Tag Archives: Cranes

Into the Light

Our 1,000 cranes

I realize that I have a tendency to reflect a lot here, but the point of the blog, when I started it, was to give voice to things I just didn’t have the ability or the company to say out loud.  I didn’t go to therapy, I know everything I’m going through, or seem to know.  I know what I feel guilty about.  I know what I loved about my wife.  I know how hard the last year and a half have been, I didn’t really need anyone to tell me how it wasn’t going to be easy.  I knew my kids might need it, and some did.  I knew they needed me to be less the gruff, hardened Dad and soften more than I normally might have been.

But there is light.  The reason this whole blog didn’t start until October . . . when Andrea passed in March . . . was because I wasn’t sure I was seeing any of the light.  I had four kids and I loved them more than anything.  I needed to get to the point where I was in a routine and able to take care of them.  I started when the routine started to settle and I realized that I still hadn’t come fully through the veil of grief that had enveloped me.

The other reason is that we had fallen so far that I didn’t think it was possible to get back up.  The dark was black as ink and I was nearly swallowed by the deep pull of it.  It’s easy to fall into that place, it really is.  Just losing your wife can be the worst thing in the world.  I lost her, our home, was facing a pay cut, was facing moving out of California in order to survive.  I couldn’t keep Abbi in her school because tuition was too much.  Basic survival, those were the things that were swirling around me.  When I thought it couldn’t get much worse it did.  I wasn’t sure at all that we’d come through the other side.

Until we wished on those damn cranes.  I know I wrote about this before.  There’s a point here.

There’s a Japanese tradition that if you wish on 1,000 paper cranes your wish may come true.  When we had fallen my Hannah’s class folded 1,000 of them and gave them to us.  They folded more and made a piece of art for us.  While I know that I’d been looking as hard as I could for work that would help me stay, that I applied for Social Security for the kids, that I was looking for a home . . . none of it seemed to be working.  But a short time after I was offered a job.  We got a home and then we got the kids’ social security.  Our wish?  Help us stay here . . . the kids’ home.  I never really thought of it as mine, but it’s really the longest we’d stayed anywhere.  They needed one stable thing – one piece of land to dig their toes into that wouldn’t change.

I’ve been in the darkness.  I would say it’s not a good place – and it isn’t – but it is easy to let it envelop you.  I don’t think a lot of people understand how much you want to feel this.  The hurt is so bad and there are waves, almost like a riptide, that folds around you and pulls you under.  In the beginning it’s hard to fight.  You hate this but you accept it, too.

But at some point you see the light.  It’s not a “walk into the light” thing, at least it wasn’t for me.  It’s more like driving through a fog and it starts to burn away.  You don’t really notice you’re not there anymore until it’s grey . . . then it’s spots of grey . . . and then you see the sky.  This isn’t just grief, it’s all of it.

I know this, and two people I care about are now going through this.  One lost her job, her husband taking a massive pay cut.  They have kids.  They care for others.  What do you do when that much comes onto your shoulders at the same time?

You give the cranes away.  We made it through to the point where the grey is fading.  It’s not all light, no, but there’s more light than dark.  For them the inky darkness was looming.  They needed a glow of some sort.  I kept the picture, the extra cranes, but I spoke with the kids and we gave away the cranes.  It wasn’t that we knew it helped us or that it was a sure thing.

It’s that we got the thoughts, support, and love from people around us.

So I gave away 1,000 cranes.  I can only hope they still have some magic left.

The Lift of a Thousand Cranes . . .

1,000 Cranes that lifted us up

I received an email the other day from a woman whose daughter goes to school with my Hannah.  I don’t want to share intimate details or anything like that, but she’s read my blog and talked about grief and dealing with losing someone you love, something that their family is dealing with now.  It’s never something you think you will have to deal with until it comes and then . . . well . . . everyone handles it differently, in their own way.  I shut down, for a good long while, and while I functioned, getting up in the morning – in the first days, simply standing up from the couch because I couldn’t bring myself to go to bed – I couldn’t tell you too many decisions that I made in those first horrific days after.

There are a few things that I can tell you happened.  In those first hours, days, weeks even, you have certain people that you absolutely want and need to talk with.  My sister-in-law; my father, of course; Andrea’s best friend (and now one of mine, even after the years passing since we went to high school together); one of my dearest friends from Dallas who I’ve adopted as my baby sister, even though she’s not much younger than me; those are the people whose emotions and tears helped me to wallow and understand that I was feeling so much pain and it was OK to let it hurt for awhile.  But there were the others, people who I know wanted to speak or talk and I couldn’t.  In the wake of losing someone you just cannot take the time to talk to everyone. It isn’t easy. It’s horrible, in fact.  Some are sincere and longing to help you and it’s an amazing thing to see, but you cannot bear to deal even with them.  There are others that are so hurt themselves they call you because they simply want you to make them feel better.

