The second horrible anniversary

By date, today is the second horrible anniversary of my Nigel’s death, but dates on a calendar don’t really matter: Nigel’s been gone two years, and my life was utterly ripped apart when he died.

In the time since then, I’ve tried to figure out how to rebuild my life, and while I’m a long way from achieving that, I continue to make progress. My goal is to make sure that that the thing Nigel said over and over in his last days comes true: That I’m okay. Most days and in most ways, I am okay, and I’ve worked pretty hard to get here. I had to: I owed it to both of us.

I miss Nigel like crazy every single day, and there’s still literally nothing I wouldn’t do to get our life together restored. What I’ve learned over this second year without him, though, is that all of that can be true and I can still be okay. The secret is that our love for each other gave me the strength and determination I needed to take this journey.

I guess you could say that after two years on that journey I’m okay and slowly getting “okayier” all the time.

But I absolutely do miss Nigel as much as I ever have. AND I’m okay.

Songs that can make me cry

It’s Sunday of a weekend in which I’m marking the second anniversary of losing Nigel, and since I began this month with a video of a song that’s now my September theme song, this seemed like a good a time to share a couple songs that can make me cry. Both have special resonance with me, but also personal connections. The truth is, though, that sometimes I now just enjoy the songs, remembering things, but not crying—not always, anyway. 

The song above is "Years From Now" by American band Dr. Hook, a track on their 1979 album, “Sometimes You Win”. It was released as a single in 1980, and was their least successful of the four original singles on the album.

I had the album at one point, but I don’t remember that song from it—but, then, in 1979/80, I was avoiding thoughts about relationships, since I was still closeted. Nearly 30 years later, however, I heard it (again?) when our niece sang it. It made me think of me and Nigel, and I told her she had to sing it at our wedding. Getting legally married was something that relied on what at the time seemed like an unlikely law change, but in the meantime, in 2009, Nigel and I held our Civil Union ceremony, and our niece sang the song for us.

For years, even before that ceremony, I always got teary listening to it, and after Nigel died, it made me cry. Sometimes, it still does. So, I had and still have a particularly strong personal connection to that song [Read the LYRICS].

The song hit Number 72 in Australia, 63 in Canada, 47 in the UK, and 51 un the USA. It didn’t chart in New Zealand. Not that any of that matters to me, of course.

Next up, a song by Irish singer/songwriter (etc.) Ronan Keating, his 2002 cover version of Garth Brooks’ 1989 country music hit—and his first country Number One—“If Tomorrow Never Comes”:

Keating’s version was never released in the Canada or the USA, but it was successful in other countries I write about: Number 3 in Australia (Platinum), 3 in New Zealand (Gold), and Number One in the UK (Platinum). It was also Number 3 in Ireland.

Keating’s version was, I think, the first I heard, but I didn’t especially like it (I probably said my usual noncommittal, “It’s alright…”). I liked other songs by him (and I liked some less than this one), and I also liked songs from Boyzone, the band he was co-lead singer of before his solo career. This particular song just wasn’t one that I especially liked.

Nigel, who knew pop music far better than I ever could hope to, knew it was by Garth Brooks, and he played the original version for me [LISTEN]. I prefer Brooks’ version, if I’m truly honest, but YouTube doesn't have a decent copy of the original video made for his version, and vidoes that are there are often of poor quality. Besides, in the pop world where I spend most of my time, Keating’s version was absolutely the one I heard the most, by far. So, Keating it is.

The whole point, anyway, is the lyrics, which is what made this song reappear in my consciousness when Nigel died. I could clearly imagine him having similar thoughts in his last couple of weeks, and I also wondered if the love he gave me would “be enough to last” (so far, yes).

Music provides the soundtrack to our lives, as so many have said, one way or another. It’s no surprise, then, that songs like these two can affect me because of my current particular reason. These aren’t the only two songs that do that, of course—I’ve shared some others in previous posts—but these two still stand out. Others will come along no doubt, because that’s what happens with music. Maybe those songs will get a post, too. Anything’s possible with music.

There are always firsts

The thing about profound grief that people can’t understand if they haven’t experienced it, is that it’s never actually “over”. It definitely changes over time—searing pain diminishes, missing them softens, the ability to carry on without the lost one increases—but it’s always there, the embers waiting to be fanned into full flame. Anything can do that, like a memory popping up, finding something belonging to the one lost, and, maybe least obvious, firsts. Firsts never actually stop.

