Reflections on Life, Death, and Politics

What a year it has been. First of all, Ron and I are now married. Second of all, my father has died. 

These two events are not as disconnected as you might think, at least not in my emotional universe. Ron and Dad are the two most important men of my heart. My relationship with Dad shaped my relationship with Ron, in so many ways.

And all of this is intimately connected with my life in political dialogue.

After Dad’s ulcer surgery in February, he was diagnosed with stomach cancer in March. From there, his condition only got worse. We learned in June that his cancer was terminal, after we’d already sent out our wedding invitations.

And so it was that I found myself scrambling frantically through the typical pre-wedding mania—trying to finalize what felt like thousands of details and create a beautiful, meaningful, romantic ceremony, while often feeling irritable and the opposite of romantic as the pressure mounted—and simultaneously immersed in my father’s final days and weeks. I traveled back and forth between these two worlds, visiting Dad’s hospice center for weeks at a time and working remotely, then returning to Ron and the wedding madness in Madison, then back again.

With Dad it was quiet, patient, otherworldly. So many hours sitting by his bedside, or walking slowly beside him as he wheeled himself along, smoking from his wheelchair because he was too weak to walk. Or it was poignant, or even comical, as my sister, aunt, and I tried to glean meaning from the nonsensical things he said more and more, as he left us behind in a haze of medicated delirium.

It became impossible to write, or to think about politics. I stopped writing my memoir, unable to concentrate, and ramped up my hours at work again. I stopped blogging too. Scott, Carol, and Ron took over most of my Reach Out Wisconsin duties until I could pull my life back together.

It wasn’t just lack of time—my heart wasn’t in it. With these two major life events encompassing my world, studying the nuances of political issues couldn’t have been further from my mind.

Example: The day of the recall election in Wisconsin happened to be the day I learned that Dad’s cancer was terminal.

It was June 4th, and I was in Gainesville with Dad at the VA hospital where he was having surgery. They were going to remove his stomach that day, an organ I hadn’t known you could live without. His esophagus would be connected to his intestines, and hopefully, the cancer would be gone.

Early in the surgery, the doctor came to tell me they’d found nodes of cancer on Dad’s abdominal wall and his liver. The cancer was inoperable. And, as we had learned by now, chemotherapy was also not an option—Dad’s cancerous stomach couldn’t process the nutrition he desperately needed in order to withstand the ravages of chemo. The cancer was terminal.

As I left the hospital in the evening, exhausted and devastated, I began to receive text messages from friends. They didn’t know about Dad. They were texting because they’d just heard me on National Public Radio.

A couple days before I’d flown to Florida, Scott, Carol, Ron and I had been interviewed by NPR’s David Schaper for a piece on polarization in Wisconsin politics. It turned out that NPR’s plan was to air the piece today of all days, because it was the day of the recall.

Numbly, I wrote thank-yous to my friends, taking pains not to sound too exuberant myself. I wanted to somehow honor Dad—he was still lying unconscious in his dark hospital room. This type of juxtaposition would characterize the following months. I often had to shift quickly between happiness and tragedy, with as much grace as I could muster.

After I had called my family and delivered Dad’s awful news, I turned to the computer for distraction. My Facebook newsfeed was flooded with posts about the recall. The results weren’t in yet, but people from both sides were posting: about how Republicans’ evil voter ID laws were confusing the voters, or about how the Democrats were just an angry mob of union thugs and the “real” Wisconsin was speaking today.

In my grief-stricken haze, all these comments seemed so wasteful. Life felt so precious. It broke my heart to see people spending their time and energy so angry.

I felt compelled to write something uplifting:

Regardless of the outcome of today’s historic election, I’m so happy that Wisconsin will be entering a new phase of politics. This state has been through an incredible, challenging year and a half. On all sides, we’ve worked hard, been engaged citizens, fought with great passion (and earned some bruises!), and energized and inspired each other. Two notes of hope: 1) I’m proud to live in a country where this kind of tension can be expressed without violence. 2) What we do have in common is love of our state and care for its future (although we may disagree on how to shape it). I hope that we will move now towards healing.

I received some skepticism, but much encouragement, for the post.

All that has passed now. Walker was re-elected, but Obama was also re-elected just a couple weeks ago. For the first time in years, I feel relief about politics.

In late June, my sister brought Dad to Portland, Oregon, our hometown, to spend more time with her and me in his remaining months. Because he wouldn’t be able to make it to the wedding, we held a special ceremony with him in July. He walked me down the aisle, gave me and Ron hugs, watched us exchange vows of promise, and blessed us and our rings. It was a beautiful, powerful ceremony, held right in the garden of the hospice center.

Watching the video later, Dad said he was so happy he didn’t even envy those who would attend the ceremony in Madison. He called to congratulate me on the day of the wedding, in one of the last lucid conversations we were to have, and he passed away three weeks later.

My grief comes and goes. It hits when I least expect it, when I don’t have my defenses up. Much of the time, though, it does recede, allowing me space for color and happiness in my life.

And I’m acutely aware, as only the recently bereaved can be, of the tenuous nature of our existence on Earth. A year ago, Dad seemed healthy and strong, and there was no reason to expect we wouldn’t have 20 more years with him.

Because of this awareness, I see the world through a filter of gratitude. I marvel when plans I make are accomplished, knowing so many things are beyond our control. I revel in the simple pleasures of returning to normal. Ron and I can spend evenings relaxing together again. Our work project is almost finished, and I’m about to go back to writing my memoir. We’ve set up our kitchen with new gifts from our registry, and we once again have time to cook and eat healthy.

Our windowsill and shelves are filled with cards of congratulations and condolences, and pictures of Dad smile at us among them. Every day I wear a necklace from the museum where he worked in Florida, a blue square with a white egret painted on it. I miss him terribly, but I’m relieved that he is resting in peace.

I’m following and caring about politics again, though this year has softened me. Reach Out Wisconsin’s mission seems in some ways even more important now.

The media coverage of us has continued unabated, with more spots on public radio, in newspapers, and on local TV news. An excellent cover story came out about us recently in the Cap Times, the most in-depth story so far. It seems to point us towards where we need to go, what we can improve upon.

And yet, after everything, I feel the need to stay out of the public eye, to curl up into a ball for a while and replenish my thinned-out soul. Ron feels similarly; the year was a strain for him too. Scott and Carol are amazingly supportive. They’re keeping Reach Out Wisconsin going while Ron and I retreat; we’re attending forums but we aren’t as active in them. I am so grateful.

I’m not sure what I’ll do with this blog. I know I won’t be writing as often, anymore—I must focus on finishing my book, which is a year behind where I’d hoped.

But I’m glad the blog is here. Now that life is settling down, I feel the writing bubbling up from within me again. My muse politely napped while I poured my energy into Dad and the wedding. But she has awakened and the words are flowing out of me again, up into my mind’s ear, begging to be captured before they disappear into the ether.

I wrote the beginning of this post as I was biking to the library on voting day. I hopped off my bike, locked it with cold fingers, and whipped out my iPhone to hurriedly speak the words into the voice recorder before I lost them.

So the words are there. And when they come, and when I have the time or the urge is too great to ignore, I’ll send them out to you here.

In the meantime, as we walk through life, may we all tread gently and with gratitude. Happy Thanksgiving.