The thing about all those days is the fact that you already feel the pain and emotion and angst every second of the day, and for me it was every second of about 3 or 4 straight days with no sleep.  I couldn’t.  Every person that called wanted to know what happened, how it happened, how I was, what the kids said, how they’re handling it, all of that.  Every call took me back into that hospital and carried me into the room and made me hear her ribs crack, the doctor tell me to make a decision and the world turn black all over again.  At a certain point I quit answering the phone.

But here’s the memory this email a few paragraphs up sparked.  The day Andrea died our parish pastor, a Monsignor in the Catholic church took the time to come straight to my house.  He runs our parish.  He isn’t a man with a few things on his plate, he is insanely busy, hard working, intense, and he took the time to come over to our house, just to make sure we were OK.  With him was the principal of our school.  She looked as distraught as the rest of us, and she’d only been principal for that year, if I’m remembering correctly and here she was dealing the the loss of 3 students’ parent.  She brought stacks and stacks of sympathy cards, all homemade by the students, in every grade.  Andrea, you see, had volunteered at the school and had talked with nearly every grade.  They’d have made the cards anyway, but so many already knew my wife it was almost heartbreakingly lovely to see the thoughts poured out on construction paper and crayon.

The biggest two things, though, and this really did make me – a pseudo-strong, bullheaded, stubborn Midwestern man – cry.  Hannah had just gone back to school as did the rest of the kids.  So much time had passed that I had missed a tuition payment or more.  I went to the school and they informed me “oh, your tuition is paid through the rest of the year.”  I couldn’t fathom how, thinking they’d forgone it, which the parish couldn’t afford, or that some scholarship had come through.  I knew we were in trouble, I’d lost Andrea’s income.  At this point I’d also been told that my salary was being cut by more than 1/3.  I must have looked totally perplexed because the principal came out and said “I was told to tell you your tuition was paid by your graduating class of St. Mary’s High School.”  My class.  Some of these people I’d not spoken with in years, maybe some since high school itself, but our story was passed to them, and it was paid.  I walked out in silence, totally thankful and totally bowled over by the kindness.

That same week, Hannah came home, excited, happy, and tearful like I hadn’t seen her in that first few weeks.  Her class had been working on a project that whole time we were out.  The class had been studying Japanese culture and in particular the story of Sadako Sasaki.  This little girl had been exposed to radiation from the dropping of the Hiroshima bomb.  She started working on her own project – the Japanese tradition of making 1,000 paper origami cranes in the hopes it would grant her wish.  She never finished it, but her friends completed the task and put them in her grave with her.  The class, studying that tradition, had started the origami thinking they would give them to a family or a shelter for someone who needed their spirits lifted.  The kids were in the middle of the project when Andrea died.  It was the kids who came to their teacher and said they wanted to finish the task as quickly as they could and give the cranes . . . to us.

So here’s the thing.  When Hannah came home she had a big, clear tube, decorated dazzlingly beautiful as only 6th graders could do, with a thousand beautifully colored and neatly folded cranes.  They also made a portrait, stringing the cranes together to make a picture with hope, love, grace, all those amazing words in them.  The day Hannah brought those cranes home, I can honestly say I was at my lowest.  I had lost my wife, was losing my home, was losing my job, more or less, and I saw no hope.  Even my Mom, a woman with a strong faith found herself looking at the sky saying “I know you probably have a plan, but how much more can he take, really?”  We took the story they sent with the cranes, and in the skeptical fashion only my depression could have mustered said “what can it hurt, really?”

We made our wish.  It wasn’t something impossible or supernatural.  “Please help us find a home and a way for us to stay here.”  That was it.  With the salary I was about to have we couldn’t survive in California.  I honestly didn’t see a way out, we were within a day of packing up the truck and moving to Nebraska.

So did it work?  You tell me.  That same week, we found out the kids could get Social Security from Andrea’s years as a pharmacist – a decent amount for each child.  A property management company I’d talked with before the changes in work contacted me and said they had a home, the owner would work with me and my credit or other issues.  I could move in as soon as the paint was dry, if I liked it, and the rent was in my budget range.  I had put out feelers for a new job.  Within days of the wish the man who is now my current boss called me and offered me a job doing the thing I love and went to school for.  We were able to stay in California, we had a home, I had an amazing job, and we are able to survive.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like we’re wealthy.  We still struggle, things aren’t rose colored glasses all the time.  But a kindness – the thoughts of young children, the generosity of those who grew up as children with me, lifted me out of a hole.  You have no idea what that meant to me.  It may have been a little thing to them, or maybe they sacrificed for it as well, but I felt it.  It literally was like we were lifted up by a thousand cranes.  That lift, something probably so simple to all those people, was one of the most important moments in our lives.

The cranes are in the living room, in a prominent place.  The enclosure holding all 1,000 and the framed picture there when I walk in every night.  Even today I look in there and see them, and I feel myself lifted . . . just a little higher.