Crossing the Rabbit Hole

Vignette One: In and Out of the Rabbit Hole

I didn’t think my actions would end in death. (I don’t think Buddha, my rat terrier, understood that either.)

My actions? What an arrogant statement—as though I have some control over death. There’s no control. Does that mean there’s no responsibility either?

Here’s what happened: A young rabbit was living inside an underground drain pipe that ran beside our mountain cabin and opened out near our fenced in dog run. For several days I had seen the little brown bunny scamper into the drain whenever Buddha, our rat terrier, and Zen, our mini-Australian Shepherd, chased it. The rabbit—who I thought of as a “he”—often stuck out his head to look around. Every morning the dogs ran down to the pipe first thing and peered into the opening. I could tell the exact path of the rabbit that day by the zigzag track their noses sniffed out.

I did not mind the rabbit living in the pipe, since he didn’t seem to bother anything. Besides, he was cute, and our dogs, especially Buddha, found him entertaining. I did have some concerns about what would happen when he grew up, since two summers before a large rabbit had lived on our property and destroyed almost every flower in our garden. We didn’t want a repeat of that.

“Buddha, that rabbit will never come out with us sitting so close,” I say one morning as I am pulling weeds about five feet from the drain pipe. Buddha sits between me and the drain, staring at the opening. Curious to see what Buddha will do, I stop pulling weeds and watch. Sure enough, the rabbit sticks out its head, Buddha pounces, and the rabbit quickly backs into the pipe. “You’ll never get that rabbit,” I say, laughing. After some sniffs and peering into the pipe, Buddha moves about three feet away again, between me and the opening. Like a hunting dog statue, she arches her back, front end down, one foot extended, attention firmly placed on the end of the pipe, and she waits. In a few minutes, the rabbit sticks out his head again. Buddha’s body tenses, but she doesn’t move. I don’t move either. The rabbit looks around and then comes out of the pipe and sits about five inches from the opening. I am surprised the rabbit is being so brave—or stupid.

Paying me no mind, the rabbit stares straight at Buddha—their eyes locking—the three of us not moving for three or four minutes. I feel the tension; I experience the sport, as though I am watching a live adventure Wildebeest program on the Discovery channel. How spectacular nature is!

As the rabbit dares her, Buddha very quietly and slowly moves several inches closer, never taking her eyes off her prey. She seems to be trying to anticipate when the rabbit will move, or when she might be close enough to grab it. Suddenly Buddha pounces, and the rabbit turns and bolts back into the pipe in one easy motion. “Buddha, you will never get that rabbit,” I say again, chuckling and returning to my weed pulling. I’m happy that Buddha has something exciting with which to occupy herself. It’s good to see her instincts at play. Life is so different here in the mountains where she can run free and smell new animal scents than in Tampa where she is limited to a dog park or a leashed walk in our cul-de-sac. In Tampa, she tends to stay close beside me most of the time and prefers sleeping to chasing critters.

As I resume weed pulling farther up the hill, I note that Buddha is still stalking the pipe, sniffing its opening, moving away, then back. The rabbit’s head pokes out again. Suddenly the rabbit bolts and so does Buddha. The rabbit tries to jump through a nearby wire fence into the safety of the dog run. Everything happens so fast. I can’t figure out if the rabbit gets caught in the small round holes of the wire fence and then Buddha grabs it, or if Buddha grabs it as it tries to escape and the rabbit gets stuck because it is hurt. I believe it is the latter, but maybe I just want to feel proud of my little girl. Proud? Hardly proud at the moment. I stifle a scream.

Then I do scream, “Oh my god.”

Out of sight, my partner Art yells from the front yard, “What’s wrong?” and I hear panic in his voice.

“Buddha got the rabbit,” I say.

“Oh, I thought something had happened to the dogs.”

Meanwhile, the rabbit wiggles through the fence and falls to the ground in the dog run, out of Buddha’s clutches. Clearly badly injured, the rabbit tries to turn over but can’t manage the maneuver, and flip flops on the ground. I root for the rabbit. “Come on rabbit. Get up.” Buddha keeps prancing toward the gate to the dog run, motioning with her head toward the rabbit, then turning to me as if to say, “Let me in there.”

Not knowing what to do and wanting help, I yell, “Art, the rabbit is hurt. Can you come kill it?” I am crying a little now and wanting Art to rescue the situation, as he often does when we encounter a dead animal.

“I don’t kill animals,” says Art, matter-of-factly, his disembodied voice sounding from around the house where he is spreading mulch.

“I can’t stand it,” I say. “The rabbit’s in pain, suffering. We should kill it. It’s the humane thing to do.”

“Let Buddha kill it,” he yells.

“I can’t do that,” I say.

“Let Buddha kill it and eat it,” he kids, apparently not recognizing my level of distress.

“I can’t do that,” I yell, feeling disgust at the thought.

“Jim feeds his dogs dead rabbits,” Art says.

