The Up Series Final Entry

In 1964 a British documentary was released called Seven Up! which followed a group of seven-year-olds from different social strata and backgrounds in Britain at that time. Fourteen children were selected, found by Michael Apted, whose initial role was just that, research assistant.

He was asked to find children in the extremes of the different social classes in the 1960s. There are boys from a pre-preparatory school from wealthy families, three girls from a primary school in the working-class area of East London, a couple of boys from an orphanage, a boy from a rural area of Yorkshire, a couple of boys from a middle-class area near Liverpool, and a few others spanning the gamut of class in England.

The producers intended it to be a one-off, a “glimpse” into the possible Britain in the future Year 2000. They wanted to see how ingrained these social classes really were, if the first seven years of one’s life shape and define that person’s character, values, and habits.

Their stated theme and repeated motif being the perhaps overly fatalistic and deterministic

“Give me a child until he is seven and I will show you the man”

Seven years later they decided to do a follow-up, with Apted as the director. 7 Plus Seven checked in with the children to see what they were up to now, and its success led to the ambitious goal of revisiting them every seven years: 21 Up followed, then 28 Up, 35 Up, 42 Up, 49 Up, 56 Up, 63 Up, and just recently the final chapter, 70 Up.

Since it was not originally intended to be a series, none of the children were signed to long-term contracts and it was often a challenge to get all of them to keep participating. Some refused to participate after the first few, some were absent for a couple of entries and then returned, and of course some passed away, including Michael Apted himself between 63 and 70.

Of course there are some issues with all of this. Apted isn’t a disassociated biographer, he inserts himself, and some of the participants claim that he molded the story arc he wanted via selective edits and focuses. To his credit, however, Apted acknowledges this both on and off camera. There are segments in the film where some of the participants take him to task about this, and these interactions are included in the films.

Revisiting them all every seven years was always a treat. It was so interesting watching them grow up and take their place in the world, but of course there was often heartache and a sense of melancholy at broken dreams or just witnessing the relentless march of time. Not all ended up where they hoped they would, but surprisingly many did. Some of the rich boys in pre-prep talk about their intended life arc, including which primary, secondary, and universities they would attend along with their proposed areas of study, and all tracked almost exactly.

But we also have to see the development of mental illness, or the breakup of relationships, and of course death. And with each passing entry the jump cuts showing them age in blocks of seven years gets more and more jarring.

This is life captured 24 frames a second once every seven years over lifetimes. Fleeting, exhilarating, yet heartbreaking at the same time.

When I’d watch these films every seven years, I’d imagine what Adrianna’s life would look like presented in this manner, two-hour slices presented once every seven years. As it turns out, her last would have been 35 Up, and really, each of the seven-year points would have been an interesting representation of where she was in her life.

At seven, still my little girl, full of hope and wonder, everything ahead of her with no boundaries or limits.

At fourteen, the beginnings of the metamorphosis into adulthood, with all the rebellion and battles for independence and autonomy that that age usually brings.

At twenty-one, her struggles to decide what to do with the rest of her life, how to proceed.

At twenty-eight, being a new mother with two toddlers as her charge, her raison d’être, her everything.

At thirty-five, her continuing struggle with self-esteem, sense of worth, and mental health.

Such condensation isn’t really fair, of course. So much of life is and was lived between each of those seven years, and of course the same can be said for the participants of the Up series. And, especially in my daughter’s case, the sense of melancholy is amplified and pushed more into focus.

Such hopes, such dreams, and then a life that comes and goes in an instant.

It’s no wonder, then, that watching the intro to 70 Up last night I was overcome, yet again, with the loss of Adrianna.

I saw parts of Adri in many of the participants: Neil’s mental health issues, Bruce’s sense of social justice, Suzy’s sense of alienation, the working-class girls’ sense of adventure, and Nick’s intellectual curiosity, to name just a few.

This will be the final entry in the Up series. Several participants have passed away as has director Michael Apted. They are all seventy now. They have lived their lives, for better or worse, and the whole world watched as they did so, for better or worse.

Still, the series has come to an end, and the symbolism isn’t lost on me. Unfortunately.

