Accept no substitute.

I told myself that I wouldn't continue to write here after Jessie died and although I want to hold to that promise, I swear, I can see her waving at me as if to say "Really? Come on Yvette, why would you let something like that stop you..." It's not that, honestly, it doesn't even remotely feel as though I am breaking the promise that I made to myself.  She would want me to keep on writing, so, I make no promises Jessie, to you or to myself.  But, I am working on another project, one that won't allow me to continue to write in this free-form forum for much longer.  Then again, what the hell do I know about anything? Stop laughing Jessie...

Death has not been an integral part of my life, not yet anyway; I know it's coming, that it has already begun to seep its gnarled claws into the periphery of my somewhat complacent existence.  My grandparents have passed, our family dog, relatives, distant friends, sadly, a child or two of loved ones. But death has spared me any type of real grief until this year, just a few months ago when he claimed Jessie.  Thinking of her makes me sad. Thinking of her brings me pain and I feel that empty hole open itself up again.  Thinking of her makes me feel fear and isolation, loneliness, suffering and yet, ironically, every single time that I picture her face, she is smiling.  And then I smile.  I can imagine her memorial service and I can feel the tears welling up, but when I actually think of her face, her eyes are lit up and she's wearing her glasses, looking at me, happy to see me, to chat for a minute, to laugh at something stupid that I said or did.

When Jake graduated from high school last week, I thought of her, especially when he walked down the track toward the stage.  I walked that path and Jessie did before me.  I missed her a lot that day.  But I know that she was smiling, laughing at all of the joy, singing the alma mater along with us, congratulating Jake in her own way. Love has no structure, no definitive shape, no limits.  I miss you Jessie.  Keep reading... there is more to come.

I thought that I was being rather indulgent today when I actually sat outside, in the sun, to read for two hours. I almost felt guilty.  How pathetic is that?  My life has become such a constant stream of work, kids, obligations, work, kids, obligations... that I felt guilty for reading? Pause... okay, I had to slap my own face for such an asinine application of guilt to an activity that I could, hypothetically write off as work... nonetheless, I lay here now, unable to sleep, thinking about life and death, babies, movies, chocolate, yes, chocolate, always, new friends, places, endeavors, change...

I continue to search for meaning in the trivial, but, again, somewhat ironically I suppose, the trivial doesn't really interest me.  The big, loud, kick you in the ass moments interest me and I have lived my life from one to the next, leaping, arms akimbo, head thrown back, eyes closed, relishing in the newness of whatever was about to take place: a job, a baby, a wedding, a vacation.  And then, as with everything else, the newness began to wear off and I felt deflated, bored, uninterested, sometimes for a short moment, sometimes for months, but then, as if the Fates were fast weaving, another momentous occasion or job interview or child's milestone revealed itself and I was in mid air yet again... Recently, those moments have become fewer and further between.  I am always telling my students to avoid cliches in their writing and here I am using them.  At the very least I recognize that I am doing it, doesn't help though.  If I had any common sense, I would edit this before hitting publish, but, I won't because I'm already getting distracted and Hotel California just came on my playlist and it is making me sleepy.  Makes me think of my parents and the 70's, even though I was just a kid growing up then, I remember hearing this song and wondering what the hell it was all about... but, famously, I digress...

I like to think that there is something new around every door jamb, out every front door, at every stoplight, in every greeting, birthday card, first day of school.  I try to imagine that life is one big pencil box, filled with all of my favorite things, the worn and loved, the decorated, the loaned or borrowed pieces, the gifts, the favorites that I keep only for myself.  Life is a pencil box, when opened, a tool kit to help you do anything that you want to, from the simplest to the most complex task; when closed, it is a safe harbor, padded, protective of those same tools, waiting for an opportune time to once again contribute, to be utilized.  I may use that analogy in summer school this term.  We'll see.  It really depends on my mood that day.

