Self-portrait, Hotel Serrano, San Francisco
Wednesday morning I parked at the VA Hospital in Denver, and made my way inside carrying a cardboard box holding two tall and healthy tomato plants, the last of my indoor “farm.” Those plants elicited smiles as I wended my way through the crowded corridors.
I carried the tomato plants down a back hallway to an oncology consult room labeled “Dr. Catherine Klein,” set the plants down, pulled out my iPad and opened a book.
A few minutes later, I heard Dr. Klein’s delighted voice.
“Look who’s here!”
She gave me a hug and ushered me into her consult room. I gave her the box with tomato plants and she exclaimed at how beautiful they were. We oohed and aahed over them like new babies for a bit, and then she asked,
“How are you?”
I hate that question. I know people ask it out of concern and a genuine desire to know. But I never know how to answer it. It’s not simple, and I don’t want to give a whole dissertation on the subject.
“I’m good,” I said.
“You look great,” she responded. “How are you?”
I sighed, and my eyes filled; I blinked away the tears. “I am good. Not every moment. I have good days and not-so-good ones. By and large though, I’m happy.”
We talked a bit more, and then parted.
Molly at my hotel
I thought about Dr. Klein’s question on and off for the rest of that day, and again yesterday as I flew to San Francisco to spend Mother’s Day weekend with Molly and her sweetie, Mark. I felt guilty about not giving a more thoughtful and complete answer.
How am I?
I am happy a lot of the time. Yesterday I had a wonderful afternoon walking San Francisco with Molly. She gave me a tour of her office and the little park nearby where she takes Diesel, her sweet part-Lab, on work-breaks.
We walked the route she takes through Chinatown, North Beach, and then up the steep slopes of Telegraph Hill on her way to and from work. It was a gorgeous day; San Francisco is perhaps my favorite city in the world; the view from their apartment is breathtaking; the Anna’s hummgbirds zipped around us on the deck, and the resident flock of parrots screamed into a nearby tree. I was happy.
The house where my great-grandparents, William Austin Cannon and Jennie Vennerstrom Cannon lived for a time in the Berkeley hills.
And today, another beautiful day, Molly and Mark drove me across the Bay Bridge to Berkeley to explore the town where my mom grew up. We headed through the UC-Berkeley campus, past the Football Stadium where my parents went on dates, and up into the neighborhood in the hills where my great-grandparents, William Austin Cannon and Jennie Vennerstrom Cannon lived. We found their house, a pre-1906 earthquake wood-frame Victorian. (It’s embiggened now, but still familiar.)
We wandered the narrow and winding streets downhill; we walked by the Oxford Street house where my mother grew up, a Mission-style bungalow (now, of course, much enlarged) that was a magic place to me growing up. We decided on the spur of the moment to see if we could get a table for lunch at Chez Panisse, Alice Walker’s restaurant, the birthplace for today’s locavore food movement.
Field greens salad with sauteed goat cheese and herbs at Chez Panisse
We ate a fabulous lunch of fresh, local food presented in beautiful and delicious ways by an attentive staff. The setting–an early 20th century Craftsman house expanded in lovely ways–was warm and inviting. (Still, I hope I won’t be offending the culinary gods when I confess I had no idea you could spend that much on lunch for three….)
In between those two happy days, I cried myself to sleep last night.
Because last September I was in San Francisco–with Richard. We walked all the way from the Marina District where our motel was to Molly and Mark’s place on Telegraph Hill. We held hands and laughed and hung out Caffe Roma in North Beach, our favorite coffee place.
This one's for you, Richard Cabe: Iris blooming in the garden below my mother's childhood home, Berkeley
We knew it was his last big trip; we knew he had terminal brain cancer. We knew the moments were precious and we enjoyed them thoroughly; we didn’t know he’d be dead less than two months later.
How am I?
Mostly I’m happy. But sometimes I feel like I’ve survived a hurricane of horrendous force, and I’m still picking up the pieces of me and my life.
That’s grief. It’ll be part of my life for a good long while, I expect. Because it’s an integral part of the process, just the way death is an integral part of life.
Beautiful, Susan. I was raised in the bay area, much of what you mentioned is familiar to me; and the loving, gentle mentions of Richard, and your grieving process, is both moving and healing. Thank you for having the courage to share your journey with us!
Laura, Sharing the journey helps me understand what I’m dealing with, and why I respond the way I do. I wouldn’t share it publicly if I didn’t think it would be useful, and I very much appreciate knowing it’s useful to you. You would love the neighborhoods in North Berkeley where my mom grew up, and which we huffed and puffed our way up yesterday. The smell of redwoods, live oak, eucalyptus and the damp ferny earth along the creek that runs by my mother’s childhood house are so evocative, and so familiar to me, and I’m sure would be to you!