“I’m not Jim,” I say, remembering how our neighbor, who grew up in these mountains, fed his rabbit carcasses to his dogs. I can still see Jim as he tossed dangling upside-down dead rabbits casually into his dog pen, and I can hear the loud crunching sounds the dogs made as they scarfed up the unexpected treat. Two summers before, Jim had shot and killed our problem rabbit. Before that, we had tried almost every remedy mentioned on the internet, including spreading my urine in saucers, to scare it off, and nothing worked. Shooting seemed the only solution. Though Jim recommended that we feed the dead rabbit to our dogs, I refused. Instead, I persuaded Art to deposit our rabbit carcass near our mailbox (prior to the “Rabbit Crossing” sign), having heard that a dead body would scare off other rabbits. I’m not sure this was any more humane than Jim’s solution, but it felt better. The carcass disappeared, and we didn’t have any more problems with rabbits the rest of that summer.

Last summer Buddha actually caught a rabbit. I think her success surprised her as much as it did me. When I saw the poor thing in her mouth, I screamed, and she dropped it before hurting it. Art wondered why I had responded as I did, given that rabbits had destroyed most of our flower garden the previous summer, eating leaves, gnawing bark, and pulling entire plants out of the grown. “Because I don’t want my dog to be a killer,” I had explained to Art. But in reality my scream was more a reflex than anything.

And now sweet little Buddha—our gentle companion for more than seven years who seemingly wouldn’t harm a fly—had fatally maimed a rabbit. I don’t know whether to feel proud or sad—sad takes over. Does she know what she has done? For a minute, I find it hard to look at her and wonder whether she now will have a killer instinct, after the thrill of the catch and tasting blood. If so, what will be next?

No time to think about that now. I have to deal with the situation in front of me. I envision getting a shovel and pounding the rabbit with the back of the blade. I imagine its guts shooting out, and squeals of pain. What if I injure it further but don’t kill it? Where’s Jim when you need him?

Fatally injured, the rabbit still can’t turn over or stand up. Buddha watches quietly now, though still on alert.

“I am sorry little rabbit,” I say.

“Art, come kill the rabbit,” I yell, trying one more time. “It’s suffering.”

“I’m not going to kill the rabbit,” Art’s voice sounds out.

“I can’t stand seeing this,” I say.

“Then come away from it,” the voice replies.

“I can’t leave it like this.”

“Well, then, don’t look at it.”

“I can’t stop looking,” I say.

“Then let Buddha kill it. It’s a natural instinctual process.”

Throughout this exchange, I experience an ambivalent mixture of hoping Art might intuitively understand and respond to my stress, thinking I should be able to handle this on my own, not wanting to make a big deal out of something that perhaps isn’t a big deal in the larger scheme of things, desiring comfort and companionship anyway, being somewhat irritated, and finally accepting that this is my problem to solve.

I look again at the rabbit and at Buddha, who is making movements toward the gate and then looking at me quizzically. As I once again visualize hitting the rabbit with the shovel, I decide instead to open the gate. Letting Buddha finish him off seems to be less horrible than doing it myself. I hope that Buddha won’t kill the rabbit and then I hope she will. She runs toward the rabbit, gives a sniff as the rabbit frantically turns flips with its injured body in a final desperate attempt to get away. Suddenly Buddha pounces, takes one bite out of the middle of the rabbit, and shakes the body with her mouth. Rat terriers—able to run low to the ground, quickly change directions, and move rapidly—were bred to kill rats and other small vermin, probably in just this instinctual way. Does instinct relieve her from responsibility? From now being a killer?

Perhaps thinking that Buddha is “bad” for killing the rabbit is akin to thinking my Australian Shepherd is “bad” for herding! ¹

But does her instinct relieve me from sharing responsibility for the rabbit’s death, a death I never intended? Does the fact that rabbits have severely damaged our plants in the past offer a legitimate explanation for what I have done? Have I relinquished responsibility for this death yet met my goal of getting rid of the problem, as I did when Jim came to our house to shoot the destructive rabbit? This rabbit was young and had done us no harm. Should he suffer for the sins of his forebears? How much of my grief, I wonder, comes from the rabbit’s death or from a concern that I might have acted irresponsibly in encouraging Buddha’s game?

I watch as the rabbit takes its last breaths. Buddha watches too, cautiously and from a distance now. Can dogs feel agony or is she simply responding to my distress? “Please die, rabbit,” I say out loud. “I am so sorry.” Now the tears stream down my face. I touch the rabbit gently with my shoe and he doesn’t move.

“The rabbit is dead,” I say to Art as I walk past him and Zen to get the shovel from our garage. Art doesn’t respond, just keeps spreading mulch. He wants to tend his living flowers and enjoy Zen, who is playing with her tennis ball, not agonize over a dead rabbit he has never glimpsed. I can’t blame him, though I’d like some comfort. Maybe we have to limit ourselves, take turns with grief so we aren’t both overwhelmed at the same time.

With the shovel, I scoop up the rabbit, noting his limp body and the blood that drains out. I dig a hole, say, “Rest in peace, little rabbit,” and go back toward the house. Buddha begs again to be let in to the dog run where the rabbit died. I open the gate, curious to see what she will do. She sniffs around the spot, then looks at me questioningly, which I interpret as asking, “Where’s the rabbit?” I let her out of the dog run and she rushes to the drain pipe. “No more rabbit,” I say. “Rabbit is gone.” I feel sad that I won’t see the rabbit scamper around and that Buddha won’t have the fun of chasing it anymore, probably the happiest I have ever seen her.