I turned a new corner, well, I turned back onto a corner that I had driven away from long ago, but to which I recently returned, only this time, with new faces, new stories and a new experience that is already leaving its very specific and indelible impression upon my well being.  I have thought of myself as resilient, strong, capable, smart and I have been, on more than one occasion, able to prove those things.  But this past 5 weeks has called into question everything that I thought that I was capable of, or maybe once was, but that has subtly, slightly shifted.  The change isn't noticeable unless you knew me before, or, if I make it clear that a change has taken place, but, for the first time EVER in my entire life, I have felt the impact of taking on a challenge for which I was perhaps unprepared.  I am chipping away at it and I will find my footing eventually, but this experience has shaken me to the core because it calls into question every quality, every characteristic, that I have felt though the years, has made me who I am.  I mean, seriously, when you reach that point in your life where you know who you are, what you want and you are living the life you carved out for yourself and all of those ideals are based upon the qualities that have held you together as a woman, an employee, a mother, a wife, when those qualities are put to the test, well, it's more than disquieting, it's frustrating and, on some level for me, it's a sign that I need to acknowledge my age.  I know, people say, "You are only as old as you feel" and "40 is the new 30" and, well, fuck those people.  What the hell do they know about how I feel after 8 hours of work or after running 26 miles? How do those idiots who come at us with cliche ridden fodder that attempts to pass itself off as "psychology" know how we feel, or, more precisely, how I feel?

I've said it, I've written about it.  I don't mind aging and I don't mind letting go of the trivial aspects of youth that were once so violently important to me, sometimes clouding my judgement and those that led me to make bad decisions, mistakes, to hurt others, to lose money, friends, lovers, jobs... but, as these things do begin to happen, hopefully slower than not, I hope I can hold on to what does matter, like my 18 year old son who just walked in the door at 1:29 to beat his 1:30 curfew.  Yes, he lives at home so he has a curfew.  Stop shaking your heads.  So, he just came in, hugged me, told me he loved me and said that he was going to get an Oreo McFlurry and "Do you want one Mom?" Sheesh, it's 1:30 in the morning Jake, of COURSE I want one.  Jessie is smiling again at that one.

I knew that this one wasn't going to go in any particular direction, but it feels really good to write again in this format.  I like stream of consciousness writing because I don't feel the need to self correct or edit.  I just count to three and I go... It's funny, but just interacting with the kid made me feel less... somber? I was feeling heavy and sad when I started typing a few minutes ago and I feel, well, lighter now.  One of the many benefits of having positive interactions with the offspring I guess.  I suppose that I was trying to work out the difficulties that I'm having by writing them out.  When I run, I work them out in my head, telling myself stories and reliving moments of pure joy and sadness.  I know it's time to run another marathon.  I can feel it calling to me.  I've been doing short runs, 1-3 miles a few times a week, but, the challenge beckons... and I know, for a fact, that by training for one, that alone will be enough to bolster the platform that houses my doubts, that will be enough to tip that platform just enough to let a few of the doubts slip off, and, at the end of the training, I will stomp on that mother fucking platform, doubts splayed helplessly beneath it... I can't help it. Using profanity makes me feel better. You know that, I know that, well all know that.

I don't mind having a torn meniscus or having to stretch twice as long before I run.  I don't mind having to take more vitamins than ever before or using Crest Whitestrips.  I don't mind that my knees, toes and back crack when I get out of bed in the morning or that I sometimes hurt my neck because I sleep too violently?! I don't even mind that just one shot of tequila makes me tipsy or that I like the little streaks of gray that are becoming more and more visible around my temples.  I really don't mind having a son in college, one in high school and one in elementary school and I don't think I will ever mind the smile wrinkles on my face that clearly come from my Dad.  I do, however, mind the notion that people see me differently than I see myself.  I am the same on the inside, but, at 46, that "inside" is richer, filled with experience and depth, pain, love and vast quantities of chocolate.

I was going to ask Jessie if that sufficed for a return to the page, but Jake just came in. No McFlurry. A Hershey's bar offered as a substitute.  I took it, looked at it, thanked him as he said goodnight and walked out.  But I'm not eating it.  I accept no substitutions, no matter how small, only the real thing will suffice.  Ever.  Peace...

