint. Up to that point the conversation had been pretty superficial. He stopped eating and looked me in the eye. “That’s really powerful,” he said. “I like the way you think.” That took me by surprise. Can’t say I’ve heard that very often. Images work when words fail. I find in prayer I am often at a loss for words, but that’s where I can trust that God can read my heart. My tears are my prayers. My anguish and feelings are my prayers. My paintings are my prayers. And God, being good and gracious, hears and understands those prayers. I’ll leave you with this triptych. It’s called Mystery, Questions, Wonder. This week found me in the hospital again. I’d been having a sensation for a couple of weeks. It was as if I’d swallowed something that got stuck around the chest region. It would come and go, but then I noticed my blood pressure was starting to elevate. I started tracking it daily and while it wasn’t alarmingly high, it was at the beginning level of high blood pressure. I left a message for my doctor, who in turn called me into her office to check things out. Of course, the day I went in everything returned to normal. Chest was fine, and blood pressure was fine. The EKG looked good. She ordered up a stress test and told me if the sensation returned I was go to the ER immediately. The next morning I was awoken with that chest pressure again. This time seemed a bit more intense since it had caused me to come awake. I got up and puttered around the house, but it wasn’t getting better. I took my blood pressure and saw it was starting to go up again. Sigh. I thought about waiting but then remembered I’d promised Mike to take this seriously, so I got him out of bed, explained the situation and we went to ER. The admissions nurse was great. He said, “You are a young 64.” I liked that part a lot. But wouldn’t you know, he had to continue. “But you are 64, so we need to look into this more.” Not really what I wanted to hear, but I wasn’t surprised, either. As Mike came in from parking the car, I was getting fitted with a hospital bracelet and being led to a room to spend the next several hours. Getting blood drawn, having a chest x-ray, taking pills, having more blood drawn, having my vitals checked. My blood pressure went up and then it went down. No idea why. Happily, I was released in the afternoon. Monday I have the stress test. This is not how I planned to start spring. Once again, art is pushed to the back burner. I’ve covered a lot of miles this. week. Last Friday we drove to Chicago to pick up my sister-in-law at O’Hare and then we continued on to a northwest suburb of Chicago to celebrate our uncle’s life with friends and family. The original plan was to stay through Sunday, going to church with our aunt and cousin and. linger a bit longer before coming back to Grand Rapids.
The weather report had said some rain and snow, but by the time we were done with breakfast, our car was buried. I went to clear it off while Mike went to collect everyone’s luggage and Anne Marie went to check us out of the hotel. By the time I got back to the lobby, there was two inches of snow piled on my head. I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass doors and saw a bedraggled mess. My hair - which for once had been perfectly coiffed - was dripping wet and stuck to my head. My makeup was running down my face. As my sister-in-law glanced up to greet me, a chunk of snow slid off my head, onto my shoulder, and then plopped onto the floor. It was perfect comic timing and the look on her face as she beheld me was priceless. We had a quick conference in the car. I was willing to drive to the church, but it was with the understanding that this was not a brief spring dust up. We were in a blizzard and the streets were not being cleared. A unanimous decision was made to send a text with our love and to head for home. It turned out to be a good decision. Normally a three and a half hour drive turned into a trip that was closer to eight hours long, with tsunamis of slush washing over the car whenever a truck passed us. We passed countless wrecks and ambulances from Illinois to Michigan. About twenty minutes from home the snow finally let up. It was an epic drive. Once home, I checked messages and learned that a cousin had passed away. She was elderly and had just entered hospice, so it was not a complete surprise, but my small family group is dwindling even more and it breaks my heart. After a two day respite from the road I was off again. Leaving Mike and Anne Marie to look after Dad and one another, I got on the highway heading east this time. Perhaps it’s because I was tired, perhaps it was the harrowing drive from Chicago, or perhaps there was grief upon grief, but I was not looking forward to the trip. Normally, I’m always up for a road trip. I love driving and I love going from place to place. But not this time. Once I got to Rochester Hills, though, things felt better. As I drove the back roads to the funeral home, memories from my teen years popped up. Bike rides, friendship, and youthful angst joined in with memories of family. By the time I got back to the hotel that evening, I was on a more even keel and was able to get some rest. In the morning the sky looked dirty and uneven - a bit sad, actually. A fitting day to mourn. The funeral was touching and I gathered with my cousins to share memories and catch up. After lunch I was back on the road and back into another storm. This one was only heavy rain but there were still accidents and the drive had its challenges. East and west, through grief and bad weather, I persevered and made it home. A perfect metaphor, I think, for life and for death. You travel this world, you persevere through all the challenges life presents, and you make it home. Rest in peace, Bob and Gerda. You’ve made it home. While we were waiting for the results from my biopsy, we received the news that Mike’s uncle had passed away. He had been fighting cancer valiantly for three years and his time had come to an end. The last of Mom Kemper’s siblings were gone.
Bob had had a good life, a wonderful wife, and a great son. They were with him as he died. A good life, a good death. Still, it’s hard to accept the news. I was at the studio when I got the call. My surgeon has me under some restrictions but I can still putter around with paper and pen. After the phone call, though, I wasn’t feeling very creative. The sun was shining so I went for a walk, trying to sort through my emotions. There is the promise of spring in the crips air, but I couldn’t really soak that in. Loss is inevitable - a part of life. I’ve certainly experienced my share of it over the years. I won’t say it’s easier but I am starting to accept it more. Is that a sign of growth? The next call was from the surgeon. She called me personally to let me know the lump was cancer free. So thankful for that news. Life and death in one afternoon. I was sitting in my gown, talking with Mike as we waited for the surgeon to return. It was nice to have him with me. He sat there clutching my clothing as if it were a teddy bear.
“You can put that in the chair,” I suggested. “Nah, it gives me comfort,” he said and smiled. I grinned back. This might be nothing, but it also might be serious. All we had at the moment was each other. “Do me a favor,” I said. “If this turns out to be serious and you find yourself on your own again, please don’t marry someone twenty or more years younger than yourself. That’s so cliché.” He laughed. “Honey, I don’t have that kind of money.” I gave him a look. “It’s not always about money. Just keep it in a ten year bracket.” We’ve witnessed several public mid-life crisis, seemingly always ending up in marriage to someone significantly younger. And while I honestly hope for the best for all involved (including, and possibly especially, for former spouses) it is often not a rosy picture after a few short years. But the surgeon came back and our conversation was cut short. I was in this examining room because of a small lump in my left breast. Upon examination and looking at the x-ray, she said, “It’s very close to the surface and if you don’t want to wait I can take it out today. We can get it down to the lab right away for examination.” We were little stunned and it took a moment to register. This was supposed to be a brief consultation and to schedule a biopsy. This was great news. “Let’s do it!” So the lump is out and on the way to the lab. We are thankful for this small mercy. |
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July 2021
Donna KemperDonna Kemper put aside her art career to care for a mother she hadn't seen in over a decade. For seven years she followed her mother's journey into dementia, caring for her and putting forgiveness into action. Categories
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