I am and continue to be devastated that Adri didn’t get to live her whole expected life, for better or worse, with me by her side, for better or worse.

September 11th

Adrianna was in 8th grade twenty-five years ago, the morning of September 11, 2001. She told me that another teacher opened the classroom door, crying, and went to talk to her teacher, who then also started crying. She and her classmates didn't know what was going on, of course. 

She said the two teachers kept it together as best as they could so as not to freak out the class, but told them that something was happening and explained what had happened so far (the second plane at this point.)

I can't imagine how that affected ones so young and vulnerable, the veneer of safety and security ripped away like a bandage exposing an open wound, awakening and exposing a precarious reality subjected to the whims of a few dangerous individuals. 

Things were never the same for any of us, but for the children just coming of age, I'm sure it was several fold worse.

My generation practiced duck and cover drills in elementary school, but we never really knew exactly why, and we certainly never saw our teachers crying in the hallway after an attack on our country and our innocence 

Just Breathe

This song. 

When Pearl Jam released this song in 2009, I had begun to see breaks in fissures in Adrianna's life. This song seemed to manifest itself as my own personal lament, a glimpse into a future brought on by my overly-fatalistic view of life, chance, and destiny.

And now, of course, it's a song that just destroys me. So do I avoid it? Of course not. It's a beautiful song that reminds me of a beautiful yet ephemeral life, and I will not look away no matter how much it hurts.

Quantum Immortality

I’ll let you all in on a little secret: I’m having a hard time getting over the loss of Adrianna. No! It’s true. I hide it well, so this probably comes as a shock to most of you. 

“Wow, he acts totally at peace and has clearly moved on,” you counter, but hear me out: I struggle. 

(See, there are many forms of denial. 😉)

Anyway, I’m constantly in search of coping mechanisms and strategies to make myself feel better, to ease those vestiges of pain that I obviously conceal so well. Writing, video games, little arts and crafts projects for the boys, getting deep into my lifelong study of prestidigitation, music, obtaining and wearing rings or a bracelet connected to her, posting a pic of her each day, performing reembrace ceremonies, et al. 

Then there are the more specific mental gymnastics that I often employ which work at first but then gradually lose their effectiveness. These include but are not limited to focusing on the good her organ donation did and continues to do, or letting myself at least contemplate that none of this real (either a long nightmare from which I’ll soon awake or that we’re all part of some virtual reality,) or flirting with the idea that there is an afterlife, or embracing the fact that every life is too short and that at least she for the most part lived it to the fullest, or seeing that her essence lives on in her boys, along with a slew of other thought patterns that have at least temporarily provided some much-needed balm to my bruised soul.

But eventually, like any other drug, I become immune to its effects, inured to its calming results, a victim of pseudo-sensory adaptation. 

And then the search begins again for a new soothing mechanism.

Recently, I’ve hit upon something new: Quantum immortality.

Now, I’ve sort of talked about this before at least sideways in something I wrote a year or so ago about imagining that in a different life Adri was on her patio drinking coffee in the morning, living her best life with family, fulfilling job, and dog. I tried to make it clear then that I meant this literally; it wasn’t simply some wistful contemplation, I really believe there is such a happy reality, one of several in the multiverse, but that I (and by extension you as well, dear reader) am trapped in a different one, in a universe that no longer includes Adrianna as a sentient consciousness. 

However, while I knew of the theory of multiverses from a quantum physics, I didn’t think deeply of the implications for human consciousness or that it actually had a defined term, the aforementioned quantum immortality.

Basically, the multiverse exists because each time we make a choice or a seemingly random event occurs, our universe bifurcates into two: one where, for example, we decided to go to an Italian restaurant last night, and one where instead we went to an Indian restaurant.

Both exist, or rather both come into existence once the decision is made, once the event happens. In this one, the cat in the box is alive. In that other one… well, it’s better not to ask.

So quantum immortality says that in the universe we find ourselves in right now, we’ve survived many possible deaths. Every time there was an event that might have ended your life, reality branched off in a different direction. In one reality, the one where you survive, your consciousness continues. In the other, the one where you died, there is of course no more consciousness. 

