Trying in 2014--A Family Affair

I didn’t recognize the power and beauty of extended family bonds until my own, immediate family unraveled some.

Families aren’t perfect. They’re full of complex relationships that can be maddening and mean. Mine is no different. But mine, like others, also can be miraculous, kind and heroic. It was last year.

The death of my mom in July, followed by Rowena’s cancer diagnosis and other challenges this past fall, prompted our relatives to spring into action.

For one thing, all three of my cousins on my dad’s side flew to Chicago from Western New York for my mom’s memorial mass. This despite the fact that we have not been in great touch for years. And the presence of Jamie, Jill and Julie lifted my spirits at the funeral.

Then there are the Tobins. My mom, born Martha Frances Tobin, was one of eight kids. And after she died, the Tobin clan proved to be a life-saver to me, my brother, my sister and my father. Even as they mourned the loss of their own sister or sister-in-law, my aunts and uncles helped us take care of funeral arrangements, pitched in with my dad’s apartment packing and comforted us generously in those early days.

During the extra week I stayed in Chicago, for example, I took my dad to the “Prayer Porch” at my Uncle Mike and Aunt Dorothea’s house. This remarkable ritual dates back to the summer of 2012, when my cousin—and Mike and Dorothea’s youngest son—Billy Tobin died in a freak accident at the age of 19. The morning after his death, Dorothea’s sister Peggy showed up at Mike and Dorothea’s to pray with them. In the days and weeks that followed, up to 20 people would gather each morning on the porch and pray.

The original purpose was to prop up Dorothea, keep her from collapsing from the grief of losing Billy. But even when she regained her footing in the months that followed, the Prayer Porch continued. The group would meet even on freezing, dark winter mornings, warmed some by restaurant-style kerosene heaters Mike bought, and its scope expanded to petition God to aid others.

I’d been moved by the idea of the Prayer Porch, and had attended it during visits to Chicago. Now I was benefitting from it directly. My dad and I added my mom’s laminated prayer card to the half-dozen or so held on a wire stand. And I read aloud the prayer on the back: the one attributed to St. Frances that begins, “Make me a channel of your peace.”

Dorothea and the rest of my relatives have been that channel for me as I wrestled with the loss of my mom. My sister Kate graciously invited my dad to live with her and her husband in Alabama, and my brother Kirk agreed to handle the bulk of the logistical duties related to the death, including helping to sell my parents’ car. The three of us checked in with each other throughout the fall about our emotional state—and about our dad’s.

What’s more, when my dad moved back to Chicago in November to try to restart his personal and professional life, Mike and Dorothea, as well as my aunt Patti and uncle Pete—who live just outside Chicago—regularly got together with him and sent me dispatches.  

Our family circle also steadied, cared for us four San Francisco Frauenheims amid the upheaval of cancer and other shocks this fall.

Rowena’s family, centered in Scottsdale, rushed to our aid upon learning she had breast cancer. Her brother Carty and sister-in-law Bunnie are both doctors, and offered medical advice as well as moral support. When Rowena began losing her hair, for example, Carty shaved his head in solidarity. Even though the dude looks good bald, it was still touching to have him there with us. Prayers flowed from Rowena’s younger brother Steve and his wife Abbie. And Rowena’s parents Carl and Parris combined prayers with acts of generosity.

With Richie Clan members in Phoenix over Christmas

Parris came to stay with us when Rowena had her lumpectomy in November. And then when we visited all the Richies in Scottsdale for Christmas, Carl and Parris treated Rowena and me to a night at a Tucson spa. That time away from kids served as one of the “quarterly retreats” that Rowena and I have tried to observe for many years now. And this Tucson excursion, including a desert hike, luxury hotel room and exploration of the city’s hip/hippie downtown, did more than usual to refresh our relationship. It gave us a chance to take stock of a topsy-turvy year and recharge for the chemo and radiation challenges ahead.

Although all these family members tended to our spirits in the second half of 2014, my aunts Dorothea and Patti in particular held me up. Dorothea is my adopted godmother. That is, I asked her to be my godmother when my original godmother, my Aunt Gretchen, died many years ago. It made sense in a way, because Uncle Mike is my godfather. But I’ve also always been drawn to Dorothea, amazed at how she has managed to raise seven kids, teach in inspiring ways to troubled Chicago students and still find time to make me and others feel like we are worthy of her undivided attention. Her Catholic faith has bolstered my own beliefs, in part because she is brutally honest about how much death hurts.

Uncle Mike and Aunt Dorothea on a recent visit to SF

 When I texted her on New Year’s Day that my mom died in a “perfect way,” Dorothea kept it real: “Good for her. Not so good for you.”

Patti, meanwhile, has been a much-needed pep squad leader. She and Pete hosted my dad at their Naperville home just before he drove off across country with his friend Tom Mino, and it was on their patio that we all laughed about the “Overbearing Brothers” and their journey. When Rowena and the kids were still in Chicago, Patti noticed Skyla playing with their big “bernedoodle” dog Murphy. Soon after we were all back in San Francisco, Patti texted a photo of Murphy with a new haircut.

