Memories and Grief and Joy

SUMMARY: Dad. And Mark Lynch.

Yesterday, Dad died 5 years before.  The day sits so clearly in my mind, lurking with the things about it that I would absolutely have done differently, but also with relief about a couple of crucial things that I had been afraid that I wouldn't have been able to do for him that I did. So--a wildly emotional day. Plus, he died. So, yes, laser burned into my mental memory book.

And that's all on that for now. But it brings up this:

My Archaelogy/Anthropology prof at Santa Clara University, Mark Lynch, was killed by a drunk driver after he graded my final but before I picked it up.  Yes, relevant--

holding this space hoping for ok to post painting of Mark lynch

I "dropped out" of college after my junior year, struggling with what I really wanted to major in. Then I got a dog, bought a house, got married--and a few years after I left college, I went back. Santa Clara accepted me, thank goodness. [that might be another story]. As a Senior, which was also Thank Goodness, because SCU has specific breadth requirements for each year (frosh, soph, jr, sr) to earn your degree, so that, as a Senior, I needed only one of each category and could concentrate on my major classes.

I don't recall which breadth category Anthropology fit into, but that's where I headed. The first class I picked sounded interesting but after one day of the prof's dull, dull, droning delivery, I knew that I couldn't handle it for a full quarter. That he had only maybe 10 students in his class said something, too.  

That left me stuck: My other classes were already set, so I had to find something in essentially the same time slot, and I believe that left only one choice, and of course now I had missed the first class session.

I went anyway, to ask whether he'd add me (the class was listed as full so I couldn't join without that).  And his classroom overflowed with more folks than there were places to sit, lining all the walls. Many more than what he was allowed, but he added everyone, even late me. AND he remembered everyone’s names right away. I don’t know how he did it--must’ve been 50 people in that class. An amazing man.

So, I know that he graded my final because grades were posted (yes, an A).  He put all graded papers and tests into a cube outside his door, but I never did get my final--everyone else’s were in the bin--and I’ve often wondered whether he had kept it on his desk or wherever he was working because I knew all the material well and it was essay(s), and so I had a lot of fun writing it while still delivering the goods. I felt that he'd be OK with that and maybe even enjoy it and maybe he had held onto it a bit for that or had thought that he might see me again to say something.

He was so young.

I had mostly not bothered my profs through all the years of college except occasionally for a specific class-related question, but I had gone in to talk to him a couple of times about some fiction I was trying to break through on (Anasazi-related). Because, in class, not only could he be funny, but could elicit deep emotions with his fabulous descriptions of life and death and the effects of European colonization here in the western states. So I was quite comfortable chatting with him about fiction and about Anasazi and related topics and whatever unrelated topics we went into. Not that we were likely to become real friends, but he wasn’t that much older than I was at that point --I don’t recall exactly--or the same age (I was 27ish). But, still. 

I learned about his death while listening to the car radio--and then I was driving on US-101 bawling my eyes out.

I cried over several days, couldn’t stop thinking about it at night when all those thoughts you don’t want come calling. Then, one night, I dreamed that i was sitting on the outside steps of the building where his class was, head down on my knees, crying again. Suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder, and I looked up, and there he was. He said, you’re crying? And I was stunned, just staring at him being there. And then he said, “About me? Oh, there’s no need for that” followed by words that I don’t remember exactly any more but something along the lines that he had had a happy life and he’d be honored if people would remember the fun that he had and the education that he gave and be happy about all of that for him. And I nodded and he smiled his familiar smile and trotted on down the steps and away.

It helped me so much when I woke, even though I know that it was my brain inventing things--I think it was inventing a story for myself that I could grasp to not wallow in grief and to, indeed, remember him cheerfully.

So, yay, brain.

(See end of post for links related to Mark Lynch.)

I haven't had dreams like that about either of my parents.  I try to remember the same things for them, though.  But these anniversaries are hard.