All that day and upon rising the next, Buddha runs to the drain, sniffs, drops her head low, and peers into the pipe. She retraces the path of the rabbit, then whines to be let into the dog run where the rabbit died. She looks at me and I imagine her thinking, “I want to play some more.”

“You miss your friend, don’t you? You want him to return?” I ask. I don’t think she understood that what she did would mean the rabbit would be gone forever. I don’t think I did either. The finiteness of death is always a bit jarring.

A week later I see another rabbit exit the pipe and Buddha takes off in failed pursuit. Perhaps Buddha isn’t looking for her “friend” at all—rather just tracking another rabbit to kill. So much for all my anthropomorphizing.

***

The rabbit hole calls to me and repels me at the same time. I experience both being in it and outside it simultaneously.

Vignette Two: Bad News on the Mountaintop

I understand why Art might resist agonizing over the death of a rabbit. In the last week, there has been more than enough agony to go around. On June 3, 2011, we found out that our friend Buddy has stage four pancreatic cancer. He’s fifty-eight, two years younger than I am and seven years younger than Art.

The news came in an e-mail from Buddy.

From: Bud Goodall

Sent: Friday, June 03, 2011 10:30 AM

To: Ellis, Carolyn

Subject: bad news

Hi Carolyn,

I am writing to you because I don’t want you to waste time on what seemed like such a good idea last week. ² Things have changed. Here’s why:

For the past three weeks I have had a sour stomach that last week began to feel like something was seriously wrong with me. I thought I had the flu. I couldn’t keep most food down and I was seldom hungry. You know me. I’ve always had a cast iron stomach and a good appetite. So at San’s urging I made an appointment to see my family doc. After running an ultrasound on my tummy, the verdict was that I needed to see a specialist. In this case, Dr. Rohit Sud, an oncologist.

Since last Thursday I have had 4 CT-scans, a whole lot of blood works, multiple examinations, and a biopsy that kept me overnight in the hospital. Before being discharged Dr. Sud, in the kindest voice imaginable, informed Nic, San, and me that I had Stage Four Pancreatic Cancer. As Christopher Hitchens memorably puts it, “And the bad news is that there isn’t a Stage Five.”

So I am entering “Cancerland,” armed with daily doses of anti-nausea medicine, narcotics, and a blood pressure pill to help curb the spikes of pain that lead to an increase in my blood pressure, which in turns leads to nausea. Next week we decide on treatment options. In the meantime, our good friends who are doctors, Harvey and Vikki, are consulting with Dr. Sud and another oncologist here that they know and trust. We will make a decision that is right for all of us.

My future will be one of chemo treatments and a lot of unpleasantness. This is a “bad cancer” that cannot be surgically removed. There are a couple of experimental treatments that show promise, but they are particularly aggressive and one goal I have for this process is to be able to function more or less normally until I can’t. I’d also like to see Nic graduate next year.

San has been rock steady and Nic came home to help out this summer. We may move back to Huntsville where San will have more support, but we may also stay here where the docs are who are most familiar with my disease. I like Dr. Sud a lot. He is a South Asian young guy with a MD from Cornell and everyone speaks highly of him. Ironically, he is part of a “narrative medicine” group that is all about hearing and recording patients’ life stories, as well as their experiences with cancer.

I’ll keep you posted as things progress, but I wanted you to know what is going on from the outset. My plan is to try not to let cancer define who I am, to try to keep busy doing things I love to do, and most of all, try not to be a burden to anybody.

Big love, Bud

***

From: Carolyn Ellis

Sent: Friday June 3, 2011, 2:59 PM

Subject: Re: Bad News

Dear Buddy, Art and I were hiking this morning and took a rest when we reached the top of the mountain. I reached for my cellphone and immediately saw your message. My heart stopped at the subject line and then began to pound. I read your message out loud to Art, not skimming ahead, somehow wanting to take in the news as you had written it to me. When I got to “stage four pancreatic cancer,” we both broke out into sobs, and I felt I cried my heart out. We’re still crying . . . cried all the way home listening to Judy Collins sing “Suzanne,” then “Turn, Turn, Turn (To Everything There is a Season),” then “Amazing Grace.”

I am not asking for your comfort, but just want you to know how hard we were hit by the news. It is hard indeed to take in, as I’m sure it is for you. You are the cheerful, upbeat person we know we can always count on to be there, participating, passionate, writing blogs, and letters when we need them. Sometimes we don’t realize how important someone is in our life until we fear losing them. You are an identity marker for me, a person out there who experiences the world a lot like I do, we share in what we think is important, we “know” each other, not completely, but well enough. You are an integral part of our community of scholars and friends, one who helps us feel that what we do is important and meaningful. And you are a dear, dear friend, someone in the world I love, even when I don’t see you, or spend much time with you. I had hoped we could spend more time together at the Congress in May than we did, but I know we both were busy there. I still owe you a drink—at least two—for the two beautiful letters you wrote me for the NEH fellowships. And many more for so many other things you have done for me directly and indirectly.