We lived in the Berkeley Hills for a year or two in my extreme youth – I think I was four! My dad was getting established in his new job, and we rented a professor’s home (he was on sabbatical) for that time. We bought a house in the Hayward Hills before my 6th birthday and I started school there. (Hayward is different now than it was 50 years ago) AND many of my hippie days were spent wandering in Berkeley and San Fran. Both still remain among my favorite places in the world. Thanks again for evocative writing!
I figured you might know the areas I was talking about, Laura. And you’re welcome!
There’s no right way and there’s no right time. Go at your own pace, dear Susan, and in your own time. Your grace shines through always. Warm wishes and hugs, Linda.
Linda, Thank you for that reminder that I’ve got to heed my pace and my process! It’s so important to let the grieving go where it needs to go, or else I’ll get stuck and not be able to learn what it has to teach me. Hugs back to you….
I know that feeling of “how do I reply” and I think you nailed it. Only people who have some sensitivity and experience of life will even think to ask that, and those people will understand completely when you say you have good days and bad days. I’m glad you had good days with Molly. My new favorite line (from a movie) is: “It’ll be all right in the end. If it’s not all right, it’s not the end.” Just enjoy the good days and accept the bad days. Love.
Sam, I love that quote! Thank you. I’ve had to learn that some people understand, and some people don’t, and it’s not necessarily my job to teach those that don’t, if they aren’t ready to learn. That’s one of the letting-go lessons I’ve been learning in these past few years. (And I thought I was in charge of the world–huh. Guess not!)
Susan,
I am only just beginning the journey you’ve been on for a few months now. Today we had a beautiful memorial/celebration service for Harold. I spent a lot of time this afternoon fielding the “how are you” question. The most honest answer I had today was “I don’t know” which was the very same answer I used for “what do you need?” I know that in most cases both questions were asked out of love & concern, but I just have no answers right now. My brain and my heart and my soul are just now beginning to process what has happened. It was so sudden & so unexpected that I honestly have no answers. I find comfort in your honest & open sharing of your feelings –and I’m sure I’ll find much wisdom in your writings in days to come. Thanks for sharing from your heart.
Dear Sid, I thought of you yesterday, knowing it was the day for Harold’s celebration and memorial. I know you’re just beginning your journey of learning who you are and what life is like without your love beside you in the physical sense, and I have been holding you and your girls in the Light. As Linda H said so wisely above, there is no set time, no set process. Take your time, let your brain and heart and soul catch up to where you are now, and let yourself be with each day, whatever it brings. And let me know if I can be helpful. I’m sending a warm hug, for whenever you need it.
I got that question throughout my chemo-therapy, Susan. “How are you?” or rather that middle word got a bit of a sing-songy emphasis: “How ARE you?”
It seemed an odd question to me, given that I was pale, exhausted, totally hairless and clearly not the person I’d been even a few short months earlier. “How ARE you?” …. “uhhhhhh, isn’t obvious,” I was often tempted to say.
Still, I would answer “fine,” or qualify the answer with “considering everything, I’m great.” It finally stopped bothering me when I just chalked up the question “How ARE you?” as a simple short hand for “I really like you. I really care about you … but your situation is (new to me and/or frightening) and I really don’t know what to say.”
I guess, at this point, I am glad they asked. I never had the problem many cancer patients I know have encountered, the complete disappearance of friends and colleagues, whose discomfort doesn’t even allow them to ask those pat and predictable questions.
All said, Susan, I really like you. I really care about you … and sometimes, I don’t know how to express that.
Love, Charles
Charles, Thank you. I think you are right about the sincere feelings in the question, and our inability to be articulate in the face of our own fears and grief about serious illness and mortality. I have to say that I am glad you are here, and very glad that you are finding your way back to health, whatever that means. I really like you too! And I’m not the best about keeping in touch right now. So we’ll just have to forgive each other and ourselves and keep on doing the best we can to be who we are in the world as it is…. Hugs to you and Diana.
Glad you were with Molly & Mark for Mother’s Day. The sky opened here and gave us the gift of Snrain. Love and hugs.
