This will be the final post

At 2:00am on October 2nd, 2016 Naomi Beth Sichler died peacefully at home surrounded by her family.

We were both always floored at the effect this little public notepad could have on others, and have been overwhelmed with the support we received over the years. We always wondered why people were so interested in the way we lived our lives together, when to us, we were just trying to enjoy each other.

I have so many thank you’s to deliver due to the expansive amount of help and love we have received, that I am bound to miss a few, but know that we could not have loved each other and lived so richly had it not been for the help of so many. Naomi always reminded me that people seemed to run towards us, not away, when they found out about her diagnosis. In this way we were lucky, unfortunately, this is not always the case.

First off, thank you to Skirball Hospice for providing some of the finest care imaginable during this time. Your professionalism and compassion instilled confidence and peace. The constant calls and texts from nurses not even on duty, shows how much you all truly care. Your presence during our time of need allowed, and even made possible, a beautiful end to Naomi’s journey with us.

Thank you Compassion & Choices for being such strong advocates for the terminally ill. Although Naomi chose not to take the aid-in-dying medication, the relief it brought her to know it was an option is something all terminally ill patients should be able to feel.

Thank you to our team at UCLA. Despite Naomi being a USC Trojan, she didn’t trust anyone else with her care. Dr. Nghiemphu, Nanette, Tom, and Cheryl, you all made us feel that you cared about us as people, not just patients.

Thank you to everyone who came out of the woodwork to show us support in the form of cards, flowers, clothes and blankets, rides to doctor’s appointments, food deliveries, and apartments to stay in for family members from out of town. This list is larger than the internet, but thank you all.

To my family – Thank you for accepting Naomi as a daughter and sister. She got unfathomable joy from knowing her family had doubled. Thank you for helping us enjoy the small moments in life through cards, books, and many other actions that let us know you were thinking of us. Thank you for instilling my sense of family, compassion, humility, and caring that helped me provide Naomi with strength when it was needed.

Thank you to Naomi’s family. Eleanor, John, and Tim my heart goes out to you. You were the fortunate ones who knew Naomi the longest. Thank you for raising and supporting the most authentic, strong, loving and thoughtful woman I ever met. Eleanor – Thank you from every inch of my soul for putting your life on hold on numerous occasions to help us maneuver our way through this disease. Thank you for your positivity. Thank you for supporting me as well over all these years. The expansiveness of your love knows no bounds. John – Thank you for being such a steady presence at all times. I know Naomi’s calmness in the face of adversity came from you. Tim – Thank you for your unflinching loyalty, friendship, and comfort to not only Naomi but to me. You and Naomi were always looking out for each other and shared a relationship that she treasured like none other. I am truly blessed to have you all in my life. Knowing that Naomi’s blood runs through you brings me much needed solace.

Thank you to our friends. Vast barely describes this list and the amount of thank you’s to include here so I’ll keep things general. Your words and actions have left me astonished, and floored as to how we could be so lucky to have such amazing people in our lives. Thank you all for helping us have a good life worth living. We are forever thankful for your generosity, loyalty, shoulders to cry on, hands to hold, firm hugs, smiles shared, heartbreaks comforted, and celebrations together. I have no doubt we will carry on Naomi’s legacy together.

Lastly, thank you Naomi, for pouring your soul into this blog and into our relationship. Your openness and authenticity shined through in all that you did. Thank you for getting the broom out and helping me sweep up the pieces of my shattered life. Thank you for taking a chance with me and milking every ounce of love out of our all-too-brief time together. Thank you for pushing me to be a better person; the best version of me. Thank you for being fearless and honest. You have made an irreversible impression on my being. Every step I take in this life will be made with you. I am left with a void the size of the universe in my heart, but I thank you for bringing such amazing people into my life to help me grow around that void. Thank you for bringing me way more than net-joy. I love you.

We are all Naomi’s brain,

Mike

Memorial Service Details

Anyone who has been impacted by Naomi’s journey is welcome to attend a memorial service celebrating her life.

Date: October 30, 2016

Time: 12-3pm

Location: Ahmenson Senior Center at Expo Park

Parking: There is limited free parking on S. Park Dr, but many available lot and metered spots on the streets surrounding the center (Bill Robertson Ln and Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd).

Donations: If you would like to send a gift or condolences, here are two organizations that provided us guidance and information that was paramount in our navigation of this disease.

Simms/Mann Center for Integrated Oncology

Cancer Support Community – Benjamin Center

Our union 

Yesterday, I asked a friend who has experienced the grief that accompanies the loss of a spouse if she had any pearls of wisdom to share, and she shared this beautiful poem with me. How fortunate I am to have experienced this type of union during my time on earth!

Our union is like this: You feel cold, so I reach for a blanket to cover our shivering feet. / A hunger comes into your body, so I run to my garden and start digging potatoes. / You asked for a few words of comfort and guidance, and I quickly kneel by your side offering you a whole book as a gift. / You ache with loneliness one night so much you weep, and I say here is a rope, tie it around me, I will be your companion for life. -Hafiz

Grief: the price you pay for love 

My mother-in-law, Pam, texted me yesterday to ask if Mike and I are doing okay. She acknowledged how difficult that question must be to answer right now. My response to her is below and provides context for the touching quote she shared with me in return. 

