Gram and Adri in deep conversation, 2003 at Talahi

A little over eight years ago, on the Ides of March, 2017, my grandmother died. She was 96, yet it still was unexpected as she was healthy and her normal self, but at least she’d had a full and happy life. We were very close, each understanding and really knowing the other. I can count on less than one hand the number of people in my life who truly knew me and understood me, and she was one of them. My daughter was another, and maybe because of this it wasn’t surprising that my daughter and my grandmother, her great grandmother, were extremely close as well.

Adri often referred to my grandmother as her best friend. They’d talk often, little private confabs in person or the phone. She and her boys would go visit gram more often than I did towards the end. I was happy that two of my favorite people had such a strong connection.

So when my sister called that March 15 to tell me the bad news, I knew I had to go to Adri and tell her in person. I could not do it over the phone.

She opened the door and immediately knew something was wrong (maybe it’s not a surprise that I’m not great at hiding my emotions, for better or worse.) We were in the boys’ room and I struggled mightily to say the words that had to be said.
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“Grandma…,” I began, “Grandma….,” and then broke down.

She immediately hugged me and asked for verification, “Did grandma die?,” and I nodded and we both cried as we tried to escape the moment in our strong mutual embrace.

Suddenly she stopped. She ran out of the boys’ room and I heard her furtively going through something in the other room. She returned with a large baggy, and inside was a tangerine-colored crocheted blanket. She shoved it into my hands.

“Gram made this for me, and it smells like her, so I put it in this bag so the scent would never go away. Open it and smell it, you’ll see.”

My sense of smell is easily the weakest of my senses, and I never noticed or associated a scent with my grandmother, but I did as she suggested, opened the bag and smelled and was greeted immediately with my grandmother’s scent, something I hadn't even noticed my entire life consciously.

But Adrianna had, and she’d kept something so she could be near her great-grandmother whenever she wanted, whenever she needed her.

“Take it, dad, you keep it. You can smell her and be reminded whenever you want.”

“No, Adri, this is yours,” I replied. “It represents your special bond with her.”

But she wouldn’t have it. She insisted I take it home with me, so I did.

I still have the blanket, of course, but I don’t have anything that smells like Adrianna that can evoke thoughts and memories of her via scent. Each time I open the bag the scent seems to be weaker and weaker, but now each time I not only am reminded of my dear gram but also of my wonderfully empathetic daughter who was willing to give away this special remembrance of her great grandmother and friend to her grieving dad.

I love her so.

Mother's Day Balloon

Photo in background of Adri and Bryce by Emily Gianadda

My last Mother's Day gift to her was a box of Tiff's Treats with a hackneyed balloon that in retrospect I'm so glad I elected to include. She put it here on her fireplace mantel, where it still sits. At least she was able to see it for about 10 days.

The Sledge Hammer

I've had a bad couple of nights, when it's around 2 am or so when the realization hits me yet again that this is how it really is, and that no amount of wishing or hoping or begging will ever change that. In the darkness and stillness of that hour I wish and hope and beg into the void, anyway, in an effort to dispel the hopeless, helpless, powerless despair over never seeing her face or hearing her voice again.

This "sudden" realization has occurred thousands of times since the end of May, and yet each time it hits like a fresh wound, inexplicably arriving as a "new" revelation slamming into my body and soul like a sledge hammer, something that at this point I should expect be prepared for.

But I don't, and I am not.

 

The Coming of Autumn

5 months.

I'm a bit afraid of how I'll feel when the days fully turn to gloomy and dark autumn, a season that used to be my favorite growing up. Now, however, I'm fearful of how the symbolic nature of this time of year, with its death and endings, will affect me.

I had a preview a couple of days ago, when I awoke to mid-50 temperatures and a dark and blustery sky. Let's just say that this beta version, this dress rehearsal, did not bode well.

Then, when spring finally arrives with its rebirth and new beginnings, I know I'll think that's a fraud and also not be happy, because I'm contrary that way.

Oh well, what are you going to do.

Bedtime Reading

Books always were a major part of my life, the importance of reading always stressed when I was growing up not by lecturing but by modeling. Books were everywhere, shelves full of volumes that provided an escape to other worlds and cultures before the easy access to the internet we all have now.

My grandmother was an elementary school librarian, and she spend hours reading to me when I was young, favorites being the Curious George oeuvre.

We all had our own library card, and as soon as I was able I’d ride my bike to one of the local public library branches in my village after school and spend hours in the stacks before riding home again in the quickly approaching dark.

I’d unpack the books in my room and sit in my comfy chair for hours reading while listening to music, so much so that I wore out the carpet where my feet touched in front of the rocker that was my cockpit to other worlds.

When Adrianna was born, naturally reading was an important activity for her, and one that we shared together from the moment she could hold her head up on her own. When she was an infant and toddler, we’d read board books to her while she sat in our lap, her eyes bright with curiosity, taking in all the images from the page and listening intently to the words as we read them aloud to her.

Often, especially after repeated readings she’d reach out to the page to turn in to one that pleased her more, and we’d make a game of looking for otherwise unnoticed images and scenes in the background. I’d ask her questions about what we were looking at: colors, animal names, counting, whatever. She’d smile and laugh and want to immediately start from the beginning the moment the final page was turned.

When she was a bit older, four five six or seven, we’d read together as I attempted to lay her down for bed to transition to an activity she never wanted: the end of the day and bedtime. Here I’d have her sound out a word or two, and we’d talk in a bit more complexity about the plot with lots of “why” questions initiated by both of us.  These would be the larger picture books, so often with wonderful and amazing Caldecott Award winning illustrations.

During this time I’d often find her reading some of these books to Simba, her cat, or one of her dolls, or a meeting of several Barbies hanging out on her bed.

Later, when she was ten eleven or twelve the bedtime ritual would end with reading a chapter book, covering a chapter (and occasionally two) each night before finally turning out the light. Often during this era we’d take turns reading, depending on how tired she was, or how tired she was willing to admit she was. We’d save longer books for the summer, and we’d portion the pages out so the book would span her entire time with me.

Besides the bedtime reading of this era, she’d also plow through dozens of others that she had checked out using her Dallas library card. We’d go to the library at least twice a week a turnover of usually a have dozen or so books each time. Sometimes she’d be partaking in some summer reading program and receive stamp after stamp for each book read and we’d feast on the small personal pan pizza and Pizza Hut that was the most common reward, but usually she’d just read to read.

We read hundreds and hundreds of books together in this manner, but three stand out, one from each “era.”

1. Board book from infant/toddler era:

I am a Bunny, illustrated by Richard Scarry, written by Ole Risom

This was one of if not the first we’d read to her, a short little tale about Nicolas the Bunny with wonderful whimsical illustrations by Scarry. We read it so often the words were and are still seared into my brain. It began:

“I am a bunny. My name is Nicolas. I live in a hollow tree.”

Every page would have colorful illustrations, many depicting the different seasons, full of images to look at and marvel at. One of her favorite pages showed dozens and dozens of butterflies, and Adri would always linger here at all the beautiful colors.

Each page would have Nicolas somewhere, so the ritual would become me asking Adri after the page had been read, “Where’s the bunny?”, and then I’d wait for her to locate Nicolas and point to him.

The story concluded in winter:

“When winter comes, I watch the snow falling from the sky. Then I curl up in my hollow tree and dream about spring,” and she’d point to Nicolas as he drifted into dreamland.

2. Picture books, 4 – 7 years

Where the Wild Things Are, written and illustrated by Maurice Sendak

This book probably needs no introduction. It was a favorite of mine when I was that age, and it quickly became a favorite of Adri’s as well. We’d read it at bedtime, close the back cover, and then read it again. Often, we’d read it three times.

We loved Max. We loved his wolf suit. We loved the wild things and how they "roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws," and we loved how Sendak’s illustrations were full of whimsy and character. Even during all their "terrible" behavior, the beasts would appear smiling and unthreatening.

In the middle of the book there are three facing pages with no text, just great illustrations of the “wild rumpus” that Max and the beasts partake in. Adri loved the word “rumpus” here, and over the course of those pages we’d sing a song, nonsense syllables to the tune of “Tequila” (for some reason.) At one point we’d point out the bare human feet on one of the beasts and instead of shouting “Tequila!” we’d say, “I’ve got smelly feet!”

“Ba DUM ba da DUM da DUM dum… Ba DUM da da DUM da DUM… I’ve got smelly feet!”

I guess you had to be there.

And when Max finally returned home and found his supper waiting for him, we’d both say in unison,

“…and it was still hot.”

We couldn’t get enough of Sendak’s works and images. I still can’t.

A few years ago while working at Half Price Books I came across a beat-up copy of Where the Wild Things Are in the trash in the buy area, and I rescued it out of nostalgia for Adri's childhood as well as my own, and upon inspection discovered that it was inscribed by Sendak on the title page. I had it priced appropriately and immediately purchased it for Adri, planning on giving it to her when she was older with her own kids. I first wanted to get a dust jacket for it, but never did, and I never did give it to her. Time just slipped by when I wasn’t noticing. It’s a big regret.

3. Chapter books, 7 -10

Harriet the Spy, written and illustrated by Louise Fitzhugh

We read this wonderful book about eleven-year-old Harriet, a writer-in-training who keeps copious notebooks of observations of the neighborhood around her. The notebook eventually gets stolen, and Harriet uses various spy gadgets and techniques to get back at the kids who took her notebook.

Harriet is an outsider who has some close friends, who loves to write and is a keen observer of human behavior. Harriet as well as those of us reading this book learn the power of words, which can both hurt and heal.

We spent the entire summer reading this one when she was eight. She was happy to learn that keeping notebooks and such was not such an odd thing peculiar to just her, and she loved all the gadgets Harriet used, or “utensils” as Adri called them.

After we finished, we learned that a movie staring Michelle Trachtenberg was about to be released, and we of course had to go see it. As is often the case, the film did not capture or create the same kind of magic that reading the book together had over the course of that summer.

During the subsequent summer we read two follow ups, “Sport” and “The Long Secret,” but nothing could match the magic of the original.

...

I got other books for Adri that I’d give to her as Christmas and birthday presents, always trying to seek out the current and former Newbery Award winners which were almost always uniformly terrific. These included From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, It’s Like This, Cat, The View from Saturday, Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Summer of the Swans, and countless others.

Most of these she’d read on her own, and she loved them almost as much as I loved that she loved them, but the three I mention here will always represent and remind me of a special part of my daughter and her memory, of her life and our moments together, when the day had ended and the sun had set as we quietly bonded over words before falling asleep with hopeful dreams of another tomorrow to follow. 

 

Madame President

We were watching the season 4 premiere of The Diplomat, a Netflix political drama / thriller starring Keri Russell as a diplomat thrust into one international crisis after another. It’s fine, nothing spectacular, but entertaining. Slight spoilers follow.

The new episode features Allison Janney taking over the presidency after the death of the president, played by Michael McKean. While it was great seeing C.J. succeed Lenny like that, along with Felicity trying to navigate the new power dynamic created, it suddenly made me realize something that caused some emotional pain:

Adrianna will never get to see a woman elected President of the United States.

This realization may seem like nothing, but it broke me a bit. Adrianna wasn’t exactly political, but she was very empathetic and always on the side of those who might be forgotten, those without power, and in the politics of today that meant she only had a home in one particular political party. She didn’t rant and rave like I did/do, but all of the associated causes and worries and fears and triumphs and goals associated with that political ideology still were forefront for her.

And she was a woman full stop. A strong woman with fragile physical issues, but her determination and will and vision were a force to be reckoned with. We’d discussed the idea that a woman will one day finally be elected president, and the notion excited her, because such ideas and events should transcend politics, much in the manner that electing Obama, for a brief moment at least, helped raise up the entire nation. Even my father, an life-long strong conservative admitted to me after Obama’s inauguration in January 2009 that he felt a twinge of pride that we as a nation had elected a black man.

Of course that was short-lived, but for a moment in time…

Girls and women need such a moment, and I assume (hope?) it will come one day. Not as some token choice of a woman so we can finally mark that off our scorecard, but because she also just happened to be the best candidate. Hilary Clinton in 2016 was clearly that candidate; her gender was just a secondary added bonus for those of us who want to break that last glass ceiling, and I know Adri planned on voting for her.

But she will never live to see this happen. Her lifetime consisted of one where a girl could hope and dream to be president one day, but those hopes and dreams are not 270 electoral votes (though, of course, they can be a plurality of the popular vote.) I was crushed to realize that I live in a country that could not muster the support for the two women who ran against the current president, but could when a man ran against him. I hope that’s a coincidence.

And if I was crushed, I imagine the utter disappointment and despair felt by a large portion of the US women must have been of magnitudes greater.

Including Adrianna.

Moreover, this sudden realization during the viewing of a Netflix series was just a harsh reminder of all the things that Adri will miss and never see. There are little things, like never getting to ride in the new car we just got; consequential things, like seeing a woman elected president of this nation; and, of course, all-encompassing huge things, like seeing her sons graduate, get married, have children, and just make their places in life.

Me breaking down in tears because she won’t see a female president might have seemed a bit over-sensitive on my part, but it was just a harsh reminder of both where we are as a country and all the things she will miss because of a life cut short.

It just broke me a bit. Part fifty-six.

Memory Tree

 

Adri joins Aunt Elaine's memory tree

My Aunt Elaine has a memory tree (don't know what it's actually called, but that's what I'm calling it) of all the people she's lost. Her daughter, husband, two grandchildren,  my grandparents (her sister) and my great grand parents (her parents) are there, and now so is Adri, right at the end. 

It's wonderful and heartbreaking at the same time.

The Butterfly Effect and Detroit: Becoming Human

Credit: Quantic Dream - Quantic Dream

One of the ways I can get out of my brain is by playing a video game. The complete immersion afforded by a well-written and executed game works wonders, providing a break from the occasional dour, defeatist, or depressing thoughts that still arise daily. You surrender to the plot and become one with the game controller. Solve a puzzle or two, slay a zombie, sit through multiple cut scenes, and just like that two hours have gone by, which can be a good thing.

My most recent game experience has been Detroit: Become Human which I just finished yesterday. This game was originally released in 2018, and a few years later was available as one of the monthly included games that you can download for free if you’re a PlayStation Network subscriber. I get 99% of my games that way because I’m a cheapskate…. I mean, frugal.

It’s an adventure game that takes place in the near future where androids are ubiquitous, but often abused and treated as second-class citizens. There are three story lines that follow three different androids as they try to achieve some sort of freedom and recognition in order to live their lives with rights equal to humans.

The key hook of this game is that in each story line you are constantly confronted with choices to make. These may be dialogue choices, action choices, or plot-direction decisions, and each one of these choices creates a butterfly effect, a branching off of story and plot and outcome that you can view represented as a sort of flowchart showing the choices you made. And like the butterfly effect, these branches and bifurcations lead to a myriad of potential outcomes and plotlines that depend on the different ways you have chosen to proceed along the way.

Many games incorporate aspects of this idea where you are allowed multiple choices in different situations, but I’ve never played one that did it this well or fully. Usually, for example, you may meet a character who has something you need, let’s say a bag of corn, and you are given two choices such as:

“Steal the bag of corn” or “Attempt to barter for the bag of corn.”

Usually it makes no difference to the grand arch of the storyline, and worse, often it’s not really a free choice at all. You may opt to steal the corn, but then they fight you and won’t let you steal it, and then asks you if you want to barter for it. So… why did the game developer even bother with the pseudo-choice when there’s really only one outcome?

Here, the choices are a bit more consequential, with more than just two alternatives, and they’re not just dialogue choices. They’re often choices such as “do nothing,” “grab the crow bar,” “hide,” “run away,” and these end up being real choices which you can’t replay and change until you completely finish the game, at which point you can review all the various timeline bifurcations, offshoots, and branches. You can then replay a focal point and take a different path, but if you do so all the branches and directions of the plot and corresponding consequences that came after are erased and you won’t know what new outcome awaits you.

Some of the potential directions are dependent on physical choices: you may be in a situation where you are trying to escape some baddies and the screen will display various controller buttons and sequences that you must press quickly. You may have decided to sneak past some guards that are looking for rogue androids, but they spot you, and you must press “down joy stick”, and if you do in time then press “left trigger,” and if you succeed “right side button,” and if you succeed press “the triangle button”, and if you do all that quickly and accurately you scurry past them. But miss just one of those prompts and they clobber you and the plotline changes.

And you can’t reset and try again. The butterfly has been stomped and your direction is now set.

One of the storylines involves you playing as a young woman android in her mid-20s or so that has been purchased by a man to serve as a sort of nanny/maid for him and his young daughter, who’s about 8. It turns out he’s abusive, so you and the little girl escape and the rest of the game in this storyline involves you protecting this young girl as the two of you attempt to make your way to Canada, right across the river, where they value androids and treat them with equal rights. Along the way you have to make several moral as well as tactical decisions as you try to make your way to freedom. My branching led to the denouement where we attempt to get to Canada via a small boat, but other decisions may result in a bus trip.

My first playthrough resulted in the two of us getting to the Canadian shore, but then the little girl died in my arms after asking me, “Are we free now? Did we make it?” It was a heartbreaking conclusion to that storyline, so as soon as it ended I went to the menu where you could view each chapter’s decision and event trees and attempt to make changes.

Luckily it was the final chapter, so I didn’t have to redo much of that timeline. However, whatever I did, whatever different choices I made, the little girl still died. Sometimes she died before we crossed the river, but usually she’d die once we reached the Canadian shore. So I’d load up the game again and try something new.

Try to protect her in the boat from the ICE stand-ins who were shooting at us? Nope. Try to accelerate the boat past the guards shooting at us? Nope. Try to hide low in the boat so they don’t see us? Nope. Try to take a different route? Nope. Try talking to different people first? Nope. In every scenario usually the little girl would die. One time I got “lucky,” and the little girl survived, but I didn’t, and having her protector, her mother-stand in die at the shore, devastated her.

No matter the choices I made, no matter how hard I tried, I could not protect this little girl, I could not achieve a happy ending for her. I could not save her.

Maybe you see where this is going.

Unbelievably, somehow, I did not realize or notice that this was a metaphor for Adrianna. It was almost too on the nose, yet at the time it just didn’t click until I was talking to a friend of mine who’d played and recommended the game years ago, saying to him:

“No matter what I do I’m having trouble getting the little girl to survive.”

And when I read back what I had just texted to him, it did finally hit me and I realized why this game, at this moment, had captivated and held me, and why the original (and subsequent dozen or so other) ending devastated me.

Finally, however, after several tries and swatting different butterflies, making other choices and navigating the treacherous river full of danger and heartbreak, I successfully saved both the little girl and my character. She survived, and as you see the approaching headlights from an car in the storm, you know everything will be okay.

In reality, we only have one shot at this life. We can’t really go back and change decisions and hope for a better outcome. Knowing this can cause stress to people like me, because I was always trying to get it right but always fearing I wasn’t making the correct decision. As simplistic a metaphor for life as this game is, it still illustrates that even being allowed to replay an event with hindsight and foreknowledge of potential real future terrible outcomes, one still can’t assure success.