Anyone who’s lost a particularly important person will immediately know what this means, but to illustrate this, here’s the sequence of firsts I experienced after Nigel died: The anniversary of when we got legally married, the anniversary of my arrival in New Zealand to stay, Christmas, New Year’s, my birthday, the anniversary of our Civil Union, Nigel’s birthday, and then the first anniversary of Nigel’s death. Those are the kinds of things that most people who haven’t experienced profound grief are at least vaguely aware of, but there’s so much more.

How about the other, less obvious firsts? Like the first time I did the laundry after Nigel died, or the first time I bought milk, or the first time I ran out of peanut butter and had to buy more, or the first time I drove anywhere, or the first time I had pizza, or the first time I had a doctor’s appointment. The first time that such everyday things roll round, they’re reminders of what we’ve lost, both the person and their place in our lives. The reminders don’t actually stop, though, over time, we’ll probably notice them less.

The photo above is actually an example of how the silliest, most insignificant and utterly banal things can trigger an awareness of a first. It’s of a mangled, empty box of baking paper. I bought that box at least three years ago, possibly more, and refilled it many times since. The box was ratty from use when I moved into this house, but it started to get really bad here (the drawer I keep wraps in isn’t ideal for that). I knew I had to get a whole new box, not just a roll of baking paper, so I tried one that’s supposedly more “eco friendly”, and when I put the new box away, I was instantly aware that it was the first time I’d replaced a box of baking paper since Nigel died—baking paper!

This isn’t just a silly example of how firsts can pop-up unexpectedly, at any time, and triggered by anything (even a box of baking paper!), because there’s something else in that example: Evidence of change. If I was still in the depths of grief, I probably would’ve replaced it with exactly what I’d had before, but I didn’t: I decided to try something that might align with my values (jury’s still out on that), and that’s something I also probably would’ve done if Nigel was still alive. In this case, the first wasn’t really a reminder of what was or of what I’ve lost, it was, in a sense, a sign of a return to what’s normal for me, and my awareness of that, I’m pretty sure, was also a first.

The other side of these firsts is that they’re not always about remembering loss or pain or despair or how empty one’s life is without the one lost in it, they can also be a sign of moving forward, of shifting into the life one is trying to build without the loved one. Such firsts can be big—buying a new car, shifting into a new house, getting a new job—or they can be tiny and unimportant, like, yes, buying a new box of baking paper. The what doesn’t matter, it’s the why, and moving forward is always an important why, regardless of how small it may seem.

I’ve completed all the first anniversaries since Nigel died, and right now I’m beginning the cycle of second ones. So far, the seconds seem to be much easier for me than the firsts ever were. The firsts that still happen for me now aren't usually about events, nor even about the basics of adjusting to losing someone so important to me in every sense. Instead, they're now starting to be about the first steps toward whatever my new life will end up becoming. That’s an enormously positive thing, and one I probably wouldn’t have believed was even possible last year, as the first round of first anniversaries drew to a close.

It’s true that for anyone experiencing profound grief, firsts never actually stop. However, with time, patience, and probably a lot of deep breaths, those firsts can actually be opportunities for growth, not grief. Two years ago, people basically told me that when they said things would get eventually better. I, of course, didn’t actually believe them. At all. Turns out, I had to experience it myself, first.

104 weeks ago today

Today is 104 weeks since I lost love of my life, Nigel. By date, the second horrible anniversary will be on Monday, but it’s today when measured by weeks. That’s really just semantics, and changes nothing about the reality of what’s being remembered. But that was about an ending, and not about what happened before it, so this horrible anniversary is really about me, and those who mourn Nigel. Which is why I’ve been so surprised by this day today.

I don’t want to oversell, over promise, or in any way raise expectations, but, something feels different today, and positive. Nigel’s been on my mind all day, of course, and I’ve missed him like crazy, like always. However, I’ve also been okay.

I planned a quiet day today: I needed to pick up a prescription refill, and I wanted to pick up a few things for a couple projects. I also thought I might get a haircut, but, in the end, I found shopping under Level 2 restrictions somewhat confronting, and I’ve never gotten a haircut at Level 2. So, I decided to just be kind to myself and skip it for now. Especially because of my next stop.

I had to go to Countdown to get my prescription, and I’ve never been to a Countdown at anything other than Level One because I found it too stressful (I've been to New World under other Alert Levels, though). I did some grocery shopping while they got my prescription ready.

Then, I went home, because what I wanted most was just a quiet day at home with Leo, and for a simple reason: Today wasn’t only about Nigel, because we lost Jake one week ago today. Leo and I had a good afternoon, in the end. Dogs are really good at making us feel good, even when they're not trying.

