Shocks and aftershocks

What I read in 2019

Shocks and aftershocks

Each September I take a little trip: a week away, just me and whatever writing project I’m working on at the time. Last year, I spent that time on the Washington coast. It was rainy, gusty; it was perfect. I needed that week; I’d been struggling with my novel-in-progress all year long. I did what I hoped to do: I whipped the book, and myself, into shape. By the trip’s end, I headed home refreshed. I knew what I was doing again. My book seemed to be working. I had a plan.

Never, ever make a plan.

Shortly after I arrived home, my mother called. She asked if I was sitting down. My aunt—Dad’s only sister—had died unexpectedly. In only a few days, she’d have welcomed her son’s first child into the world; instead, she never met him. My aunt was one of the world’s great empathetic souls, a steady source of strength and joy for so many in my family. She died too young. She had so many good years ahead.

Our family scrambled to arrange travel, did our best to support my aunt’s children in their grief, my grandparents in theirs. In the midst of this, word came that my childhood best friend had fallen mysteriously, catastrophically ill. We hadn’t seen one another in years, and had only memories in common anymore, but those memories came surging back. His condition worsened, baffling his caregivers, and in a blink, it seemed, he was gone, too.

When we’d buried my aunt, and reminisced with my friend’s family, we all traveled home again. Fresh news arrived; my mother’s aunt had passed away. This was less of a tragedy, though no less sad; my great-aunt was old, had been sick for some time, and her passing was less of a surprise. I hadn’t seen her in twenty-five years, but there was a time, as a child, when I spent some time in her corner of Texas. It was a lovely corner, one she tended to with joy and enthusiasm. Her obituary portrayed a woman who I’d known only a sliver; her life was something for the record books. And now she was gone, too.

I live a couple hours south of my parents’ home in Washington. Each year, around the holidays, we all inevitably gather at their house or ours. This Thanksgiving we drove to their home, and brought along our two dogs, Radar and Dr. Meatloaf. After a big meal, some of us went for a walk, and the dogs joined us, thrilled by all the country odors and sights. But that evening, Dr. Meatloaf fell inexplicably, seriously ill. He didn’t improve at home, and I found myself in a veterinary emergency room. For the week that followed, Meat was in and out of that ER many times. When we brought him home at last, he came with a bag filled with prescriptions—a dozen of them—and a glazed look in his eyes. He was worn out from several days of needles, having been dehydrated and wrung out by complication after complication. We thought at last he’d recover, but late that night, things took a hard turn. Our beloved Boston went blind, lost control of his limbs and bowels, and suffered terrible seizures. He wasn’t recovering as hoped; he wouldn’t. The following morning, we stroked his fur and cried as our veterinarian gently put him to sleep.

And still, it wasn’t over.

December brought word that my grandfather—Dad’s and my aunt’s father—was in serious condition. He’d battled cancer before, but this time it wasn’t backing down, and, since losing his daughter in September, my grandfather had lost the will to keep battling.

At the same time, my employer was acquired, and very soon it became apparent that my job was at risk. I began searching for something new, and when I returned to work in January, after the Christmas break, I found myself unemployed. I’d been interviewing for a few weeks; now that escalated, and I met daily with recruiters and hiring managers. Perhaps the one bright spot in early 2020: I found myself in demand by several companies, and fielded multiple offers, each of which was stronger than my previous job.

I called my grandmother, who helped me FaceTime with my grandfather. He was conscious, but barely. I recounted some of my favorite memories, and told him that I thought I’d grown up to be a lot like him, and that I was proud to be his grandson.

The day before I accepted an offer, my father flew to Texas. He arrived only hours before my grandfather passed away. Two days later, my mother and I drove from Oregon to Houston. The road trip home, we thought, might do my father some good. We were right, I think. After the funeral, our journey home was filled with stories about my grandfather, about Dad’s childhood, and with old songs.

At last, I think, things have settled down. I’m home again, with a few days to spare before the new job begins. I’m using these days to sleep, to square the world beneath my feet again. I hope that, for awhile, at least, there are no more goodbyes to be said. I hope that the last few months represent the worst of it. 2020 has time yet to recover; I hope that it can.

But of course, that view puts me at the middle of all of this, and really, none of it is about me. My family lost giants this year. None of us is unchanged by this. My aunt’s heart was larger than her body; my grandfather was gentle and kind. Our world is dimmer now without them both.

When my parents and I returned this weekend, my daughter was awake to greet us, though it was past her usual bedtime. I didn’t realize how tired I was until she led me to the couch, prepared a snack and a glass of water, then snuggled beside me. “I just missed you so much,” she reported. We spent the following day together, and she unloaded so many stories I’d missed during the week. She told me about the layers of the Earth—”The crust, the mantle, the outer core, and the inner core”—and about a Minecraft story she and a friend were going to write, then rewrote “The Twelve Days of Christmas” as a song about sushi, then asked if I would be her writing teacher “so that I don’t just learn punctuation, like at school, but learn what big juicy words will feed my readers.”

2020’s recovery is well underway.

Some photos from the week’s Instagram feed: