Matty's Journal
April 2007

WHERE HAVE ALL MY LOVED ONES GONE?

Eight years old, way to young to experience death, yet, this is what was presented to me.  Not knowing what to do with my emotions, no one to ask.

Sadness, deeply grieving,  my best friends daddy,  she was so grief stricken, consoling her wasn’t anywhere within me.  Not only was she my BEST friend, she was my entire life, for the past six years we played every day,  we were a ‘WE’, no one else mattered.

That horrid morning, that day, knocking on her door, her aunt answered, I knew there was something terrible wrong.  “Judy can’t come out, her daddy died last night.”  She closed the door, I couldn’t move, my legs wouldn’t carry me. 

“Mommy,  Judy’s daddy died last night.”   Mommy putting her hand over her mouth,
  “Oh my God, he was 28 years old.”  We cried, holding one another.

We lived in the same apartment building, there were six units, everyone was family.  The next six months were hell.  Judy couldn’t, wouldn’t find comfort anywhere.  Then that awful day came, the moving truck, the cars were packed.  I couldn’t even be there to say good bye.  We were ripped apart. How was I going to go on with out her?  She was my other half. 

The old saying, “Time heals” . . .  this is true,  wounds heal, the soul never forgets. 

I’m ten now,  my beloved Bubby, the foundation of my entire life, my heart belonged to her.  {Bubby was my momma’s mom.} 

Coming home from school, walking through the door, I felt a saddened energy,  what was going on.  Momma was in the kitchen,  “Momma, where’s Bubby?”  “She’s in the hospital”  “When is she coming home?”  Tears filled her eyes, then mine.  “ Mom, I want to go see her, you have to let me go see her.”   “they won’t let you in, you’re to young.”   “No, No, I have to see her, you have to make them let me in. Momma, please.”

One week later, Bubby died.  I didn’t get to say good bye.  I couldn’t feel my heart beating, I couldn’t feel anything, I was numb.  The next two weeks I sat in her chair, looking out the window she look out of daily, the chair in which she sat while I sat at her feet playing, she would reach over to stroke my hair. Saying  I love you, without the words.  I felt so safe, so protected knowing she was there, now, there was no more safety, no more cushy hugs, Our little apartment felt empty, I watched Momma cry, seeing tears, I would cry myself to sleep, not wanting anyone to see me cry.  No one seemed to know how to console the other.  Trying to be brave, to go on.  I couldn’t concentrate in school.  Feeling as though I were apart of the walking dead.

They wouldn’t allow me to go to her funeral.  Telling me I was to little.  It didn’t matter what I said, they were adamant about me ‘not going’. . .

A month  later they went to the cemetery, Mom, Dad, Aunt Ruthie, me, Standing by her head stone, looking at her name so meticulously engraved into the stone, I cried uncontrollably. What were they thinking, how can this be, how could God take her away from me. . .  it was more then I could tolerate. 

I became careless, taking risks I hadn’t ever thought I would take,  telling my mom I was going to a friends house, knowing she wouldn’t ever allow me to take a bus by myself to the stables to ride,  one of the only places I felt my life was my own.  I didn’t care what happened to me. Nothing seemed to matter. 

I’m 13 now, spending the summer in Chicago with my uncle and cousins. Riding my younger cousins bike, right in the middle of the street, not seeing the car coming at me, we hit head on.  I was told after that I flew over his car.  I hadn’t broken a bone, a huge blood clot formed on the back of my left leg.  The doctor drained out 4 oz. of black blood.  He said, tell me when it hurts and I’ll stop. I didn’t tell him it hurt, I didn’t care about the pain, I was ‘feeling’ for the first time in so long, the pain was welcoming.

The scare in my heart was bigger than the pain in my leg.  Why had they kept me here?  What purpose was there for me?  I lost my other half, then my beloved Bubby.  How much more torture could be bestowed upon me? 

Other then being a mother, I couldn’t fathom what I wanted to ‘Do’ when I grew up.  I wanted four children,  two boys,  two girls.  This declaration was set in stone. 

At the ripe ol age of 18, I had my first son,  at 19, number two son was born.

My second daughter was born when I turned 28.  knowing they were to all be born before I was 30, they would grow up, be adults while I was still young enough to enjoy the fruits of my desires.

Having my 31^st birthday, the entire family almost always celebrated birthdays,  my brother had gotten married when I was 13, so he, his wife, and two children, my four, my sister three.  Mom, dad,  it was fantastic, there was so much love to share. 

Three weeks later, my brother died. He was 38, a massive heart attack.

I cursed god, “if you’re there, dam you, he was the kindest, most gentle soul. You couldn’t have needed him more then we do.”  I took his death as a personal assault. 

At the age of 21, my girl friends son, whom I had known before he was born, died, it took every ounce of courage to go to the hospital to visit him, he was so brave, the next day he left his body. 

There were others, with each departure I become more stoic.  Courage came in waves.  My faith in God become my salvation. Prayer was my side kick.

I was living in Venice Beach California, my core group of friends/family found, Rev. Michael Beckwith, he was there every Sunday, the little hotel in Santa Monica,  then there was Eleanor, my mentor, there were five women who met every Tuesday, for the next 9 years it was what kept us grounded, alive, having a purpose.  There was so much more to my life then I had ever seen.  I hadn’t known how alive I could be,  what there was for me to do, how to present myself to the world.  I knew I was given a huge gift, the gift to guide others whom had similar experiences as I. . . to talk about what they felt, everyone needs someone to talk to, someone that knows how to listen. . .  have a shoulder to cry on.  Someone to walk through the unthinkable with. . . 