Eulogy for Jessie... 3/23/15

"When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced.  Live your life in such a way that when you die, the world cries and you rejoice" -- Cherokee proverb

A nurse said to me one night, "You know, Jessie is the only patient who has somebody here all of the time.  She must really be loved." It was easy to agree "She is. Very much loved." Even more than being loved though, Jessie loved others, befriended them, cared for them and she created a lasting presence in people's lives, one that lives on even as she begins a new adventure, walking along, water bottle in hand, smiling because she's home now.  She's free...

I grew up next door to the Burdens: Jessie, Jeff, Josh and Ryan.  14 years my senior, Jessie always seemed other worldly to me, so beautiful and funny... silly and creative; for me, she was someone to watch, to look up to and later, to share stories with.  Over the years, she's given me lots of advice, she's laughed at my stories and reassured me when I shared my doubts about life, love, parenting.  She'd walk down the driveway more times than I can count, to say hello, to give me a hug, to compliment me on something that I'd written or to tell me something funny that one of her grandkids had done.  Jessie loved stories, hearing them and telling them.

When I lived next door to her, Jessie came and got me in the middle of the night once so that we could toilet paper a neighbor's house.  No one would have believed the two of us, giggling, 50 rolls of toilet paper, telling each other to shush, a teenager and a grown woman in her twenties, tiptoeing around, trying not to get caught.  That was one of the most ridiculous and hysterical nights of my youth.  We laughed about that night for years, like it was a secret that only we shared.  And, that's what I'm going to miss the most about you Jessie; I didn't see you every day, we didn't plan lunch dates or vacations together, but you always treated me with kindness, with respect and I felt comfortable around you, safe and at ease.  You made me feel like I was important.  There was no pretense with you, no impetus for superficiality or ego, no bravado.  You weren't just a neighbor or a friend of the family. You were and will always remain a cherished friend.

Maya Angelou said "My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style."

Jessica Comeaux Burden lived each day with passion and she showed tremendous compassion for others; she had a bright sense of humor and she was ever stylish, in both demeanor and appearance.  Jessie's life was uniquely simple in design, created from the unparalleled love that she had for her family.  She made rich, artful memories with her loved ones that gave her such joy every single day.  And, at the center of those memories is Jessie herself... the touchstone.  Whether she was playing with her grandchildren, taking photos, traveling with her mom Lou, visiting loved ones, cooking, sitting in the backyard with Jeff or chasing Dylan down the sidewalk with Ryan, the heart of who Jessie was and the wonderful life that she created was always centered on family. 

I thought a lot about Ryan and Josh over the past week, about how much each of them, respectively, resembles their mother.  Ryan exudes her mother's resilience, love of life and her grace, while Josh displays his mother's quiet strength, determination, and kindness.  She was so extraordinarily proud of the two of you and the lives that you've carved out for yourselves.  She deeply adored Christy and Hunter and all of her grandchildren.  She was bursting with stories about the four of them, their antics and all of the hopes that she had for each of them. And every time she mentioned them or was in their presence, she was so happy.  I saw a photo recently of Jessie with her niece Kinnley and in it, they are hugging, their faces pressed up against one another.  Kinnley is wearing a grin so big that her whole beautiful face is lit up and yet, it is Jessie's smile that struck me.  She is smiling softly, mostly through her eyes, but the expression on her face sums up everything about what was most important to her.  In that photo, she is at peace and content because she is with family.

Jessie told me to be kind to my forties because they go so fast... and she told me to not dwell on the past so much, "What's the point?" she asked me.  I still don't know. And Jeff, she told me once to make sure to marry the right man.  I was about 16 or 17 then and I told her that I'd try.  But she got very serious and said "No. Really Yvette.  Marry the right man - it will make all the difference in your life. It has in mine."  The love and care that you've shown for one another over the years has left an indelible impression on me, especially during this last month. 

I am very grateful to Jeff, to Ryan and to Josh for allowing me the privilege of sitting with Jessie and of holding her hand; I got to tell her that I loved her and that it was okay, all of it, any of it, whatever happened, it was okay.  And even when I was saying the words, she grabbed the end of her blanket and pulled it over my arm because she knew that I was cold.  Jessie was a caregiver, kind and loyal, thoughtful;  She demonstrated the qualities that she wanted to see in others and she did this by example.  She never slowed down... she lived in the moment, traveling, drinking wine, crafting, planning parties, spending time with friends, reading, taking photos.  I doubt that there was a single day in her life when she didn't truly "live." I hope that she realized that her presence in my life helped shape the woman I am today.  There is a special place, deep in my heart, reserved for the lasting message that she taught me about honoring the precious time that we are given in this life.

