The quotidian -- way TOO damned quotidian

I imagine those of us who've been around a while are going to remember today in the same way we remember, say, the Kennedy assassinations, the Apollo 8 moon landing, the day Richard Nixon resigned, the day of the Challenger explosion, and so on.

I'm starting to feel like every detail of an otherwise completely unremarkable day is etched into my mind with laserlike precision. Very little -- none -- of it matters but I know what shirt I almost wore before changing my mind, what time my kids called, and a thousand other minuscule, unrelated details. I remember texting a friend that I'd be showing up for dinner in ratty shorts with dirty hair (she didn't care). 

I have a feeling I'll be able to recall that mental clutter with crystal clarity many years from now, if many years are granted to me, in the same way I can still feel my mother pulling me onto the piano bench to tell me about Senator Kennedy's assassination, the way I can eidetically re-create the tears in my father's eyes at Angel stadium when the announcement came that men had landed on the moon, the way I can still see Mother ironing (and smell the steam and the starch!) as we watched Richard Nixon resign, the way my friend Corbett and I were glued to his bootleg TV in our improvised office watching the horrors of the Challenger disaster. 

Is anyone else having this same reaction? Is the marginal minutia of your day searing itself into your mind? Why does this happen? Are we clinging to ordinary, day-in-the-life stuff because we need to -- because the huge stuff is too overwhelming? Are we in a collective state of shock (not surprise, I'm referring to something akin to medical SHOCK, the real stuff).

 June 1, 2022

Ten years. Ten years ago tomorrow my world collapsed. Ten years ago tomorrow,, my sweet, generous, loving, self-sacrificing mother took her last breath, and I didn't know human grief could reach such depths. She was the best mother on earth.

But at the same time, I've never felt so surrounded by love, starting with Janet Reinecke Kawamoto, whom I was on my way to meet when the call came in. Janet met me at my mother's house, bringing practical assistance and her endlessly big heart to my wails and sobs. She was, as ever, a steadfast presence -- the kind of friend she's been since we were three years old. God bless you, Janet, for enduring my hysteria and getting me through those first searing hours.

Mary Courtis Perry, en route to Catalina, offered to come back and be with us. (I didn't consent to that, but you'd best believe she was my rock and my comfort as soon as she got home.) I can never find the words to thank you, Scary Girl, and I wish everybody had a best friend as golden and loving as you. (But NOT YOU -- you've already got a bestie job.)

Calling the high school to tell them my son had to come straight home after his last exam was the hardest phone call I've ever had to make. But that shining young man showed up, struggling with his own broken heart, then did everything he could to make sure I was okay and that the details were covered. I really do, objectively speaking, have the best kid in the world.

My precious stepdaughter arrived as soon as she could get a flight, held our hands, prayed with us, and stood quietly by as she bustled about with little housekeeping tasks. She loved her bonus Grandma with all her heart.

Dan Serber showed up as soon as he could, with hugs, flowers and smartass quips at the ready. (And yeah, I needed to laugh too, otherwise the tears would have drowned me.) I've loved you forever, Daniel, and she trusted you to always comfort me and bring the joy. (And the snark.)

Marcy Shands-Brown was, as you'd expect, nothing but pure love and sympathy because that's who Marcy is. Like others, she let me sob and wail and ugly cry until I was exhausted. I may have worn out her ever-absorbent shoulders, and I am grateful to call her one of my dearest friends.

Angela Starkey, whose goodness will be forever imprinted on my heart, showed up with a few easy-to-reheat meals, soothing words, and the biggest heart on earth. You made it a little easier to let her go, Ange, and I love you for it.

Heather Dinsdale listened and listened and listened some more -- she has a rare talent for that. She let me rant and rave about the unfairness of it all and just let the tears flow. She shared so many sweet memories of my mother, it almost felt like Wolfie was just in the next room.

RuthAnn Wachsmuth and Bill Wachsmuth burned a candle for her as soon as we knew the end was near. They later gave me its green glass votive holder, which now holds a candle for anyone I love who needs intense love and prayers. Thank you, Thannigan and Bill, for all the love.

The people of St. Wilfrid's Episcopal church were an incalculable comfort, from Terry Roberts to the ordained staff to the musical team to the congregation who carried us through. I am forever in their debt.

And so many more -- sooooooo many people sent love in so many ways. The sadness doesn't go away, but the love softens the sharpest edges, eases the pain, helps the light shine through. Soar with the angels, Wolfie. Dance with Daddy. Hug the three little boys you lost too soon. Remember we love you and we will see you again one day.

Soooooooooo . . . yeah. Incomparable sadness. But also incomparable love.