Sylvia's Journal

It’s hard to stop the memory machine, my brain, thinking, sometimes even obsessing, about the events of the last few days. It has been hard to fall asleep, despite having skipped a few nights; and then I wake up late, hours past my usual wake up time at sunrise.

I spent 24+ hours in Amsterdam, walking, talking with my friend A. who helped me through the difficult breakup with Peter time 37 years ago. We revisited every corner of our memory in the hope of being able to put all that to bed, including how our relationship had evolved over these three-plus decades.

The weather was nasty on Friday and I felt sorry for the tourists in the canal boats who couldn’t see much through the window panes with the rains streaking against them. If they had only one day for Amsterdam they’d had bad luck.

Saturday was better. We visited the superbly renovated Hermitage museum. An exhibit of Hollanders van de Gouden Eeuw (The Dutch in the Golden Century) revealed how much the current approach to governance has its roots in how wealthy Dutch Burghers organized themselves to govern the country. A basic tenet was that poverty and hunger were bad for commerce because such conditions would only foment dissatisfaction and revolt; as a result a system of caring for the ‘unfortunate’ was put in place by the wealthy burgers as both a Christian obligation and a way to keep the population if not happy, then at least temporarily satisfied and beholden to their benefactors. Over the years this system of paternalistic caring has been handed over to the state, now more as a human right than a gesture of Christian compassion.

When we re-emerged from the museum the sun was out and things looked up. Amsterdam is a great place to walk around and watch people when the sun is out. We had a nice lunch in a tiny place, a simple ‘broodje met oude kaas’ (a roll with old Dutch cheese) and a glass of karnemelk (buttermilk) which is about as good a lunch as one can get.

Back at A’s house we sorted out my return trip by bus to Aalsmeer from where I will return to Schiphol tomorrow.

On Tuesday night Axel and I attended the annual Gala dinner of the Boston-Japan Society. The key note speaker was the US ambassador to Japan, Caroline Kennedy. I felt I was in the presence of history. This is exactly what she invoked with stories of her dad and Japan and the war. This August will be the 70^th anniversary of the dropping of the bomb. The symbolism of seeing the flags of Japan and the US on a giant screen, backdrop to the sounds of the national hymns of these two nations that were once bitter enemies, didn’t escape anyone. The evening was full of thank you’s and expressions of friendship and collaboration; a true love fest indeed.

The gala is also the occasion of recognizing talent which turned out to be mostly female. The lineup of award recipients consisted, without exception, of people who tend to be marginalized: women and people with disabilities. There was the gifted young pianist (blind) who treated us to some exquisite pieces; the others were all women who had made their mark in Japan and beyond in the areas of finance & economics, teaching & writing, and fashion.

We are not members of this society. Why would we? I have been to Japan a few times, speak just about 3 words of Japanese, and neither one of us can claim any Japanese heritage. Axel’s father didn’t even fight the Japanese; he was busy with the Italians in the Mediterranean. As a result we felt a bit out of place between the women in their elegant kimonos, the flock of giggling skinny and tiny young women, the distinguished looking gentlemen of a certain age (Japanese and American) and the many mixed couples, mostly US men with their Japanese brides.  From the amounts written on the silent auction items it was clear that we were in the company of influence and money (not unlike the sensation I got on the few occasions we attended events organized by the Dutch community in Boston).

Our invite came through one of those mixed US/Japanese couples whose philanthropic foundation has a close relationship with MSH. Our benefactress wasn’t able to come herself. She was busy in Japan selecting the winners from a large pool of applicants for a few highly competitive fellowships. The purpose of these fellowships is to expand the pool of professional mid-career Japanese women who are investing their talents in bringing about social change in Japan. They spend a month in and around Boston learning the ropes of how to run non-profits, an institution that’s not as well developed in Japan.

Last year we were invited to host four fellows for a day and a half at MSH. With a few colleagues (all female as it happened) we created a program that received rave reviews from the fellows. This led to a request for a repeat performance this September, now for 3 days. And that is how we got to the gala.

In a few days Axel will fly west to California and I will fly east to Holland. Both will be trips full of sadness and memories, as I attend the funeral service of my first husband and Axel will visit his cousin who is fighting cancer on several fronts.

On Wednesday last week I wrote an alphabet of memories for my first husband, not knowing what else I could do from a distance, other than this distraction, a trip down memory lane. I wrote that I hoped it would make him smile and forget all the pain and worry and sadness. The next morning he wrote me back. I had succeeded to put a smile on his face. This was particularly momentous given that the doctor didn’t think he was going to wake up that morning. But he did and he saw my alphabet. He even sent it to his kids, by way of introduction and copied me. I am sure the purpose was less to let me know he had done that and more to get us connected via email. Two mornings later he was dead and I was able, because of that forwarded email to write to his children, who I have never met. People may complain about how email is wreaking havoc with our social lives. But in this case it allowed us to say farewell to each other and do it with a smile. I am so very grateful for this.

