It’s a solid piece, one that had everyone buzzing at the start of the week. It’s taken me all week to get to it. By the end, I was skimming, trying to keep from nodding.

Here’s my deal these days: I’m lucky. Every time I go to the doctor, she tells me this. More than once. And it’s not in a ‘count your blessings’ kind of way. It’s not said as a warning or even some underhanded threat. She means it. All the little things that could go wrong with having a j-pouch aren’t things I deal with.

But those are all physical. And I can trace a clear and obvious path in my head since being sick. We all know we will die one day. Poof. But the realizations that came with watching my own body betray me, with realizing I am powerless when it comes to staying alive, were more than powerful.

I could write a book on my feelings and thoughts about the feelings; my frustration at life, opportunities, health, experience. But I wanted to say I related. It’s different, obviously. It always is. But it’s a tough and terrifying road.

At the end, whenever it comes, it’s not the road you’ve planned. It’s the road you’ve left behind. Spend every single day doing the things you want to be remembered for. It’s the only thing any of us have in the end.

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Unlike most of the country, I work today. It’s President’s Day but my company doesn’t treat it as a holiday. I rode the train into work today, surrounded by air and empty seats. This never happens. The train parking lot was empty; that was my first indicator. And when I got off the train, the normally busy corner was a ghost town.

I loved it. The nearest person to me was 10 or 15 feet away. There were large expanses of concrete and blacktop with no one on them.

I thought to myself, “This is what the world would be like if 60% of the population disappeared. Or died.”
I went to Starbucks and my barista was talking to me about her other job.

She works at funeral home.

She talked to me for a few minutes about making late night calls to hospitals to pick up bodies. I was utterly fascinated; it was absolute naiveté that this would be her only job. I told her learning this about her would be the most fascinating thing I learned all day.

And it’s true.

There’s something morbid in the air today.

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Some days you simply don

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Reed fell asleep in my arms tonight. It’s the best gift I could have ever asked for. 

It’s been a while since he’s fallen asleep as I’ve held him. I know the gaps between these special times will grow and grow until some point they are gone forever. The thought of that is crushing. I guess in some ways that burden of knowledge for parents is the flip side to the blissful innocence we try to guard for our children. Last night, as I turned a toy box inside out and rolled it up in the dark outside by the trash bin (no recycling for this stuff, lest the jolly fat guy gets found out), I felt at once both complicit and dutiful, as though I were perpetuating a lie but at the same time alright about it. We were careful last night to cover our tracks, to deliver on that promise that Santa holds for the young. In a year when I’ve had to explain death to our son, I wasn’t about to have Santa flicker out of his life, too. 

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve wondered why the season felt ‘off’ for me, as if I or it (or both) was out of place. And I’d heard others say similar things. I don’t think I realized what was wrong until just a moment ago. It’s about hope. News media errantly so often tries to quantify the Christmas season in terms of retail sales, when what it is really trying to gauge is how much hope we have. And while perhaps we manifest that hope in  what we’re willing to spend at the store (i.e. here’s how hopeful we are about our economic situation, our relationships and therefore how we give), it can and should come in other outlets. 

But with death and the constant background din of the bad economy, layoffs, foreclosures, it’s been hard to shake the feeling of malaise. Indeed, of hopelessness. 

After days and days of bleak, grey skies, of my beautiful daughter asking in a worried voice “Where sun go?”, of, frankly, constantly looking down because there just wasn’t anything seemingly to look up for, the clouds parted today–literally and figuratively–and I saw the brightness of the sun, and (perhaps a more religious man than I would say) maybe even the Son. 

Isn’t that something we cling to in these cycles we experience? As the earth tilts from the sun and the whole world seems to wither and die, don’t we frail humans need some light to give us hope? 

I suppose in many ways, today was the kind of day we should try to have more often. We simply stayed in our jammies all day, played with toys and ate cookies. And it was great. I’d like to wrap today up and stick it in a snow globe, so whenever I needed to, I could simply take it off a shelf and have it all over again.

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the day is almost over, and i am somewhat relieved. i felt so strange this year, not overcome with the usual tidal wave of grief and sadness that has overcome me for the last four years. i kind of missed having the tears fall, a tactile reminder of my loss.

it’s not that it gets any easier. it just gets…different.

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Friday night, my Uncle Don passed away. Though he had been in not great health the last several years, it was completely unexpected.

I was trying to think of the right word on Saturday to describe him. I’m going to go with epic.

He was married to my mother’s sister and they ran the dairy farm where my mother grew up. The cows were sold maybe 10 years ago, but Don continued to grow crops and tend to the horses. He was a very quiet man, but polite, respectful and had a small smile that almost bordered a smirk had it been by anyone else. I think of him as top class.

And he was a cowboy. Which, even at my age now, is super badass. The man drove around in a Jeep with no doors, boots and hat and always with his dog.

I’m going to miss the man a lot. He certainly had an influence on me; we would visit the farm for a week every summer growing up. Yeah, in a lot of ways, epic is exactly the right word.

(I didn’t get a chance to nab the photos I wanted to post with this. I’ll add them tonight.)

The obit follows:

Don Grey Quesenberry, 76, left us suddenly at his residence on Friday, Dec. 12, 2008.

He was a devoted husband and companion to his loving wife of 48 years, Laura Hurt Quesenberry.

His passions in life were his wife, his children, coaching, teaching and farming. Don grew up on a beef and dairy farm in Carroll County with his parents, Dewey and Pearl (Shockley) Quesenberry of Hillsville, Va. His life in Carroll County as a child transferred to love of Laura and her parents’ farm, Iris Hill on Halls Bottom Road, in Bristol Virginia. Together Don and Laura owned and managed this farm from 1968 to 1996. The dairy herd numbered 200-plus registered Holsteins. With his master’s in guidance, Laura frequently commented that they had “the best guided cows in the country!”

Upon graduation from Hillsville High School, Don attended Virginia Tech. He served in the U.S. Navy during the Korean War from 1952 to 1956. He graduated from Emory & Henry College in 1960 and received a Master’s in Education from ETSU in 1969. His civic involvement included positions as past chairman of the Holston River Soil and Water Conservation District, state director of Virginia Soil and Water Conservation, board of directors Select Sires, board of directors and past president of the Bristol Crisis Center and member of Walnut Grove Presbyterian Church. He was very active at Pleasant View United Methodist Church.

He is survived by his wife, Laura Hurt Quesenberry; two children, Cindy (John) Pittman, Kilmarnock, Va., and Sara (David) Arseneau, Goshen, Ohio; and two grandchildren, Ben (Melanie) Pittman, Rocky Mount, Va., and Taylor Arseneau, Goshen.

Friends will be received at the residence. Graveside services will be held Monday, Dec. 15, 2008, at Glenwood Cemetery.

In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to Pleasant View United Methodist Church. Condolences and memories may be shared with the family by visiting www.BlevinsCares.com.

Blevins Funeral and Cremation Services, 417 Lee St., Bristol, Va., is serving the family of Mr. Quesenberry.

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You probably have already heard from somewhere else [1] but David Foster Wallace has died at age 46[2].

[1] From waxy or kottke or even the nyt.

[2] I want to use words like displeased or upset. But those aren’t quite right. [3] Granted, I only met him once at book signing in LA (and that means “met”) but my copy of “Infinite Jest” is signed (complete with a drawing of a house by him). Ug ug ug. There is one less genius in the world today; something I do not say lightly.

[3] They are more than that; he offered insights in a way no one else did and my own world-view will be smaller without his comments. What’s the correct word to describe this?

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