Maria, I’ve really been enjoying the visit with Molly and Mark, and loving being in my favorite city in the world, even if all of it wears me out! I can’t wait to get home late on Tuesday to appreciate the gift of rain in our drought-stricken part of the world. Today we’re headed to the Ferry Building Saturday market and brunch at the Ferry Building Seafoods (crab louie salad, here I come!) and then a trip to Flora Grubb, an amazing urban garden store, with my dear friend Jenny Barry, book packager extraordinaire (she put together both COLORADO LESS TRAVELED and COLORADO SCENIC BYWAYS). Then on Mother’s Day, we head to Santa Cruz to visit the pier, the arboretum on campus, and other delights. I’ll stay with friends there, and then fly home Tuesday evening. So I’ll have lots to process by the time I get home….
Susan, don’t suppose we could squeeze in a visit together in all your Bay Area fluttering?!
Laura
Laura, I’d love to, but this visit I promised Molly I’d be at her disposal and not spend “her” time on visiting anyone else. After she lost her daddy last November, she asked for a visit where I would just hang out with her and do whatever she wants, so that’s what this trip is about. We’re still finding our footing without her daddy….
I totally hear that, Susan honey – just anxious to make that “in person” connection!
Someday…
Thanks for understanding, Laura. Someday indeed!
Sometimes I ask the question out of etiquette, out of polite conversation for someone I’ve not seen in awhile. Other times, “How are/ARE you?” is a more delving question, as well as one way of assessing how the person is. How they answer, get around to answering is at least as important (sometimes far moreso) as the answer they give.
Mostly, I ask because I want to know, even when, especially when, I’m pretty certain the beloved I’m addressing is being currently run through the wringer. I think it’s especially during such times that we need, and we yearn, to be seen clearly—even if by our ownselves. I also ask in order to give that person full permission to be fully honest. Being stoic comes too quickly and readily to too many of us. (Yup, I’m including myself in the, “us”.)
However, this gets smack into the muck of the deeply personal and personal dignity. When I ask, I have to accept the answer they give.
Eduardo, that’s a wonderfully insightful comment. Thank you for understanding that the question and answer are personal on both sides of the asking/answering. You’re right that questioners need to ask, and the “askees” need to take the question as well-meaning. And we all have to live with whatever the answer is at the time….
I think people don’t really mean “How are you?”, although it certainly sounds like a question, but rather something more like, “I care about you and hope you are coping, somehow.” So I learned to give answers like,”Some days are better than others,” and, “I’ve felt better,” or “Better than I was, not as good as I hope to be,” and, “I’m coping.”I found I needed to have a pat response at the ready, and tried out a few until I found the one that felt true and implied my thanks for their caring. I often added, “Thanks for asking,” even though I hated the question, but I knew it wasn’t really a question, but an expression of caring. “Thanks for caring,” might have been a better response, but I didn’t think of it then, when I could hardly think at all.
Your response above is actually quite eloquent . . . “sometimes happy, but mostly still picking up the pieces.” That says it just fine, as you always do.
Samantha, I think your insightful comment goes right to the heart of why people ask. It’s less a question than a comment about their caring and their interest in letting you know they care. Thank you for framing it that way. I like your reminder to say thank-you, too. That never hurts! I hope that by considering the question, I’m being useful to other readers, and giving us all an opportunity to think about our interactions around sympathy and death. We just don’t talk about the hard stuff enough, and we’re so timid about calling death what it is, and being able to let others know we care about them..
The journey is tough. I’m glad you are able to write about your journey and share those writings with the rest of us. Those “first times” alone when before there were two of you can be rough. As you have experienced, there are good times and there are bad times and they sometimes overlap. My wonderful daughter-in-law and then 20-month old granddaughter spent many weekends with my daughter and me in the months after my husband’s death. I loved my daugher-in-law before, but she became quite special during those times and I treasure the time we spent together while I hated the reason why she was there. Blessings on your journey.
Thank you for the sympathy and the wise words, Joyce. I’m glad you have such a great DIL, one who understood what you needed and was, I am sure, happy to be there for you. Happy belated Mother’s Day!
Wonderful post Susan. You’ve got me longing to go to San Francisco — a place we haven’t been since our honeymoon. Perhaps we should make the effort to go while we still can, since my hubby has some health issues of his own. Synchronicity seems to me urging me to go. I hadn’t heard of Alice Waters the first time we went, but then got involved with rebuilding a local food system here in the Hill Country, so of course, she is one of my idols. The first night at the recent SCN conference I took a group of women to dinner at Eastside Cafe in Austin. Not only do they have a veggie patch there at the restaurant, they recently bought their own farm! Anyway, as it turned out, one of the women was actually from Berkley, and has a daughter who works at Chez Pannisse! I told her I’ve long dreamed of eating there, but was frightened of how much it might cost. She recommended eating in the upstairs cafe. Is that where you ate?