I am sorry that you won’t be applying to USF. (I think you would have been a shoe-in if we could have matched your salary. That, I thought, would have been the only reason this wouldn’t have worked.) I have been extremely excited thinking of you and Sandy joining Art and me and the gang in Florida. We would have fought Gov. Scott together and continued building a dynamite program. I somehow always thought that you might end up working with us.

It is difficult for me to face your disease, to imagine how you are feeling, what you and your family are going through. I feel helpless. I want to offer my help but am not sure what I can do. But I am here, available, if there is anything. I assume you have not told many folks at this point, and I will wait to hear from you regarding when it is appropriate to tell others. If I can help in any way in passing on the news, let me know. Also if you need a pen pal, or want to talk, whatever, let me know.

If you can indulge me for just a few more sentences: I have to tell you that Art and I held hands all the way down the mountain and felt, at that moment, that we renewed our vows to love and take care of one another. Your illness, of course, makes us think of our own mortal existence, how short this life is, and how devastated one of us would be to lose the other.

I do not think you have to worry about being a burden to your family (or friends). I think that your family and friends would see it as an honor to care for you, and that it very well could be the most meaningful thing they ever do (though also painful and difficult).

You will always be Dr. Bud to me—not a person with cancer.

Sending you the biggest Dr. Bud hug imaginable! Love carolyn

The news overwhelms Art and me, and we find ourselves talking constantly about aging, illness, and death. I am inundated with thoughts about Bud and reminded of the loss of another young colleague, John Warren, just two months before. These thoughts of illness and loss of significant people in our cohort (and younger) morph into fears of loss of those closest to me and my own mortality.

A few weeks later, Buddy starts a blog detailing his experience. ³ Each day, I turn to his blog first thing in the morning and last thing at night, seeking closeness to Buddy and understanding of his life with cancer. Reading and responding, along with other academics, to the wisdom, strength, and emotional vulnerability in Buddy’s writing makes me feel part of a caring community and helps me cope with a sense of helplessness.

***

At the same time, I feel I’m being sucked into the rabbit hole—a familiar place I’ve been many times before with the illness and loss of loved ones, ⁴ yet unfamiliar now because I haven’t had to visit it for a while. As I fall through the darkness, there doesn’t seem to be a way out.

Vignette Three: Can Lightning Strike Twice?

Soon after we hear the news of Buddy, Art and I prepare for our annual overnight hike to Mt. Leconte in the Smoky Mountains. This trip, our seventh, is always an aging marker for us, to see if we can still manage this level of exertion. This year, Tony Adams, our good friend and former student, will go with us. At the end of the eight-mile Boulevard Trail, we will stay in primitive cabins with gas heaters. From supplies brought up on llamas, we will be served a hot dinner and then breakfast the next morning before we walk down Alum Cave, a steep, wet, and rocky five-and-a-half-mile trail to the bottom. We excitedly pack our backpacks, keeping one eye on the weather report. We have made reservations a year in advance and there are no refunds or rescheduling for no shows. Thus, we are at the mercy of the weather, which for the last few weeks has been characterized by hard rain almost every day, sometimes with pounding hail. We head off early on the morning of June 28, though the forecast continues to predict scattered rain, severe in places, and possibility of hail. Are we brave or stupid?

The mountain walk is rain-free (though threatening), beautiful, and exhilarating. We feel we have gotten a weather reprieve. The walk is also tiring, and Tony (who is half our ages) carries more than his share, including a bottle of wine for toasting at the top. Art and I arrive home pleased that we have made it up and down the mountain again this year, that the hike was so much fun, and that we have had quality time and experience with Tony. We feel we are home free.

The first clue that something is not right is that we have no electricity. The second is a large indentation in the flower garden, shaped like a trench, about eight inches wide, eight inches deep, and five feet in length. At one end of the trench, a thick metal stake holding up a decorative metal flower has been broken off in the middle. At the other end of the trench, the flower top, along with pieces of our railroad ties and one of Art’s prize dahlias, has been tossed across the driveway. We can’t believe that we have been away only thirty hours and, in that time, we have lost electricity and an animal has destroyed part of our landscape. “Probably a bear,” agree the neighbors, who hear the news and come to see.

“Yes, there was a storm the day before,” our neighbor Ronnie tells us, when he hears about our electrical outage, “but we did not lose electricity.”

“We didn’t either,” says Dan, “though we did lose a modem.”

“We heard a loud explosion in the middle of the day. We thought our house was hit by lightning and went looking for fire. Just thought you should know,” says Joe, who drops by as the rest of us continue staring at the trench.

“I heard it too,” says Joy, Jim’s wife, “and I knew it had struck nearby. It rained several inches in a few minutes. Worst storm I’ve ever experienced on this mountaintop,” and she’s lived around this mountain for all of her sixty-nine years. “Three feet of water stood in my yard and I was afraid it would come into the basement. I tried standing in the middle of the house but I was afraid the chimney would fall on me. I went from one room to another.”

