Dog Tags

I can remember finding my dad's "dog tags" from the army when I was about 10 years old and asking him what their purpose was.  I'm sure he put it in a nice, parental way but what I took away from it was pretty grisly:  soldiers needed dog tags so their bloodied bodies could be identified in the most horrific of battles. The tags got wedged into a soldier's mouth after he died so that his jaw would be held in place when his body was recovered. Hence the notch. (Actually, that part about the notch is an urban myth, but at 10 it seemed ghastly and real.)

Dog tags with their deceptively simple key chain quality and their insensitive and casual nickname (Y'know, like the tags dogs wear on their leashes. Cute, right?  Oy.) were a shiny aluminum reminder of death looming above like some kind of freakish Ingmar Bergman-inspired seagull. They were sturdy enough to survive the battles that soldiers didn't. They were these odd shiny objects that I happened to find one day as a kid and immediately wished I hadn't.

I came across Paul's Navy dog tags the other day when searching for a spare car key. I remembered how Paul recalled in a half casual, half somber way having to complete his last will and testament before leaving for the middle east in the early 90s. He was in his early 20s and the whole process, he admitted, scared the shit out of him. I thought of his later photojournalism career, and how he steered clear of newswire photojournalism jobs to avoid getting sent to the war zones of today.  He wanted to stay alive, he told me, so that we could live a full life together, live to see our kids graduate into adulthood and beyond.  My God, how we both wanted that.

Dream

Paul was alive in my dream last night.  Somehow, there was a medical miracle and I walked around the corner into a hospital room and there he stood, in jeans and a hospital gown.  He was at his healthy weight with a 3 or 4 day old scruffy beard.  I gasped.  My stomach flipped.  "Oh My God," I said.  We hugged and I kissed his face which was warm and rough.

His skin looked discolored like drinkers whose face is red and ruddy from years of booze, but worse.  Yet his eyes were so alive.  So different than when he was in the ICU or at home for those six weeks afterwards when it was so hard for him to focus on much beyond the TV glow at 3 AM.  Thank God, I thought in the dream.  His eyes were tired but -  my God - they were alive.

He was standing with someone in the hospital room.  A doctor?  An angel?   Then I guess that other person disappeared. I suddenly was in a separate, adjacent room, hearing Paul talk to someone else through the wall, his voice muffled.  Some nurses were with me and I kept telling them how I was so amazed that this was happening.  They were apologetic, saying things like "We're sorry we couldn't bring him back sooner."

"That doesn't matter," I said.  "He's here now."  I was elated, confused, nauseous.

Flash, I'm back in the room with Paul.  Amazed at this miracle.  I try to make him laugh by saying something like "How are we going to get used to each other again?" He laughed and said, "Not to worry, baby-baby."  His voice was weak, but he was alive and standing right in front of me.

TV Heartbreak or Dammit, I'm Missing Glee as I Type This

My satellite TV receiver and my TV both kicked it this week.  The receiver won't turn on.  The TV turns on but turns off by itself after 5 seconds, or sometimes after 5 minutes.  This was heartbreaking because, well, for the first time since Paul died I've actually been able to enjoy television.  Like normal television.  Television that doesn't have to be about illness or tragedy or death.

Last spring, I got caught up in the Grey's Anatomy terminal illness undertow.  I wished I was Izzy because she somehow managed to have fantasy sex with her fiance who had died.  I repeatedly listened to Meredith Grey's end of season voice over monologue on my DVR. I wrote what she said in my journal, her words framing the image of George and Izzy simultaneously flat lining:

"Did you say it? 'I love you. I don't ever want to live without you. You changed my life.' Did you say it?"

I became fixated on the fact that maybe I hadn't said that enough to Paul.  That I should have given him more reminders of that, especially as his life was slowly falling away from him.  Part of the death TV fixation was cathartic.  Part of it was just plain painful and awkward.  I mean, I was letting a fictional TV character put me on some kind of guilt trip. So TV and I parted ways for a few months.

Then, this fall, along came Glee.  The singing, the hope, the underdog story, the satirical yet heartfelt and authentic lense on adolescence.  I find myself laughing out loud when I watch it.  I find myself getting weepy when the glee club kids sing songs like "No Air" or "Don't Stop Believin.'"