Jessie was done with her physical journey in this life and she now moves through a spiritual one, one that imposes no physical limitations.  Upon hearing the news of her passing, I imagined her, her hair thick and long, shining in the sun, flowing down her back, greeted eagerly by Annette, laughing at her little sister, who had been waiting for Jessie for such a long time.

 I have been remembering moments of pure heartache on her beautiful face and tears of joy as well, how brave and strong she was, and, despite the pain that her death has brought, I also feel relief for her because I know that she is better, happier and at peace now.  It has all kind of blurred together into this one moment, standing here and despite the sadness, despite the days ahead when we will wish she were here, we need to remind ourselves that she still is.  She is and she will be here, in Dylan's giggles, in Jake's first homerun, in Reece's wedding dress and in Cade's high school graduation.  She's here in Kinnley's smile and in Renae's friendship, in her lovely home, in every orchid that I will ever see, in trips abroad and in wonderful parties.  She will always be here, in that place in each of our hearts that brought us here today, both to grieve and to express our appreciation for her life and the role that she played in each of ours.

If a life is measured by the amount of love that others have for you in your time of need, then Jessie was more than loved; she was adored.  Smart and adventurous, she will forever remain young, beautiful and timeless.  As my own memories of Jessie continue to come, I will smile and think of our long conversations on her front porch and I will hold dear the notion that sometimes you get lucky enough to grow up next door to someone who isn't just a neighbor, but a real friend.  I am so grateful Jessie that you've been present at all of the major events in my life and that you got to know my children and I will remain deeply appreciative of this last month, for many reasons.  You know what they are, you always did. 

Lord Byron wrote:

"She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which Heaven o gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent, --
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent. --

Thank you for being my friend, for teaching me to play backgammon and for coming to our wedding.  Thank you for always saying something complimentary every single time I saw you and thank you for showing me that the length of one's life doesn't matter; it's what you do with the time that matters. By that measure, your life was more than full and so very rich. 

I will miss you Jessie.  So much. I already do.  Happy Birthday.  I love you.

3/14/15

Why do people make the statement "I lost someone today...?" They didn't lose someone.  The someone lost her battle, her life.  They feel a loss, but it's not about them; it's about the person who is gone, the person whose absence leaves us with a profound emptiness, a void, a sadness.  It is about the grieving process and one's stage in it.  For many, the process has begun even before the recognition that the someone doesn't have much time left to share...

I've had a lot of time to think lately.  I've read and thought.  Talked with some people, but mostly just sat and considered a lot of things that I haven't made time for, especially as of late and the only conclusion that I can come to is that all of the clichés, about death and life, about love and friendship, about not wasting time, while true to some degree, are only relevant if they are used, not discussed or thought about, but used.  I listen to people wax on about how a loved one's death helped them realize the true meaning of life and so forth.  But, frankly, it's not her death that made us realize that. Instead, it was the role she played in our lives that made us realize that.  And now that she's gone, we realize that we no longer have that touchstone, that ever present reminder that life is indeed brief and even more precious than we ever realized.

Today, Jessica Comeaux Burden died.  She was done with her physical journey in this life and she now moves into the spiritual journey that began here and will continue on now that she no longer has physical limitations.  I imagined her today, greeted eagerly by Annette, her hair thick and long, flowing down her back, laughing at her little sister who had been waiting for her for many years.  I thought about the lessons that she taught me and the conversations that we'd had over the years, the last one so recently that it's still too fresh in my mind.  I remembered moments of pure heartache on her beautiful face and tears of joy as well.  I thought about all of her trips and photos, of her laughter and caregiving nature.  I am thinking of her kindness and generosity, of her loyalty and resilience.  It all blurs together into that one moment, that second when you realize that you won't get to see her smile again or have her blow you a kiss.  But that somehow, even without those precious moments, you have the knowledge that she is better, much happier and at peace where she is now.  I believe that.  I know that and even as the tears continue to come, I feel that truth deep within my core.