Duke Power comes quickly and replaces our house transformer. When the electricity comes on, Tony, Art, and I have dinner and celebrate that we are home free, until I discover the phones aren’t working. Then Art suggests I check the computers. When I do, the monitor screen is black; the modem, router, scanner, and surge protector they are linked to, all are dead. Then Art discovers the CD player and TV receiver aren’t working. “We can cope with no TV, but we will go crazy without our computers,” we agree, trying to keep ourselves and each other as calm as possible. Tony busies himself cleaning the kitchen and then writing on his computer, as Art and I make lists about what we have to do the next day.

The week before, we had no water because of a community well problem. Now no electricity, phones, or computer connection to the outside world. We toss and turn that night. Next morning early, as soon as Tony leaves for home, we make dueling phone calls. The satellite repair person, who lives sixty miles away and is the only person in the area certified to work on our equipment, is going on vacation and not sure he can help us. The phone company, which has lines down everywhere from all the severe storms this summer, says a repairperson can’t come for nine days. We persist and threaten to cancel services, which speeds up the responses.

We jump in our Honda van and head to Best Buy, thirty miles away, to get the equipment we need for the computer repair person who has finally agreed to come that afternoon. We have just enough time to get our electronics and be back home for our scheduled appointment. Before we reach the highway, I notice that our air conditioner in the van is not cooling.

“How can this be? Not this too,” I say to Art.

Art says, “Oh, no. There is a light on the dash.”

“What does it say?” I ask.

“Battery sensor. Look it up.”

As I’m leafing through the instruction booklet from the glove compartment, Art says, “Now more icons are flashing. Look this one up too. . . .” We both have been fairly calm until now, but suddenly we both move to frantic, apparent in Art’s voice and in my sudden tears.

“I can’t look up everything at once,” I say, “and I’m really stressed out.”

“I need you to help me right now,” says Art.

“And I will, but we can’t drive the van like this,” I say, “and now we will miss our appointment with the computer guy. Take me home. I need a minute to decompress.”

Art takes me home, and I head into the house. Immediately our cleaning women arrive and six of them pile out of the cargo van. As I head out the back door, Art says, “I have a plan. Get in our Jeep [a fifteen-year-old car that we drive around the mountain.]”

“We can’t leave the dogs with the cleaning women here,” I say.

“I’ll take the dogs. Follow me.” Art drives the van to a neighborhood mechanic, leaves it there, and we head in the Jeep to Best Buy.

“All the lights were flashing by the time I got to the mechanic,” says Art. “It looked like a Christmas tree.”

“How could this be happening? The animal, the electricity, now our three-month-old car with 2000 miles on it?” I ask. “Maybe our neighbor Ronnie is right. He said ‘the gods are mad.’ He thinks we need to make a sacrifice.”

Art stays with the dogs while I purchase everything we need at Best Buy. As soon as we leave the store, the telephone repairman calls and says he is at our house already. Ronnie comes down to let him into our house to replace the burned-out wires. The computer repairman, who is at our house when we arrive, fixes the satellite and modem, though he can’t do anything about the destroyed hard-wired Ethernet connections in our computers. The next day the TV repairman gets our Direct TV up and running.

Neighbors call and stop by to see how they can help. Joy brings us squash from her garden. When I tell her about the van, she says, “I bet it got hit by lightning, too,” and suddenly everything falls into place. What happened is so obvious. The electricity, the van, the hole! The hole is only a few feet from where the van was parked in front of the garage door that no longer will open.

“That hole was not made by an animal,” I say to Joy. “That’s where the lightning hit before it ran into our house.” For weeks after, our plants in that area will develop burns on their leaves, then curl up and die. When we tell the local mechanic our theory, he says he has never seen a car hit by lightning. We have our van towed fifty-five miles away to the closest Honda dealer in Asheville. It will take nine days to repair the van’s electronic computer. Every time the mechanic replaces one part, another light flashes on. The manager says he’s never seen a car get hit by lightning either. So much for the car being the safest place to be in during a lightning storm. Later, we will note large nicks covering the door of the van, most likely from the hail.

“When you have a direct hit like this,” says the electrician who checks our wiring, “there is nothing that will stop the lightning.”

“I guess it’s one of the costs of living on top of a mountain ridge,” says the insurance man we visit. “You’re more likely to be in the path of lightning.” Because of our high deductible, we are not eligible for reimbursements.

“Expect other things to fail,” says my brother-in-law, predicting the problems we will have weeks later with wireless Ethernet connections in our computers and blown sensors in our clothes dryer.

We think about how frightened our dogs must have been during the storm, alone, with only a neighbor checking in on them. We also realize the risk we took hiking during severe storm warnings. The lightning could have struck on the open ridge of the trail, less than an hour’s travel from our house. We vow to reconsider some of the risks we take, though we know we don’t have control over the weather and that lightning can strike anywhere at any time.

The storms in our area are worse than ever, and we talk constantly about climate change. Well, Art and I talk; most of the people on the ridge don’t believe in climate change. I’m starting to feel ready to return to Tampa, until I realize we will land back in the lightning capital of the world just in time for hurricane season, predicted this year to be worse than usual.