I am in love with Will Schuester, the sensitive Spanish teacher character trying with all of his heart to give the misfits of the high school glee club some glory, some purpose.  Finn isn't bad either. The mother in me makes me think of him more as a "kid" than an object of affection.  The scenes where he describes being raised by a widow made me laugh and made my heart heavy yet hopeful for Max and Lucas.   Rachel is amazing.  Her suffering at the hands of the popular kids is heart breaking, her lack of self awareness funny and infuriating, her smarts, her heart, and her voice just rad, awesome, and empowering.  I wanna be her bff.  And then there's Sue Sylvester.  My God, Jane Lynch, the actress who plays Sue, is brilliant.  Here's my favorite Sue Sylvester quote, said just moments after the glee club had performed a lewd rendition of "Push It" by Salt N' Peppa in front of the entire student body:

"That was the most offensive thing I have seen in 20 years of teaching, and that includes an elementary school production of 'Hair.'"   I laugh even when I type that now.

Glee was on tonight but my kaput television and satellite receiver prevented me from watching it.  However, imagine me tomorrow or the next day, after I download it onto my phone.  I'll be watching it on the subway on the way to work.  There's no doubt I'll be laughing out loud, or tapping my foot to whatever infectious song the glee club kids perform.  Thanks Glee for making me laugh again and believe again.

Forward

Today, a friendly, elderly gentleman at Dunkin Donuts struck up a conversation with me. I was able to calmly describe to him what happened to Paul. Yes, I said, calmly. No anger in my voice. No quiver. No awkward hesitation. Max and Lucas were right next to me, listening. Max even chimed in. "My daddy had amyloidosis," he offered, his voice assured but breathless, his eyes swimming with...what?...memories? This is progress. This is a step forward.

Two weeks ago, I attended a dinner for the Amyloidosis Foundation where I reconnected with many of the doctors and nurses who cared for Paul during his stem cell transplant and chemo. I was able to thank them for their compassion. I was able to hug them as I thanked them. I was flattered to hear that they remembered details about Paul, his wall of family photos next to the hospital bed, his love of the Steelers, how he photographed the doctors on their rounds. This is progress. This is a step forward.

Also two weeks ago, I started attending a "partners bereavement support group." I expected it to be me and a bunch of blue-haired 87-year-olds. Not so. Different ages and stories and backgrounds. All have suffered loss at the wrong time. All are desperate for answers and explanations. Some of us can't eat at all. Some of us can't stop eating. Some of us suffer heavily with guilt. Others feel they have suffered enough. All are there, every week, holding out for some hope, answers, reprieve. This is progress. This is a step forward.

Last week, I found myself tweeting, emailing and facebooking crazily to pull together "Paul's Team," a group to compete in the NYC Triathlon in 2010 to honor Paul and to raise money for the Amyloidosis Foundation. I was targeting 20 people. I got 43. This is progress. On race day, when we cross the finish line, it will be more than a step forward. It will be the start of healing.

Relax. There's a Relay Option.

In my rush to get folks jazzed up to join "Paul's Team" by participating in the Nautica NYC Triathlon to raise money for the Amyloidosis Foundation, I undersold the relay option. Relay teams can consist of 2 or 3 members. Say you are a strong cyclist but the thought of swimming in the Hudson gives you the heebie geebies? Or perhaps you haven't been on a bike since you were 10 and wore pigtails but you're interested in working your way up to the 10K running distance. Let me know if you want to be part of a relay team and which leg(s) of the race you're interested in completing. Then, I'll try to connect you with some other folks who are also interested in participating as part of a relay team. So, email me ASAP and let me know.

Relay team cost is $325 for the whole team.

Swim, Bike and Run to Fight Amyloidosis

"You may be hot stuff up in Harlem, or you may have the best tutu collection in the country. It doesn't matter. I don't have time for prima donnas...You're gonna have to work...You got big dreams. You want fame. Well fame costs. And right here is where you start payin' in sweat...So if you never had to fight for anything in your life, put your gloves on and get ready for round one. And mamma and daddy's little darlin' had better come out swingin.'"
-Lydia Grant, FAME

JOIN "PAUL'S TEAM" AND SWIM, BIKE AND RUN TO RAISE MONEY FOR THE AMYLOIDOSIS RESEARCH FOUNDATION.

The Event: Nautica New York City Triathlon. It is an Olympic Distance race consisting of a 1500m swim, a 40k bike, and a 10k run. (More details available at the Nautica New York City Triathlon site.)

The Date: July 18, 2010

The Reason: The Amyloidosis Research Foundation supports research for improved treatment options and earlier diagnosis of this rare, terrible disease that took my husband Paul Hawthorne’s life.