Sitting on the hospital bed with Daddy, knowing he wasn’t coming home.

Daddy and Mom just celebrated their 50^th Anniversary.  He wanted that more then anything.

 Looking around the  room, I asked,  “Daddy, are you scared?”  his kind eyes looked at me, the dimples in his cheeks shown.  “Yes”.

A simple word that said it all.  “Me too Daddy, me too.”  Taking a deep breath,  “Daddy, do you want to be kept alive by machines?” The look on his face spoke volumes.  “NO.” 

Daddy, look around the room, he was hooked up like a robot. His face got red,  “G E T     T H E M   out of here.”   Feeling the hot tears rolling down my cheeks, holding his hand, not knowing how much longer I would be able to feel his warm body.  I said,  “I’ll tell mom, she’s the one that will tell the doctor.” 

That evening, I call Mom,  telling her what Daddy wanted, she was furious with me for asking him.  I know Mom, I know. 

While I was sitting on the bed with Daddy, he said,  “when I was a young healthy man, I could eat anything I wanted, yet I was too poor,  now, I’m a rich man, I can’t eat what I want because I’m sick, what’s life about anyway?”  we smiled at one another,  knowing how insane the whole thing is.

The next morning, Mom told the doctor to take him off of life support.

He told Mom he wouldn’t live through the night.  He lived for three day. On the third morning, when I arrived at the hospital, the curtain was drawn, it hadn’t been drawn the entire time he had been there.

Walking into the room, Momma was laying on top of Daddy, crying, words she was saying were,  “why did you leave me.”  My sister tried to pull her off. Taking my sisters arm, pulling her towards me, “Leave her be, she needs to grieve the way she needs to grieve.”  Daddy didn’t want any of us there when he left. I’ve heard that was common. Doesn’t take the pain away.

Not having a clue as to how I could go on.  Daddy had become the center of my world.  I cooked meals and brought them over, mom wasn’t the cook. He had diabetes, the doctor that I had found told him that he could stay off of insulin by following a strict way of eating.  No meat, chicken once a week. That’s when I gave up meat, never did like chicken.  I became quiet the cook. We lived about 6 miles apart. Easy to create new dishes.  {my children weren’t thrilled with this new way of eating, I told them they were welcome to prepare their own meals.} 

Momma and I were kind to one another, yet, there was something in the back ground that seemed to be there, something that kept a thin wall where true love resides. 

It was about 4 or 5 months after Daddy died that I had a dream, “we, mom, dad were driving in a convertible, mom was sitting passenger, daddy in the back, his arms were resting on the backs of our seats, he whispered to me,  ‘Do you want to know why I left first,?’  YES.  ‘So you can have a relationship with your mother.’ The dream ended.  How the hell am I supposed to do that???

After Daddy died, there’s wasn’t any reason to stay close by.  My children were grown.  They didn’t need me.  I was going to go to India .  Instead I moved to Ojai California .  Something said I wasn’t to be that far away from my mother.

Daddy died in 1984,  mom lived alone in the house Daddy and Mom built, their dream home, she wasn’t going to leave it.  I agreed with her, she was ‘home’.

Years passed, we hadn’t gotten any closer. I would talk with Daddy, asking him to give me a clue, something, anything.  I could feel him smile, see those dimples in his cheeks.  He wouldn’t give me a sign of any kind.

1994,  ten years after Daddy left,  I’m driving over to moms, which I did every week, we would go out to lunch, we would go to the market, {she never drove}  the drive from Ojai was 80 miles.  She knew when I told her I would be there at noon , she could count on me being there.  Well, this day, traffic hadn’t allowed me to be on time,  arriving at 12:30 ,  she opened the door with such force, she said, “YOU’RE LATE.” The tone of her voice was harsh. I looked at her newly, I saw something in her eyes I hadn’t noticed, not ever, maybe because I hadn’t ever looked.  I said, “you were worried about me.”

“yes, yes I was.”  I stepped inside the house.  “Because you love me.” She said,  “Yes, Yes I do.”  We walked into one another arms, holding on for dear life, our bodies were trembling, the tears flowed. This is what Daddy was talking about.  This was IT.  I was given THE GIFT.

For the next three years, I had a new friend, my  Momma,  when I would come to have lunch with her, I didn’t rush off, we would play gin, watch her favorite TV programs.

I picked her up, she was coming to Ojai, filled my heart to have her with me there.

Sitting outside enjoying the country. Being with one another.

1997,  Momma passed away.  Grateful is a meek word for how I feel, that there’s joy knowing we had three fantastic years.  When we would walk, we held hands. I remember walking out of a restaurant, an elderly couple was walking in, seeing us holding hands, the women smiled, said, you are a lucky lady.  I smiled back, yes, yes in deed, you have no idea how lucky.

Of course hind sight is 20/20, everything that had been given to me was in preparation to what was to come. 

16^th Nov. ’05  

Ian Lungold passed away, his last words were,  “HOLD ME”. . .  he was so frail, holding him was like holding a small child.  He closed his eyes, took his last breath. . .  I suppose God was taking care of me, keeping me strong, or numb, not to sure which one.