Patti sent this photo via text: "This pic is for Skyla...wishing 
you were here to throw my green ring!"

Patti’s positivity also has taken more sober forms. She made sure to remind my dad to remember the suffering of his children amidst his own grief—and he immediately responded with much greater empathy for Kirk, Kate and myself. And late one night in her kitchen, Patti taught my father and me a simple prayer to repeat again and again during the darkest moments: “Lord, have mercy on me.”

I have been surprised by the ability of Patti’s prayer to bring me peace, to keep me from unraveling. Here it was again: family coming to my aid, to our aid, in a powerful, unexpected way.

I didn’t know what a family affair this fall would be. In trying, tough times, our relatives were tenaciously present and persistently tender.

Even as I mourned the loss of my mom and worried about losing my wife, I fell in love with my family. 

Trying in 2014--Love Lengths, Life Lines

The lengths of love holding our family together on that dreary day in December had strands of patience, persistence and faith. Not just from us—but from the people around us, ranging from the gritty, caring educators at Grattan Elementary to all the friends and family who have helped raise Skyla to be independent and resourceful to the bus driver who brought her safely home.

And that formula of self-help, dogged hope and community support is largely how we held it together during the hellishness of 2014 overall.

It isn’t a new recipe for resilience. But the components have nonetheless amazed me with their intensity. As difficult, as dark as the days have been this past six months, they have met their match in moments of grace, generosity and courage.

Those start with Rowena. With her immediate plunge into the science of breast cancer and the range of possible therapies. I had an escapist streak this fall, wanting to cancel the reality of cancer by immersing myself in Lord of the Rings Movies and a Dan Brown thriller novel. But Rowena faced the scary facets of breast cancer head on, often sharing with me gruesome statistics and side effects of drug therapies.

Nor did she blink much when it came to the medical treatments. Despite some tears, she pushed through her fears of surgery and the pain associated with pre-operation procedures, post-operation recovery and chemo drugs.

Some of the procedures, by the way, were highly medieval, despite their modern technological trappings. For one biopsy, she was strapped to a table, faced-down, with her breast exposed through a hole. The entire contraption was then lifted into the air as the doctor walked under her and jabbed in a long needle. 

Even mammograms, whose name suggests a maternal, perhaps comforting activity, can be tortuous. I had no idea these images involved squeezing the breast tightly between two plates. To make sure Rowena’s tumor site was perfectly pinpointed, one mammogram meant compressing the breast to the point that fluid oozed out of her nipple—fluid that was a sign of cancer.

Rowena not only soldiered through all these physical and mental difficulties, but artist-ed her way through them as well. Our friend Joel once described Rowena as having “no left field.” And she applied that seemingly limitless sense of creativity to cancer.

In her journal, cancer became “Kancer Karl,” which also is a graffiti tag found in our Mission neighborhood. Kancer Karl had tagged our back door with his moniker some years ago, and Rowena now imagined that Kancer Karl—the breast disease—had come knocking. Rather than wear a wig as her hair thinned, Rowena opted for a black fuzzy bear hat that somehow provided the perfect accent to her fancy holiday outfit. And Rowena’s wordplay around cancer has kept us laughing with little gems like Chem’owena and “terribald” for how her patchy head looked.

The kids stepped it up as well. Julius threw some tantrums at the start of middle school, with its heightened academic and social pressures. But he found some sweet new friends and within weeks he was doing his homework and tracking his class progress online without parental prodding. He fit into a new, higher-powered soccer team and surprised me at times with his big heart. During dinner one night this fall, he declared, “If mom dies, I’m going to devote my life to finding a cure for cancer.”

Skyla willingly took on the ride-the-bus-home-by-herself challenge. She was voted a soccer co-captain and helped lead her team to a second-place finish. And she gave her mama lots of love. She asked Rowena for a cuddle in her bed every night, crocheted a wrist-warmer and necklace for Rowena for Christmas and after the lumpectomy and all-clear test results, made sure we all knew cancer’s place. That is to say, gone from Rowena’s body. “You don’t have cancer,” she said once. “You have chemo.”

Skyla’s hopeful comment was like a fiber spun into the yarn she was crotcheting into gifts for Rowena. Just a few words, but taken together with the other ways she cared for her mom, they cinched up our spirits. And that moment was woven into a longer, thicker rope of generosity and help, and many rope-lengths of love intertwined into a fabric that bound us up as the year drew to a close.

Fiber, thread, rope, fabric are miracles of nature and human capacity. How is it that soft, unsubstantial tufts of cotton or blades of grass can be transformed into strong cords, tough sails, sturdy bridges?

By twisting together, the single fibers form a strand, which can itself can be entwined with other strands. The fibers, it seems, have a natural affinity for each other. Long to wrap themselves around each other. And with a bit of prodding and plaiting they do so, growing stouter, longer, more resilient as they unite.

Just so, our family and the people around us spun their love into life lines last year. And the lines held.