What is amyloidosis? In short, it is a rare blood disease with no known cause or cure. Mutant proteins form in the blood of amyloidosis patients causing damage to vital organs. Most doctors only encounter a tiny paragraph about it in medical school, leading to misdiagnosis, delayed treatment, and patient fatalities. It took almost a year before my husband Paul was diagnosed. Despite aggressive treatment by renowned oncologists, it took his life on December 20, 2008. For more details on amyloidosis, I recommend the Mayo Clinic’s overview page.

Cost: Registration is $245 dollars for individuals and $325 for 3-person relay teams. Each team member will be responsible for their own registration fee. Minimum fundraising goal for each individual team member will be $1000.

When is the Registration Fee Due? (THIS IS THE IMPORTANT PART): Charity teams must be registered by Thursday, October 15, 2009. In order to register the team, I will pay in one lump sum for all team members' spots. That means, if you want to participate, I need your $245 (or $325 per relay team) registration fee via check or paypal in hand by end of business by Noon on Thursday, October 15.

How to pay: PAYPAL to amy_hawthorne@yahoo.com or via check to Amy Hawthorne, 53 Duncan Ave, Apt 53, Jersey City, NJ 07304. Please notify me via phone or email if you are sending the check via snail mail so I can look out for it.

Team Name: I'm not sure yet. Anyone who comes up with the perfect name will be the team's honorary captain.

A note about relay participation: If you're thinking you'd like to participate in only one leg of the race, let me know and I can connect you with other interested folks who might want to form a 3 person relay team.

Five

Max's birthday. We opened his gifts first thing in the morning. A paper shopping bag full of beautifully sprinkled cupcakes was delivered to school by yours truly. And, of course, there were the goodie bags: tiny pinball games and monster finger puppets and Nestle crunch bars and real-looking toy insects all nestled together in crinkly, noisy plastic. I wanted him to have a spectacular day. I wanted him to forget for a few hours the turmoil that started a few weeks before his last birthday and continues as 2009 shrinks to nothing. It worked. He was elated.

In this photo taken this morning, he had just been crowned by his kindergarten teacher. Line leader for the entire day. Hoister of the flag during the Pledge of Allegience. The birthday king.

I look at it and I think of how he came home from his babysitter's house the evening of December 20, 2008 and in the midst of playful chatter started climbing on me and asked "Hey mommy? Where's daddy?" My answer was a verbatim of what the social worker at the ER had told me to say.

I see this picture and I think of how many times in the past year I've had to be both Dennis Franz and Jimmy Smits to my four-going-on-five year old. How I find myself turning on a dime from compassionate and calm to impatient and intolerant.

I see this picture and I see Paul. I ache to tell him how Max has started to recognize some words in stories. How sometimes when Max gets dressed for school and smiles at me after brushing his teeth he looks astoundingly like his dad. How Max and Lucas now rough house and laugh like the brothers we daydreamed they would be way back when we first saw our second boy on an ultrasound screen. How on some days, sometimes more than once a day, I literally don't know what to do or say to our children because I don't feel capable of filling both of our parental shoes.

I see this picture and realize how big 5 is for all of us.

Join My NYC Triathlon Charity Team to Swim, Cycle and Run in Paul's Honor

Greetings Blog Readers,

I am hoping to put together a team of 20 or so people to participate in the NYC Triathlon on July 10, 2010. It's a pretty cool event, it's not as difficult as, say, a marathon (or so I've heard), plus it will be a perfect tribute to my cycling-loving husband Paul's memory and help raise money for people living with amyloidosis.

Registration for charity teams is happening in mid-October so, at this point, I'm looking to quickly gage sincere interest from folks to determine if pulling together a team is feasible. Then, by mid-October I'll need to collect race registration fees from those who can definitely commit. After that, I'll work on organizing some team training sessions, maybe set up a team blog, etc. Some details...

THE RACE:
Here's some information from the NYC triathalon website:
FAQs

A Description of the Course

THE COST:
Registration is $245 per person.

FUNDRAISING:
I'm hoping to set a team fundraising goal once I know how many people are actually able to commit to the team.

THE CHARITY:
I've been in communication with some non-profit leaders in the amyloidosis community and want to do my best to put the team's funds toward some unmet needs of people living with amyloidosis. I"m not sure of the details yet but will certainly flesh them out soon.

So, please get back to me by Wednesday, September 30 via Facebook or at amy_hawthorne@yahoo.com and let me know if you are:

A) Definitely Interested
B) Possibly Interested
C) Can't Do It at This Point but Would Like to Donate or Help Out in Some Way

Thanks in advance for considering this.