I suppose I could’ve expected something positive today: The sun was shining this morning, after a week of rain and clouds, and that’s always a good thing. But the skies grew cloudy, and the temperatures stayed stubbornly cool. That could’ve ruined things—but I still felt okay.

I don’t know if this is the start of a new phase in my grief journey, or just a calm patch; maybe things will be worse on Monday? I have no idea. But I do feel like something has changed, something I can only think to call, I don’t know, peace? No wonder I’ve been so surprised by this day. I’ll soon know if the surprise continues.

Still, Nigel’s been on my mind all day, and I’ve missed him like crazy, like always. However, I’ve also been okay, and that’s just a surprise, whether it lasts or not.

Related
”52 Weeks” – My blog post from last year.

The image above is something I posted to my personal Facebook this morning. The original text of a short comment I made on that post is incorporated into this blog post, though revised, expanded, and updated.

Careful adaptations

It can be hard to adapt to changes, especially when it means adapting to sad changes. It’s even harder for our furbabies who can’t discuss things or even understand what’s happening. I have strategies I’ve been forced to learn; I hope they’ll help others.

The first and most important thing to know is that dogs in particular can and do grieve the loss of one of their pack—human or animal. Even so, individual dogs can seem, or actually be, unaffected. Cats may mourn, too, but they’re less social by nature, so grief, it it’s there, may not be as obvious as it is with dogs. In either case, watching a furbaby’s behaviour can direct how we can help them.

The most important thing is to try and stick to routine: Feed them at the same times, take them for walks or let them out into the yard as normal. Treats are best given like normal, and no extra treats. Furbabies don’t tend to “feel better” just because they get a treat, even though they’ll no doubt like the treat.

While keeping normal routines, it’s also important to not move too quickly to remove the things associated with the one who’s been lost. My own advice is that when you do start removing things, do so as surreptitiously as possible.

Here’s how I’m doing all of this for Leo.

First, I haven’t removed the towel Jake was wrapped in, nor have I removed the blanket he was laying on when he died. I planned to start that this evening, beginning with the towel: When I let Leo outside after his dinner, the plan was, I’d go get the towel and put it in the laundry area in the garage. Then tomorrow I planned do the same thing with the blanket. One step at a time.

I left Jake’s bowl alone for a full day, but over the weekend I picked it while Leo was outside, did a quick wash by hand, then put it in the dishwasher. Later, I took the bowl out of the dishwasher after the drying cycle was completed, and quietly put in the bench to cool off. Later that evening, I put away the step stool Jake’s bowl was on while Leo was outside. The following morning, again while Leo was outside, I put Jake’s clean bowl in the garage with Sunny’s bowl (and this is where it’s obvious I’m a human: I can’t yet bear to do anything with those bowls).

The common thread in all this is that I remove things when they’re out of Leo’s sight. This works because they’re not stuff he’d normally pay any attention to, anyway. Removing the blanket may be challenging because he jumps onto the blanket box, and crosses that blanket, every time he jumps up to get on the bed. So, he’ll notice that it’s missing while it’s in the wash, and that’s precisely why I’ve left that until last.

One other thing I do is to try to make sure I give Leo plenty of attention. I’ve always done that, of course, but I’m making sure I do it. Part of that’s about sticking to routine, but also making sure he feels safe, secure, and loved amid the confusion and the unsettling events.

Still, I do make mistakes. The first night after Jake died, I put Leo’s dinner bowl in the kitchen, rather than in the lounge, where he’d always been fed (because he wouldn’t eat unless he was fed well away from the others). He didn’t want to eat. It took a couple more days, and some moves back and fourth before he adjusted to eating in the kitchen. We got there, but it was a slow process, and probably more difficult than it needed to be.

The bigger failure was tonight. I picked up the towel as I’d planned, but Leo came back into the house much faster than I’d anticipated (it was raining). He caught me moving the towel, so I dumped it on a different part of the floor, and he duly gave it a thorough sniffing.

Ultimately, the important thing is to do the best we can, not try to be perfect: No one’s perfect, obviously, and we’ll get some things wrong. As long as we try to make a furbaby’s adjustment to loss as easy for them as we can, and as long as we try to help them feel safe, secure, and loved, they’ll be fine.

One last bit of advice: All grief, human or furbabies’, is highly individual. There are no timelines or timetables, and things will take as long as they take. If we focus on helping our furbabies get through their grief, they’ll be fine. And so will we.