Jessie would send me messages about this blog and whenever I would see her, she would laugh and tell me the things that she thought were funny and she always told me to keep writing.  So I hope that she finds it particularly tributary that I have reopened this blog only to write this entry for her.  Consider it an early birthday present Jessie.  I thought that maybe I would share my stories about her here, some funny and some poignant and moving, but, now that I think about it, I'm not going to.  I'm going to tuck those away for myself and keep them where they have always been, in a place reserved for experiences that help shape who you will become and who you will continue to be.  Some things are truly better left unsaid.

I wanted to write this for Ryan because I think that over the course of this past month especially, that she, like her mother, has shown the kind of grace and strength that we hope to have in moments of extreme difficulty, but usually are unable to muster.  Ryan has always reminded me of her mother, with a huge smattering of Jeff thrown in for good measure.  But as strong, capable, influential women, they both embrace life and people and experiences.  Jessie never slowed down, even when she knew what could possibly happen.  She lived her life; she traveled, drank wine, read, took photos, cared for all 4 of her grandchildren... I doubt that there was a single day in her life where she didn't truly "live." And, like all great stories that come to an end, the details of her last days are hers; they will not be shared here nor will they lessen her dominant, giving spirit.  While there may be little dignity and privacy in death, depending upon the circumstances, I can honestly say that all I ever saw in her was honesty and the naked truth about where she was and where all of this might end.  And, I am so eternally grateful to you Ryan, for allowing me to participate in these last days, to get a chance to sit with her and hold her hand, to tell her that I loved her even though she already knew.  And to tell her that it was okay, all of it, any of it and that whatever happened, that it was okay.  Even when I told her that, she grabbed the end of her blanket and pulled it over my arm because she knew that I was cold.  Do I really need to say anything else...

Jessie wouldn't want me to write about her; she wouldn't want me to disclose things about her that she herself didn't share with you so I won't.  Maybe I am writing this for me, Jessie and for Ryan and for Jeff and Josh, but most likely, I am trying to sink my toes in the sand and not feel the extreme sadness that has washed over me since this afternoon when I heard the news of her death.  I feel many things and have all day, but as I type, the most overwhelming feeling that comes over me right now is relief.  Truly, relief for her that her physical struggle is over and I have to smile, even as the tears start to come again right now, because I know that she's walking, holding her water bottle, grasping Annette's hand and smiling... because she's free.  She's home.

If a life is measured by the amount of love that others have for you in your time of need, then Jessie was more than loved; she was adored.  Those who knew her, know that already.  She was smart and funny, creative and adventurous.  And beautiful... Jessie was and will always be so very beautiful.  Ryan, and Jeff, Josh and Christie, Hunter and all of the grandkids... may her spirit be ever present with each of you throughout your lives and may you look up into the night sky often, at the moon, and imagine her dancing above it instead of beneath it.  May you hold each other together and find comfort in the days ahead, knowing that she's waiting for all of you.  And that she will have many plans when you are all together again...

And Jessie, as the memories come over the days and years ahead, memories of long conversations on your porch step or out in front of your house when I'd stop to see my parents, or late at night when we were doing silly things that no one else needs to know about, I will smile and think of your warm eyes and the advice that you gave me over the years, showing me that sometimes you get lucky enough to live next to someone who isn't just a neighbor, but a real friend.  I'm so grateful that you've been present at all of the major events in my life and that you got to know my children.  And, I will always be deeply appreciative of this last month, for many reasons that don't need to be listed here.  You know what they are.  You always did.

I don't have any profound words this time and I truly wish that I did, but I think Jessie would want me to just tell it like it is.  So Jess, I wish that my last words to you had not been "Have a good day." Instead, I wish that they had been "Have a safe journey."

Thank you for being my friend, for teaching me to play backgammon and for coming to our wedding.  Thank you for always saying something complimentary every single time I saw you and thank you for showing me that the length of your life really doesn't matter; it truly is what you do with that time that matters.  By that measure, your life was more than full and so very rich.

I will miss you Jessie.  So much. I already do. I love you.