Photos from family Thanksgiving 6 and 7 years before they died --
because they were always a couple

And a final note: Links related to Mark Lynch

• The Alameda -- see "A campus divided"
• Obituary
  
• Wow! This page has a painting of him done by another of his students
• Article with 3 mentions of excavations he did at Mission Santa Clara
  
• "Site Artifact Density and the Effectiveness of Shovel Probes"
  
• Articles he published -- he did work in Africa, too
  
• "Ph.D. in anthropology in 1978. Mark Lynch was an outstanding young scholar who was greatly interested in the method and theory of archaeology especially as ..." ...  I can't get at this text without buying or renting it, but I wish I could.

The morning that wasn't

SUMMARY: Pain meds for new hip, or dreamy state, or wish fulfillment, or...

This is what led me into accidentally coming across parents' obits yesterday. Posted on Facebook 2/18/19.

I awoke this morning, tucked into my comfy and warm recovery bed between my new flannel sheets, hearing a sound at my bedroom door. I opened my eyes, and the room flooded with brilliant morning sunshine and a feeling of well-being came over me. Dogs were quiet in their crates, not disturbing me. Mom was standing in the doorway, hand on the doorknob, tall and slender, in an apron as always, her hair pulled back into a short pony tail, just checking up on me, saying something about letting my hip heal and breakfast would be ready when I was ready. I could smell breakfast and I could hear my little sisters downstairs playing. All was right with the world. Then I awoke, tucked into my comfy and warm recovery bed between my new flannel sheets. I opened my eyes, and the room flooded with brilliant morning sunshine. Dogs were quiet in their crates, not disturbing me. My bedroom door was closed. No one else was in the house. I lay there in my delicious bed, loving the sunshine, floating between contentment and grief and contentment again.

The Ultimate Creative Ideas Straight From the Brain

SUMMARY: While dreaming--

Woke during a dream last night, turned on the lamp, groped for the pen and notepad that I keep by my bed, because I had forgotten something very important. Jotted it down. And, while I was at it, made a bulleted list of some other important things.

Turned off the light and went back to dreaming.

When I woke up in the morning, wasn't even sure whether that had happened or had been a dream. Ohhhhh it happened all right--

Not Your Usual Nightmare

SUMMARY: It's not always about the dogs. But--Haydn?

In my dream:

A woman I know fairly well [in my dream] suggested that we go see the world-renowned orchestra led by the world-renowned director, playing a fabulous work by Haydn. She could get 2 tickets for a mere $80 each, and I somewhat hesitantly agreed.

We arrived, and worked our way up the aisle. And I mean, UP! The angle was extremely steep, and it went up and up and UP and up and up, to where my moderate acrophobia really kicked. I had to grab the stairs and walls and chairs as I worked my way up just to be able to make myself keep moving and not freeze on the spot. So far up that you really almost couldn't see the stage. REALLY up.

(And I've been up very high in some very steep venues, but this had 'em all beat.)

THEN discovered that the concert hall was built over a hill, so when you got the the top, you started going down the other side. Now you REALLY couldn't see the orchestra. And barely hear them. Instead, they had a large TV screen (like someone might have on the wall of their house) and speakers.

Furthermore, my friend hadn't realized that odd numbered seats were on one side of the hall and even-numbered were on the other side. So we weren't even seated within sight of each other.

Furthermore still more, it was the very last seats in the hall. And people who had brought their small kids had sent them to the back of the hall to play.

So I had paid $80 to sit in the back of a room, by myself, to watch Haydn performed on a TV, listening through speakers, with noisy kids playing around me.

I woke up bawling. The dogs were a bit concerned and came in close to see what was the matter.

I wasn't sure whether to keep bawling or to break into hysterical laughter. Really?! This is the worst thing I could manage to have a nightmare about?!

The Ghost of Nightmares Past

Last night I dreamed that Remington and I were sitting on the couch, his front end sprawled across my lap as was his usual wont. Suddenly he shot to a sit, his face contorting, and then the seizure started. He thrashed, his limbs stiff and jerking spasmodically, and I just held him as gently as I could so that he wouldn't throw himself off the couch like he threw himself off the bed the night he died.

As the spasms died away and he lay on his side, panting, eyes wide, I gently wiped away the foam and strings of saliva from his mouth and face. I stroked him slowly, comfortingly as my mother wandered in and asked casually what was going on.

"It's siezures," I said, "Just like the night he died. I thought they were done with. I thought they wouldn't happen again."

And I woke up crying.