***

Rabbit holes, lightning holes, no light, some light, then. .

Vignette Four: Heart Trouble

A few weeks later on July 23, we get a long distance call from Mindi, the daughter of our neighbors, Ardie and Doug. Our closest friends in the area, they are among the few people here who really “know” us and share our progressive’s view of the world. Mindi asks that we check on her parents.

“We thought they were on their way to the hospital,” I say, reflecting the phone call we had with Ardie earlier in the morning, when we called to see if they needed anything from the grocery store. “Doug’s staph-infected wounds have gotten worse,” Ardie had said. Given that Doug had diabetes, these were serious.

“They haven’t left the house yet,” says Mindi. “I’m worried about them.”

We race up to their house. Doug, who is seventy-one, is in excruciating pain, can’t walk, and needs help to get to the car. Most of Ardie’s and Doug’s attention is on finding Doug’s lost wallet. Art and I join in the search but when we see it is futile, we help them get themselves and their things together and send them on their way to the hospital in Asheville, about fifty miles away.

The next day we find out that, in addition to the wounds that might mean amputation of his leg, Doug’s heart is not working properly and his kidneys are shutting down. “Things look grim,” the family says. Art and I cry together when we get the news, then pitch in to take care of their dogs and house and water Doug’s prize tomatoes, while the family holds vigil at the hospital. Doug is heavily sedated and “out of it” most of the time, but still is able to say that he wants to try dialysis. The family abides by his wishes, though the doctors say his heart will not withstand it, given his advanced heart disease. “He isn’t ready to die yet,” says his daughter.

When I feed the dogs, I notice the “Gator” blanket that Art had given Doug, only a week before. It is made up of hand-sewn patches of alternating orange and blue colors with “Go Gators” in each orange square. When Art saw it, he knew he had to buy it for Doug, a loyal University of Florida Gators fan. The gift had been a hit. Between the visit to give Doug his gift and his trip to the hospital, we saw Doug only once when we had dinner with him, Ardie, and two of their daughters. That night Doug ate two big cobs of corn and lots of barbecued pork, chicken, and all the fixings. Uncharacteristically, we drank Dewar’s 12-year-aged Scotch and toasted with Bailey’s Cream for dessert. Did we somehow know this would be our last dinner with Doug?

After six days in the hospital and two dialysis treatments, Doug and his family decide to stop treatment, and he is moved to Hospice. We visit Doug one last time and are happy when we can still communicate with him. He seems peaceful, resigned, tells us not to cry and to take care of ourselves, and holds Art’s hand tightly. “Don’t let this happen to you,” he says.

On our way to and from Hospice, we listen to the debates about the debt ceiling deadline in two days, budget cuts, and the nonexistent rise in taxes for the rich. Life feels surreal.

***

I walk one way, retrace my steps, then try another direction. Nothing makes sense. I can’t find my way out of the rabbit hole into which I’ve fallen.

Vignette Five: Creating New Paths

As always, since hearing Buddy’s news, I check his blog before going to sleep. On July 19, 2011, “Round Three” is a detailed, emotional, and surprisingly uplifting account of his third chemotherapy treatment.

When we share our stories I learn interesting facts not just about cancer, or about cancer treatments, or about dealing with some of the negative side effects, but I also learn about our common humanity, our sense of community, and the vital importance of acting on the big difference in attitude, in communication, and in outlook between living with cancer rather than focusing on dying from it.

Living with cancer is living with hope. It is embracing the happiness that is always available if we just look for it, and making others happy whenever we can. It is accepting the fact of death with a decent, if at times irreverent sense of humor. Last but certainly not least, living with cancer means believing that our lives matter. The goodness we do and have done, the joy we still bring and have long brought to others, the knowledge and skills and stories we pass on, will go on and live on after we die.

Living with cancer is also living fully in each day and in each moment, the “here and now” that is really all we have to live in. One benefit of that life strategy over any other option is that living fully in the present denies the time wasting, the life wasting habit of living for the “there and then” that is already gone. Life moves forward, not backward. (Goodall, July 19, 2011; retrieved from http://www.hlgoodall.com/Blog/Round-Three.html)

Bud is on a new path and sharing his wisdom with us. I hear you, Dr. Bud.

***

For Art’s sixty-sixth birthday on July 25, I hire our neighbor Jim and his son-in-law to build a rock path for us. What starts as a simple walk way in a cleared-out area of our property ends up a ribbon of blue and brown fieldstones weaving in and out of the woods, three times the planned length. The path brings smiles to our faces as we take our evening walk and watch the dogs scamper over the rocks and through the woods. As we head up one branch of the path, new rock steps lead us into our flower garden. There we inspect the dinner plate dahlias that are slowly opening into their delightful bursts of color. Then toward the front of the house, we admire the pink and red Crape Myrtles in full bloom. Around the side, we see the massive rocks—bigger than an air conditioner unit—that Jim has found in the mountains, dug and transported on his tractor shovel, and placed with his track hoe in exactly the right spots to set off our landscaping. We walk through the field of red crocosmia and roses covering our side bank, spending time admiring their beauty and taking in their smells. I cut a few of the red, purple, and multicolored gladiolas that dot the landscape, while Buddha and Zen run over to the drain pipe to sniff for more critters.