Your consciousness, the “you,” lives on and keeps going forward in those branches where you survive. The near-fatal car crash, the brush with some illness, the hard tumble you took down the stairs… you, the person here in this universe, survived them all.

But in the other branches your friends and family see a much worse result. To those stuck in those realities/universes it appears that you are gone, your consciousness and life ended and are gone for good.

But your consciousness of course did not end, it just migrated to a different universe, the one where (at least to this point) you are a survivor.

You can’t die; you just shift multiverses and carry on. Your consciousness across the multiverse is immortal.

This makes sense to me on a at least a metaphysical level, and if we ignore the possible arguments against the multiverse which involve problems concerning the conservation of matter and entropy, I can also embrace it “scientifically.”  

For now, I’ll think of Adrianna, or at least her consciousness, still alive and part of the world. And sure, it’s not optimal that this isn’t also my world, but I have to take what little victories over pain that I can get.

Perhaps we really are immortal.

 

Karen Carpenter

 

When Adri turned 33 and had outlived Karen Carpenter, I felt a sense of relief. It's easy to think of eating disorders as a teenage disease, one that you grow out of in time, but I knew differently. This awareness came via my exposure and knowledge learned in my psych degree, yes, but also because of Karen Carpenter.

"She was 32 years old? Really? That seems old to still be battling an ED," etc. etc.

But with the birth of her kids and making it past what I hoped was an upper-limit age marker I had some optimism, and indeed things seemed better in the early part of the decade preceding her passing.

She looked healthier, her pregnancies were non-eventful. She glowed and gained the appropriate amount of weight. When I hugged her, it didn’t feel as if she would break into a million pieces. But the destructive thoughts were always still just under the surface, and food insecurity resulting from her economic situation never helped.

The beginning of the pandemic actually helped her in this regard. The increase in SNAP benefits as well as the stimulus checks received took away much of that food insecurity. Instead of having to make a meager amount of groceries stretch among a family of four and doing without herself, she was able to have a normal amount of food on hand. And what’s more, the extra money meant she could afford to buy healthier stuff such as more fresh produce.

It was at once heartening to me to see this, but also heartbreaking, because the implication seemed to be that perhaps it was all a function of food insecurity and not an ED, which somehow made it worse.

However, the increased funding of SNAP as well as the cash payments to millions during the pandemic came to an end; there was not enough political will to keep it up. The clash of political ideologies and their opposing priorities have real-world effects: tax cuts, wall building, and aircraft carriers became more important than raising millions of kids and their families out of poverty.

Once that Grand Experiment ended, I noticed a change in Adri physically: she was getting thinner, her hair lost its luster, her teeth worse. She suggested by omission and context that not only was there just less food again but that her ED behavior had returned. I started sending a box of food every other week that was fruit and veggie forward, with foods that would help her such as avocados. Her granny sent her nutrition drinks as well, that I would stress needed to be a meal supplement and not a meal replacement. She would take prenatal vitamins. But still.

Of course there were other contributing factors, a heart issue unrelated to behavior, alcohol issues, and various challenges (some self-inflicted, some not) that didn’t help.

In the end, Karen Carpenter made it 32 years, but died of heart failure brought upon by her eating disorder, and there should have been no reason for me to hang onto that age number like it was some magic goal line, that once crossed and surpassed I could worry a bit less.

This is not a disease that you simply grow out of.

Here’s a text from Adri sent in 2019 that illustrates much of this:

12/19/2019 8:31:15 PM

And I always wanted be counselor or psychologist. Always. So I’m doing that. I’ll get a grant and financial aid, and I can only get so much, so I don’t want to waste it.

Also, I’m old.

And I am worn out.

I can’t believe what all I have done to myself. It makes me so sad that I didn’t see that I was gorgeous, but I didn’t think I was pretty.

And I couldn’t see it, and I turned myself into the person I saw, and now I am ugly.

And worn out.

And makes me sad. Like so, so sad.

So I really, really want to try and help people before it’s too late. Suck it up show them before and after picture and tell them the truth so that my mistakes weren’t for nothing.

Maybe they were to save a life

Anyway, here are The Carpenters playing one of my favorite songs from their oeuvre, featuring Karen herself on the drum kit.