At the end of the day, maybe I should have tried to barter for that bag of corn, but I try not to beat myself up about that, and I try to remind myself that life is a multiplayer game in any event.

I just wish Adri and I had made it to Canada.

Just Breathe

Occasionally I’ll try to relax my body and quiet my brain in an attempt to grab a brief respite from the effects of my grief by methodically breathing in and out. This usually occurs at night when I’m lying in bed at night, the darkest part of the day for me, both literally and metaphorically.

I’ll close my eyes and concentrate on slowly taking in air, letting my lungs gradually fill while focusing on this basic act of respiration which allows me to shut out every other conscious thought.

I hold that breath for a second or so before then exhaling, slowly releasing the spent oxygen until my lungs empty, again totally concentrating on this process, just allowing myself to be.

I repeat this cycle three or four times, a sort of cleansing ritual for mind, body, and soul that gives me a small brief moment of peace.

Every so often, however, after exhaling I’ll just stop. I won’t immediately breath in, but rather just allow my lungs to remain empty. At this point my body won’t be fighting to regain oxygen because it hasn’t been deprived long enough.

I’ll lie there in total silence with no movement or sound. No gentle respiratory movements or calming sounds of exhalation. As the seconds pass the quiet peace brought about by this exercise will be broken, and my mind will naturally go to Adri.

I’ll imagine and think about her last breath, how this is how it was for her, that she exhaled air from her lungs and then never took another breath in, and at that moment, lying in the dark in bed at night, I want to do the same.

I’ll sit there in that state for longer than I would have imagined was possible. Quiet, desolate seconds that seem like hours pass while I think about how and why her life came to an end, but then I’ll snap out of it and breathe in again, finally giving in to the inevitable autonomic response as I inhale, taking in a breath that my daughter never did.

A somewhat dark little melodrama played out at night, the circle of life encapsulated and distilled into five minutes of attempted meditation, but on balance I think it does help.

Those seconds with empty lungs are extremely peaceful, if fleeting.

Our Whistle

I wanted a way to communicate with Adrianna when we were out in public, a way to say “Hey, I’m over here,” or “Where are you? It’s time to go,” or even “Just so you know I see what you’re doing, so keep that in mind,” etc. 

We came up with a whistle, a short little four-note motif that would voice the four syllables of her name: “Ahh – Dree – Ahh – Nah.” 

I don’t know where the melody came from, other than it sort of mimicked the natural lilt of how her name sounded pronounced when calling it out.

The whistle was great because even at a low volume it could cut through the din of a crowd and reach her ears. She would either say, “I’m here, daddy,” or she’d come to me. 

We might have been at Target and maybe I’d have turned my back for a second and then she wasn’t next to me, so I’d do the whistle and then invariably find her in one of her favorite spots, the shoe section.

Or, she might be in line about to go down a big slide at The Discovery Zone and I’d see her anxiously looking around for me to make sure I was watching her about to take the plunge, so I’d do the whistle. Her eyes would then find me sitting with the other parents and she’d smile.

We did it so much that my cockatiel at the time learned the whistle as well, and the smart bird would often do it whenever she entered the room.

It was a great way to communicate: better than a furtive wave from the crowd to get her attention, easier to hear and echolocate in a throng of other kids or a maze of shopping aisles. It was also our own secret little connection that we both loved.

When she was older, during those years from about 12 to 16 when she was still a child who needed her parents but also wanted to begin to display independence and not be treated “like a little kid,” the whistle was an unobtrusive thing that didn’t cause her embarrassment when she was with her friends. She knew I was looking for her, and she’d nonchalantly let me know where she was or come to me and no one else but the two of us were the wiser.

Four little notes that kept us connected.

I’ll let you in on a little secret: I did the whistle the morning that she left us, hoping that somehow she would hear me, letting her know where I was, hoping that she’d return but of course knowing she wouldn’t.

I like to imagine she’s too busy trying on some shoes to hear me right away.

But hopefully one day.