***

From inside the rabbit hole, I glimpse a sliver of light in the distance, as the sun begins to set. Perhaps a new path will get me out of this—for now anyway.

Walking the Walk

When it rains, it pours. Has it poured this summer or has this been a run-of-the mill season with typical highs and lows? Are there more crises in general occurring now—vicious storms and weather extremes; political hostage-taking and financial disasters; national debt ceiling calamities, political decay, and public morality predicaments? It seems that way, but I doubt that those who lived through the depression, two world wars, and/or the Holocaust would agree. Collective tragedies aside, many of our friends and family members are coping with serious illnesses; a large number already have died. Given that I turned sixty last year, none of this should come as a surprise. Living in it and through it, though, is another matter entirely.

Abstract historical and generational perspectives go only so far in making me feel better about loss and disaster. What I need is to process the details of my particular existence, working from the specifics to my relationships and place in the world, looking backward, returning to where I am now, and then forward to what I hope life can be in the future.

I wrote the story about Buddha and the rabbit hole on June 13, the day after the event occurred. The rest of the stories tumbled after, as they happened during the summer, ending with “Heart Trouble,” which unfolded over two weeks during the hospitalization and death of our friend, Doug. Reflecting in writing on loss as these events happened around me proved to be therapeutic. At the same time, I vowed not to let the writing take over the living of the experience, or to let the soothing of my own pain take over my concern for the much deeper pain of others. I was determined that writing contribute to, not interfere with, living life the best I could. Though significant in terms of meaning making, work and writing are not the whole of life.

In fact, what happened this summer is that writing provided a playback therapy session and became synergistic with the living of life. Making sense of my experiences in writing cleared the lens through which I experienced living, made my senses more sensitive, my heart more open, and helped me to settle my mind and spirit so that I could be more aware and appreciative of life in the present moment and compassionately embrace the suffering of others (Chris Patti, personal communication).

Writing moved me to action, as each day I contemplated at my desk what had occurred, who I had been, and how I might do better tomorrow. I visited Doug in Hospice in spite of how hard it was to see him close to death. I took care of Doug’s dogs and tomatoes, called the family several times a day, took over our neighborhood association finances from Ardie, and rallied the neighbors. I was committed to seek out ways to help, refusing to think of myself as “too busy,” an excuse I too often find myself using to justify my lack of actions on behalf of others. Life became story and story became life, as I reflected daily on how I wanted to live, life’s meaning, and the importance of commitment to the other.

At the same time, the autoethnographic voices in my head asked important questions. “Was my heart really as open as I was claiming?” the voice asked. “After all, I made sure never to miss a day of writing or our long evening walks, and after a few good cries, I kept myself rather stoic.” “It’s good to stay balanced,” I responded, “and better to focus on what one did rather than what one didn’t do. There is always more one can do.” “Was I taking on a role that would make me look good in my story?” the voice asked. “I don’t think so, because I acted willingly and lovingly, and felt fully present in each act,” I answered. “Would I have shown just as much concern to others without writing and reflecting?” the voice asked. “Perhaps,” I answered. “I can’t really know. But even if that is true, what difference would it make?” The voice asked, “Did writing serve sometimes to intensify my grief?” I answered, “Yes, it did, but losing a friend is worthy of intense pain and not something I want to shy away from. Loss is part of living a full, loving life.” Then the clincher. The voice asked, “Was it ethical to use my friends’ pain for a story?” “That’s an important concern,” I answered, “and I trust my gut here: It feels right to write this story. From Doug’s family’s reactions, I believe they consider my writing a tribute. Besides, this piece has to be as significant a way to remember a loved one as an unembodied/unemotional fact-oriented obituary.”

***

I jump out over the side and walk slowly away from the rabbit hole, then look back, to keep the vision of it in my mind’s eye.

Reflecting on Autoethnographic Writing as Life Review

Writing autoethnography about recent and particular events, such as what happened this summer, offers the possibility of continuous, ongoing life review, though it differs significantly from the life review examination done by people facing the end of life. ⁵ Life review has been viewed as a psychological process, often enacted by people near death, those with chronic or life-threatening diseases, the condemned, elderly, or those in transition. ⁶ The process may be conscious or unconscious and may occur orally in the presence of others or internally as thoughts or dreams (Butler, 1963; Molinari & Reichlin, 1984-1985). In life review, people reminisce about and grapple with the remote past, their thoughts often spanning a lifetime (Butler, 1963; Molinari & Reichlin, 1984-1985) and focusing on dramatic transitions and losses (Pillemer, 2001). Life review offers the possibility of coming to terms with the past, rather than a strategy to go on. ⁷

I call the process in which I have engaged here autoethnographic life review. In this practice, I write about specific recent events that hold significance for my life. Rather than examining what happened apart from the rest of life, I present these events in the context of the trials and tribulations of my daily life. I write these stories to cope with and incorporate loss into living, and I examine these experiences and my reactions to gain insight into how I want to live now and in the future and toward what ends my life be aimed. I write to figure out what to do.