Bath Time

Post-bath, 1988

She always loved baths. The last years of her life that would be her one time to be alone and decompress, soaking in the tub listening to music as she got a brief respite from meal prep and the boys' homework and cleaning and laundry and paying bills and planning the monthly budget and the general state of the world.

For an all-too brief half an hour or so she’d let go off all that. The boys might occasionally interrupt her temporary sanctuary, asking her to settle some brotherly dispute or for help with finding a toy. They’d ask her how much longer she’d be in there and if she could make them a snack when she got out. But she’d let the warm water wash all that away, and she’d have herself to herself if only for a moment. 

When she was done, she’d jump right back in to mother mode, her batteries charged a bit with the aura of contentment and peace surrounding and protecting her for the rest of the evening.

Not too different from mothers all over since the dawn of time, of course, but I’m thankful that she could at times enjoy life and feel alive in a good way. 

Becoming an Old Man

Things are not changing. Every morning I wake hope hoping for a millisecond that this was just a bad dream. Maybe the only way forward is to become complacent and just forget, but I don't want that, either. 

One of the first things I said to Cindy that morning was, "I don't want to become an old man without her," which I still think is an odd thought to arise then, and pretty selfish as well.

Of course I had other thoughts before that and a million since, but I still think about that and why that notion came to the forefront so quickly.

The instant I knew she was gone I instantly saw the rest of my life spread out in front of me, a sort of reverse "life-flashing-before-one's-eyes" moment, that trope you often hear when someone escapes a near-death accident. 

It’s hard to even talk about, because I’m always afraid that it might come across as being dismissive of the people that are still in my life, but that is not the case, of course. 

It’s not that the life that lies ahead of me is now meaningless and empty, but it is less full. I’ll never be lonely and don’t fear loneliness, but I will be lonelier. I’m lucky to have the love of Cindy and family and friends and to love them all as well, but yet, still, a part of my heart has been ablated with the loss of Adrianna.

I hope those important to me understand all of that.

And yet, fourteen and a half months later, I still don’t want to become an old man without her.

Self-Plagiarism

A couple of days ago I picked up the guitar that sits ready in its stand next to me in the office for the first time in a long time. Months. Maybe a couple ofyears, even.

After giving it a tune I started toying around the fretboard, and just like the Old Days a structure formed, a proto-song, something that has not risen from my consciousness in a long time, the result of an atrophied creative center in my brain. Or just exhaustion.

The song gained more form, a chord progression, rhythm, and melody, so I hit record on my phone's audio app and took it down.

I liked how it sounded, melancholy yet not falling into oversentimental schmaltziness.

But when I played it back it sounded familiar somehow, and then I realized that I had plagiarized myself: It was almost exactly the bridge from one of my old songs about Adrianna.

It was irritating and disappointing, and I wondered how often this happened to real songwriters. I mean, there are only so many notes and just your own personal psyche that provides a filter to facilitate their birth.

Cindy said that of course, it happens all the time, and occasionally on the same album, which I found funny, but true.

CompuServe and the Nostalgia Trap

 

I've been watching a few videos on YouTube from Techdistrict, a channel that specializes in little documentaries on the rise and fall of early tech giants. Examples include AOL, Sun Microsystems, Gateway, Netscape, RadioShack, etc. 

They are very interesting if annoyingly "narrated" by AI journeys. It's so amazing that companies that were once so large and towering, both in market cap and social/cultural significance, can somehow wither away into nothing. It's often a study in hubris and not being able to recognize which way the winds were blowing.

However, it also reinforced something that I've noticed as a biproduct of Adrianna's loss: Nostalgic dalliances are much more painful for me now.

Today I watched their video about CompuServe,  and it was cool to see images of the simple startup page that would greet you after waiting for a successful modem handshake and connection a little discordant song that would fill me with anticipation of what was to come, what was to be discovered. Who was to be discovered.

The GUI was rendered in 8-bit 256-color image files that formed little buttons, each tantalizingly beckoning you to check out the new worlds just a click away: news, sports, travel, games, and the internet, curated experiences each represented with simple art and basic colors.