I am of course also very grateful to the Wright Brothers (brought back to life lately in David McCullough’s new book). It is because of their persistence and courage that I am able to attend the funeral service in Holland this coming Thursday.

I will find myself amidst people who were so much part of my daily life and of our adventures in Groningen, Leiden, Geneva, Beirut, Yemen and finally Beirut again. This gathering will complete the postscript to an important coming-of-age chapter in my life; a chapter that was about courtship, adventure, love, wonder, excitement, loyalty and betrayal and eventually heartbreak. That book can now be closed. It is the heartbreak that opened up doors to the life I am now living, to my family, my career and our home at Lobster Cove. It goes to show that you never know whether a change is good or bad, until much later.

Today’s Memorial Day rituals, where we honor the dead, allowed me to slip in thoughts of Peter, even though he had nothing to do with American patriotism (and probably would have wanted no part of it).

Monday I met with the surgeon who fixed my shoulder. I surprised him by lifting my arm nearly straight up. He warned me to not become overconfident and not carry anything heavier than a cup of coffee in my left hand until the end of July. Only then can I begin with the strengthening exercises. Four months post-op is a long time, but the worst is behind me. If people didn’t know about my operation there is nothing that would give it away.

Our trees have burst into bloom: the purple of the wisteria matches the purple of the old lilac in front of the house. It is flanked by Jennee’s beach plum, which is turning to be quite resilient after many attacks. Then there is the apple tree near the garden, the light purple creeping phlox, the white creepingdeep purple double lilac, the white and blue forget-me-nots that intermingle with the raspberries. It is a feast for the eyes.

The asparagus is producing enough for a meal for us two every other days, and sometimes there is enough for the neighbors as well. But the asparagus beetles have arrived and we are no longer the only ones interested in the asparagus bed. They are persistent little buggers. We followed the book last fall but they came back and we don’t want to use pesticides. Handpicking is what is called for, but you have to be out there all the time.

The cranberry beans, the potatoes (red bliss), the thyme, the peas from Tessa and the spinach and garlic are growing fast. The leeks are still tiny and spindly and if the deer we saw the other day wanders into our garden then we may not ever eat any of these.

Vacation and trips are advancing rapidly. By June 5, I have warned everyone, I am putting my pen down, close my computer and won’t be working until I have arrived in Uganda on June 14, for a week of teaching about coaching, supervising and communicating with the aim of improving the delivery of family planning services. The consequence of this schedule is that I am now making very long days in order to get all my design work done for a series of activities and trips that will reach into late July when we are all getting ready for celebrating Axel’s 69^th and receiving our new grandchild into this world. Summer hasn’t even started and it is already going too fast.

We got bad news last night about Axel’s cousin who has just declined further surgery for a mouth cancer that appears determined to kill her; it is the second person who I have folded into my heart over the last two weeks. She is right there next to my ex-husband. Both have run out of options. Both are, I am told, in a lot of pain, even with pain meds.

I have known my share of pains but the thing about pain is that when it is gone, the bodily memory of it is gone too. I have only vague recollections of being in great pain. The recollections I do have are of the surprise about the intensity and the persistence of the thought that this pain is going to be forever. But they are not. My pains have always been post-operative and musculo-skeletal pains. These are temporary, the kind we forget.

They who are dying from inside are in my heart right next to the people who were at the wrong place in the wrong time in Kabul and paid with their lives. They were there to help the Afghans – I don’t think anyone forced them to be there. Going to Afghanistan now feels like playing Russian roulette. If I’d be invited to go back to Kabul, even for a very short trip, I now think I’d decline, albeit with great reluctance. I do want to be there with my Afghan colleagues, but in the past we were never a target; now I am not so sure anymore.

Because of all this bad news my thoughts have been somber. I have been trying to imagine what it is like to know that you are being destroyed from the inside, from your own cells going rogue; to know that there is no ‘same time next year.’ What would I be preoccupied with, other than putting my affairs in order? Would there be people I wanted to see a lot, books to read, movies to see? Or would I want to write, be in beautiful places, surrounded by my favorite people? Not knowing this I am at a loss as to how I can be of use to them.

All this put things in perspective: the recovery of my shoulder, the worry about the other shoulder which is cranky from over-use, the enormous amount of design work that needs to happen before my next trip and the mess in my home office which I try to deal with before it overwhelms me again and again.

Maybe it is no coincidence that I made a dish called “Dutch Babies’ for breakfast in honor of all that is good, sweet and innocent and of course my new grand-nephew Wiebe Berend.