While researchers other than autoethnographers have promoted the value of personal writing as a therapeutic process, this writing often takes place in formal therapeutic or medical settings (Bolton, 1998a, 1998b). Many of these researchers emphasize the value of free writing—writing quickly without much thought (see, for example, Bolton, 1995; Penn, 2001; Pennebaker, 1997). While there is value in that technique, free writing provides only a preliminary step in the process of writing as inquiry (Richardson, 2000). Writing to inquire into the meanings of experience requires revision after revision, until the author has examined events, feelings, and thoughts in as deep and thorough a way as possible. The result of multiple revisions is an evocative literary story, the crafting of which leads to more insight and possibilities for incorporating these events into living, communicates these experiences evocatively to readers, and leaves open the possibility that they might consider and reconsider their own lives in light of what they have read (see, for example, Adams, 2011; Bochner, in press; Tamas, 2011; Tillmann-Healy, 1996; Wyatt, 2010). In the best of all worlds, we then continue to rewrite, retell, and reanalyze these events in light of the responses we get to our published stories and the new experiences we have, much as we do in real life (see Ellis, 2009).

Instead of waiting for old age, physical or mental illness, or my death bed, I write to recall and understand the events that happened this summer and to get some perspective on how to cope with them now and in the future. I write to remember joy, grieve my losses, and think about how I want to live within existing constraints and possibilities. Writing leads me to celebrate the love I share with Art and our dogs; good health; a calling to write, research, and teach; students and colleagues I love and admire; two homes in beautiful places with lush gardens, forest trails, friends, and community in both; and enough financial resources to keep it all afloat. My life is rich and full.

Autoethnographic life review makes me think about the principles to which I might rededicate my life. As Buddy writes in his blog, I prompt myself to make every moment count and to be fully in the moment, though I know that won’t always happen. I endorse the value in engaging passionately with life. I recall the importance of getting outside myself and being part of something larger about which I care. I reaffirm that what matters most is love, family, friendship, community, and social justice. I promise to honor, as one neighbor says, that we all are vulnerable and need someone sometime. As Shames and Barton (2004, p. 7), quoting the Talmud, recommend, I will try “to live as though [I’ll] live forever, yet be prepared to die tomorrow.” We all will die; it’s how we live that matters.

As Buddy reminds us, “Worrying about [death] is pointless and may even hasten it. Yes, the necessary end-of-life legal paperwork is already signed and there is no doubt that one of these otherwise fine days it will be useful. But until then. . . . Until then, life, wonderful life in all of its splendid beauty, mystery, and possibility, goes on. . . .” (Goodall, July 19, 2011; retrieved from http://www.hlgoodall.com/Blog/Round-Three.html)

I read Buddy’s blog and prompt myself to think for the moment about the possibilities that await, the things I still want to see and do, the love I can give and receive, the stories that I should tell and hear. There is no time to waste. I have plans for travel and many hikes yet to take, though perhaps not during severe weather warnings. I am committed to deep conversations, watching sunsets, eating good food, and playing with my dogs. I want to do work that matters and I rededicate myself to my research with Holocaust survivors (Rawicki & Ellis, 2010). I have much to learn from survivors about grief, loss, and resilience in the face of unspeakable tragedy. In return, I offer them an empathic listener and witness who is committed to collaboratively writing and analyzing their stories, preserving them for future generations. This is my contribution to making the world a better and more just place.

I feel better having written these stories and gone through this examination. I feel more able to cope with the daily struggles of life. Writing orders the fragments of my life and gives me an illusion of control, even as the pulsating fragments that won’t lie still remind me of how little control I actually have. In the process, I come closer to letting go of control and “riding the waves” as I deal with the inherent suffering of life (Chris Patti, personal communication; see also Kabat-Zinn, 1990, p. 285). I come closer to understanding that the whole of life is lived within the dialectical tension of opposites in an intertwined circle—loss and love, dark and light, danger and beauty in nature, absence and presence, vulnerability and resiliency, death and life—and I come nearer to embracing more fully this way of being now (see, for example, Patti, 2012)

***

I turn back and show you the rabbit hole. Then we walk away, comforted by our common plight. We continue on the trail in front of us, fully recognizing our paths will diverge, return to the rabbit hole, end somewhere. But for now, we are engaged in the wonders of the journey.

***

You say you should go now. Oh, stay, if you will, just a while longer. This is precious time together. You breathe in the fresh air, deeply. More tea? You nod. Now, tell me about your summer, your joys and sorrows. I want to hear. You talk. I listen. Then we sit in quiet, penetrated only by the chirping songs of the katydids, the distant pecking of a woodpecker, the wind picking up. Look. Suddenly the pillow of clouds floats up out of the trees. Do you see them? The peaks there in the distance? You nod again. The orange sun escapes from the clouds and then falls quickly behind the mountains. In the twilight, a radiant pink “V” spreads over the mountains.