We are doing okay. Or at least I can say I’m doing okay. Don’t want to speak for Mike. Last week I was pretty emotional but it was good to see my brother over the weekend and I had a good day today. I’m making progress on my project, which feels great. Of course I think it’s healthy to grieve and mourn too. We’re both losing so much. We are just trying to strike the right balance between honoring those emotions and enjoying each other and the time we do have together. 

Grief is not a disorder, a disease, or a sign of weakness.

It is an emotional necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve. 

– Dr. Earl A. Grollman

the light of the world

Mike and I just finished The Light of the World: A Memoir, by poet and essayist Elizabeth Alexander. The book is written in the most heartbreakingly beautiful prose I have ever had the privilege of reading, and I recommend it most wholeheartedly. Elizabeth lost her husband, Eritrean-American chef and artist Ficre Ghebreyesus, to a sudden heart attack in 2012. This tender series of vignettes is as much a celebration Ficre and Elizabeth’s extraordinary love — not just for each other but for their sons, their families of birth and choice, and their African-American culture — as it is a deeply intimate sharing of the grief that accompanies the loss of a beloved spouse.

We took turns reading the book aloud, and — more often than not — I had to cede my turn to Mike because I couldn’t read through the tears. Tears of sadness, yes, grief for myself and (even more) for Mike, whom I wouldn’t trade places with for the world. But also, tears of joy and gratitude that we’ve shared the same luminous, transformative love as Elizabeth and Ficre, a love that has touched and molded our lives as individuals and as a couple — and has rippled outward in concentric circles through lives of our families, our friends, our acquaintances, and even people we barely know. Tears of appreciation, too, for the the opportunity to have found and read this transcendent work of art and to know that its beauty will remain and touch others long after I’m gone. If something I write can make a fraction of the impact on someone else this book made on me, I’ll feel like I’ve truly accomplished something as a writer.

Ficre’s own words from a 2000 artist’s statement capture the power of art in discovering and defining oneself:

I started painting ten years ago, but I suspect I have been metaphorically doing so all my life.  When I started painting, I just did it.  I had never felt a stronger urge.  The pieces that flowed out of me were very painful and direct.  They had to do with the suffering, persecution, and subsequent psychological dilemmas I endured before and after becoming a young refugee from the Independence War (1961-1991) in my natal home of Eritrea, East Africa. Painting was the miracle, the final act of defiance through which I exorcised the pain and reclaimed my sense of place, my moral compass, and my love for life.

For Elizabeth, her medium is clearly language. Here are just a few of the passages that touched me:

How many times that day and in following days and weeks and months did I say “my husband.” My husband died unexpectedly. I just lost my husband. Lost implies we are looking, he might be found. I lost my husband. Where is he? I often wonder. As I set out on some small adventure, some new place, somewhere he does not know, I think, I must call him, think, I must tell him, think, What would he think? Think what he thinks. Know what he thinks.

Now I know for sure the soul is an evanescent thing and the body is its temporary container, because I saw it. I saw the body with the soul in it, I saw the body with the soul leaving, and I saw the body with the soul gone.

Each of us made it possible for the other. We got something done. Each believed in the other unsurpassingly. In all marriages there is struggle and ours was no different in that regard. But we always came to the other shore, dusted off, and said, There you are, my love.

Oh my darling, where did you go? How powerfully I feel you are somewhere, but not here. You come to me in another dream with a missing tooth and an unfamiliar red jacket…Do you make friends and have companions where you are? I thought all you needed was us.

As Elizabeth moves forward with her life, she writes powerfully about her proximity to death.

Death sits in the comfortable chair in the corner of my new bedroom, smoking a cigarette. It is a he, sinuous and sleek, wearing a felt brimmed hat. He is there when I wake in the middle of the night, sitting quietly, his smoke a visible curl in the New York lights that come in between the venetian blind slats.

At first I am startled to see him. He sits so near, is so at home. But he doesn’t move toward me, he simply co-habits. And so, eventually, I return to sleep. He isn’t going anywhere, but he isn’t going to take me, either. In the morning, the chair is empty.

Which is stronger, death sitting in the corner, or life in New York City? Death, or my teenage sons, sleeping profoundly in the next room, growing overnight? “I love plans!” my new friend Esther exults, and so do I, for nowadays I feel like plans are all that stands between me and the end of my life. I’m not going to die overnight because next Wednesday, I am going with Esther to see an auction of nineteenth-century American documents at Swann Galleries. I’m not going to die tonight because I already took the chicken out of the freezer and Simon loves roast chicken and rice for dinner, and I promised him I would make it. I’m not going to die tonight because on Saturday Farah and I are bundling up and going for a walk against the blustery winds along the river, to continue the conversation we began almost thirty years ago when we were both in graduate school, before I even knew my beloved Ficre.

I’ve already revisited this passage repeatedly and expect I’ll continue to do so as I contemplate my own proximity to death and the tenuous hold I have on life. I’m making plans, too. I feel quite certain I’ll be able to make it to the joint birthday celebration Mike and I have planned with our friends on June 18 (an outdoor screening of Indiana Jones in a Culver City park), and on a little getaway to Topanga Canyon the following weekend for Mike’s 32nd, and probably to the 4th of July get-together at the Merendino/Williams pad in Pasadena. But the flight we booked to Nashville for Kate and Rob’s wedding in October? Death may have come for me by then, and my plans aren’t going to stop him.