Much of it was a walled-off area that wasn't even truly "the internet" at all. That, after all, was its own separate gateway, its own separate area that might has well have been the Wild West.

There was email, too, though at that point you could only email other CompuServe users, whose usernames were composed of a five-digit number followed by a comma and then four other digits.

"I am not a number, I am a human being!" indeed, but that was what we had. I can't remember mine or find any reference to it, but I do know it started with a 7...

You'd pay by the hour which was metered by the minute, but we were glad to have it. Seeing these images again and remembering that time in my life hit me hard. So much was ahead, and anything was possible. I knew that soon I'd be able to talk to my daughter and others no matter where they were in the world, and I couldn't wait for that opportunity.

The tech was moving so fast, and I was along for the ride loving every minute of it.

Soon the pay model changed to unlimited time for a set amount per month, and that was that. Then AIM and other instant messengers. And newsgroups. And webspace like GeoCities. The always on internet that didn’t require a dial-up via DSL, cable modems, T1 lines and finally fiber optic.

But at the start for me, in the early to mid-90s, there was CompuServe. And there was Adri.

Part of me irrationally wants to go back to that era, to a pseudo-"simpler time," where just the notion of getting real-time news updates and being able to view the artwork at the Louvre from my apartment desk at 3am in the morning was just so wonderful. Where I could make contact with friends from childhood that I hadn't spoken to in decades.

Where Adri was alive and thriving. Where Adri had decades still ahead of her. Where technology promised to bring us all together.

Where little things were taken for granted but eventually slipped away forever.

Where time was static.

I'd give almost anything to be there again, to live it all over again with her.

The Accidental Shoplifter

I’d always take Adrianna grocery shopping with me, and when she was little she'd sit in the cart on that little seat provided for just such situations, facing me, her little legs dangling, her eyes darting everywhere taking everything in while her hands tried to grab everything within reach as I maneuvered through the aisles.

I’d have to pay attention and try to situate the cart so she couldn’t actually reach anything, but she was a determined young girl. If I tarried too long looking at nutritional labels and cost per ounce signage as I tried to decide on which can of condensed soup to purchase, she’d stretch as far as she could to reach a jar of brightly colored this or that, and if that meant she had to stand up in the cart seat to do so, so be it.

I had to be ever-vigilant, and when I’d stop her from grabbing a huge jar of deviled eggs or something she’d pout and scowl and squabble at me in anger and frustration. She didn’t’ go quietly; she didn’t appreciate being thwarted in her endeavors to touch and grab and hold the entirely of the grocery store in her sticky little fingers.

She was skillful, and moreover if she ever was able to successfully nab her quarry, she did not allow it to be released back into the wild without a fight. Her hands would become iron vises with a strength and fortitude greatly out of proportion to her diminutive size.

There was often a huge endcap full of large brightly—colored inflated balls apparently staged and displayed just to frustrate parents with children like mine. I’d try to move quickly past them while distracting Adri, but she of course became adept at grabbing one of these from the dispenser, anyway.

Often when this happened I’d just give up for a bit and make the best of it, knowing that if I let her hold that ball during the remainder of our grocery shopping the rest of the jars and cans and bottles would be safe. The ball would sate her; she’d hold it and talk to it and ignore that jar of deviled eggs sitting so tantalizingly close to her pudgy little hands, and I’d return the ball to its display right before we checked out.

Problem solved.

But sometimes she’d grab the ball and I wouldn’t even notice. I would be too busy checking the expiration date of a jar of artichokes or something and not even notice the spoils of her hunt.

One day, after we’d checked out, paid for the groceries, and made our way to the car to unload, I noticed she was still clutching one the large balls defiantly against her chest with a big bear hug. She was maybe 18 months old, but I swear there was an expression on her face that can only be described as smugness that seemed to proudly proclaim,

“Ha ha, daddy, look what I got!" 

The groceries were already in the trunk; she and the ball were all that remained. I made a half-hearted effort to take the ball away from her and return it to the store but was met with iron vices and a pair of lungs that could scream to alert all of North Austin.

I gave up and gave in, but told myself that I’d pay for a ball the next time we went shopping.

I have no idea if I did or not. But my intentions were good.