Since Sita is too pregnant to travel comfortable for hours in a car we headed out west to Easthampton and celebrate Mother’s Day on Saturday. Tessa joined us as well. It was a beautiful day. We sat in the yard while Jim was working in the garden and Faro entertained himself under the sprinkler and by jumping on one or the other of his grandparents who were trying to take a nap in the hammock. Now liberated from my sling I found it hard not to activate my left arm. Not surprisingly I was rather sore by the end of the day.

We finished the afternoon with an outdoor Mexican meal at a lovely small restaurant in Easthampton after which Faro went to bed and Tessa, Axel and I headed out east to Tessa and Steve’s NH home. The distance from our house to Sita’s and from Sita’s to Tessa is exactly the same, 124 miles, but going to Sita and Jim is a straight shot along highways. From there to Tessa is mostly along secondary roads that parade as highways. Axel drove and I slept, claiming my recovery from surgery status (still).

Tessa and Steve’s house is nestled in the woods. I was up early and enjoyed looking over their pond, watching the wild life and seeing the peaceful part of their new neighborhood. Doing it from inside the house was great but once I stepped outside I realized that there are some drawbacks to living so close to nature. There are black flies and ticks (not so great), beavers (it depends) and porcupines (if you are Oona, not so good). I had to put on some strong chemicals, multiple times, to keep the flies away. The ticks I discovered later, and Oona encountered the porcupine with not such a good outcome (an emergency visit to the vet).

Wen not pestered by all these critters, the peace and quiet is periodically interrupted by motor bikes, target shooting (we are in NH where people live free and die if they want to), and lawn movers. One cannot get away from those. Only Faro likes these hard sounds.

I admired the new chicklets that will provide them (and us sometimes) with a steady stream of eggs Tessa promised. There are twelve (still), all with the baby feathers still visible but clearly starting to drop them and develop their adult feather coat. Tessa and Steve have done an amazing job getting the two species used to each other. Still, I tensed up when the two dogs were let into the chicken house. I could tell that Chicha had a hard time reconciling her hunting instincts with Tessa’s reminders to be nice. She couldn’t help herd the tiny little birds into a corner where they squeaked up a storm. Oona just wanted to lick them – but few were interested.

Our afternoon walk produced the porcupine encounter, a rush trip to the vet to liberate Oona from the quills, costing several hundred dollars, poison ivy on my hands and ticks appearing in spite of several tick checks. We should have gone to the mall – I would have gotten my exercise without the poison ivy and ticks and Tessa and Steve would have saved themselves several hundred dollars, even if we’d had bought stuff. By the end of the day all these not so great encounters with the great outdoors were forgotten thanks to a lovely asparagus dinner on their deck and some excellent boutique ice cream.

Exactly 6 weeks ago I stood at the portal to this long road to recovery and sighed at the length of time before me. Then, six weeks seemed an eternity; a one-armed journey with a bulky sling, awkward nights, back sleeping for a side sleeper. Not to speak of the first few weeks when I was sore, and dreaded encounters with people slapping me on the shoulder and giving bear hugs, while gingerly avoiding my lower arm and hand in the sling. And then the last weeks (true still) where the tendinitis and pain in the other upper arm and shoulder worsened considerably, due to double duty no doubt.

But, as they always do, the last day of these 6 weeks arrived yesterday. I took the sling off and forgot about it. It is not that I am out of the woods. “Nothing heavier than a coffee cup,” said the surgeon, although he did not specify whether the cup should be empty or full. Physical therapy will continue for 6 more weeks and then months of strength training. Six months to one year until full recovery, some people say.

I returned Thursday night from DC and had planned, as I do frequently, to take Friday off. But a series of meetings on Thursday had produced many responses to questions regarding the design of a large technical summit for my pharmacist colleagues, late June. My head was spinning as I glanced over the (poorly organized) notes I had taken. I figured that I had to rely on memory, and if I didn’t work on Friday, on Monday my insights and memories would be gone. So the planned day off became a 10 hour workday. But when I closed my computer, exactly at 6 PM yesterday, there was nothing to remember as all was put to paper.

Last night we attended another Zoe Lewis concert, may be our fourth or fifth, at Passim. We invited friends and found several colleagues and ex-colleagues there, making up about one third of the audience. It was a perfect ending to a day of slogging. Zoe’s energy and talent, was, as usual, sky high. She was accompanied by our friend Marc who is a clarinet virtuoso and young Ben who is defending his thesis next week but took some time off to complement Zoe and Marc with his jazzy harmonica sounds. When we got home it was long beyond my bedtime. I had forgotten all about the 10 hours of work.