Honouring an important stranger

Wrapping up 24 years of my life has been hard to do because it necessarily means dealing with so much stuff from Nigel’s life. And then there’s the stuff from Nigel’s life before me, something challenging in its own way. Today is a good day to reflect on that, and to tell a tale I’ve never told before.

On September 14, 1993, Nigel’s partner before me, Gary, died from complications of HIV/AIDS. Nigel had spent a lot of time at the hospital toward the end, but wasn’t there when Gary died. “I think he waited until I wasn’t there,” he told me. The one thing he didn’t tell me, though, was the date Gary died: I found that out when I found Gary’s death certificate among Nigel’s papers.

Nigel was broken by Gary’s death as I was by Nigel’s, but he’d just turned 29, and was far too young to remain alone, something his mother specifically said to him. She was right, of course, and Nigel dated some guys before we met, breaking off those efforts when he and I became serious.

I arrived in New Zealand as a tourist on September 12, 1995, and Nigel played host and guide, showing me the sites as we waited to see if we were really compatible. He took me to Rotorua (of course!), and I noticed that he seemed to have become distant. I felt even communication was becoming strained, so when we were sitting in the motel room in Rotorua, I finally said to him, “Look, if you don’t want to continue this, that’s fine—just say so. We’ve both got a lot riding on this, and if you don’t want to go on, we don’t have to, but we need to decide before we go too far.” I was specifically thinking about me moving to the other side of the world, which is a rather big deal. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken so bravely in my entire life, before or since, but it was important to not waste time.

He came round, and the Nigel I’d fallen for was back. What happened after that point was our 24-year-long story. However, at the time I never knew why Nigel had started acting differently in Rotorua, not until I started going through Nigel’s papers recently: Nigel started acting differently, I now know, because that was around the time of the second anniversary of Gary’s death. I well know how present that date is in a widower’s mind.

Nigel would’ve had mixed emotions: He probably had feelings of “betraying” Gary, but he would’ve seen that as irrational when he knew that Gary wanted him to live his life and be happy. And, he also knew by then that he wanted to be with me, and that I wanted to be with him. It must’ve been very confusing and even upsetting, but he never told me, not then or ever. That's not all that surprising when he never even told me when, specifically, Gary died.

This was actually typical for him: He didn’t talk about Gary all that much (apart from a few happy memories) because he didn’t want to upset me, and I didn’t ask very much because it was his business to talk about and I didn’t want to force him to talk about painful things. In other words, we were protecting each other.

When I arrived in New Zealand to live, Nigel had photos with Gary in them all over the house. I didn’t mind because I knew Gary had been so important to Nigel, though there were times I felt like I was sort of “competing with a memory”.

A few years later, after his older brother and his father died, Nigel began grief counselling. He told me the topic of the photos had come up, and he asked me if they bothered me. “Not at all,” I told him, because by then it was true: They were part of the environment we lived in, and that included lots of stuff from his life with Gary (furniture, artwork, books, classical and opera records, all sorts of things). They were also part of Nigel.

It took me years to notice, and after a few moves to new houses, that the photos of Gary had disappeared, all apart from one he kept on his nightstand. It began, I now think, when he told me he wanted to put away the family photos because, he said, he didn’t want “all those photos of dead people” sitting out. It’s possible there was nothing more to it than that—and we never did have many photos out after that—however, I also think it was evidence that Nigel was moving forward.

None of that extended to dealing with personal stuff that had belonged to Gary. There were some clothes, a box of various things, a couple old briefcases with personal papers, those sorts of things. Because Nigel didn’t deal with them, I had to—and I found that incredibly hard to do, as I first wrote about in February when I said, “I felt like I was erasing Gary’s life.”

That feeling got worse the farther I got into my “Biggest Project Of All”, and I ran across the truly personal stuff.

In his last days, Nigel asked me to take all of the letters that he and Gary had exchanged when they were courting, when Nigel was still in New Zealand planning his move to Australia, and “put them in the box with me”. The trouble is, I had absolutely no idea whatsoever where they were, or what I was even looking for, and by that time Nigel was feeling pretty bad and I didn’t want to push him too hard. I never found them until “The biggest project of all” began. I’ll now honour Nigel’s wish by burning them and will eventually have those ashes added to his, as he wanted. However, that won’t be right away because there still could be more I haven’t found yet.

I was trying to figure out what to do with Gary’s more personal stuff, something other than just putting it in the rubbish as if he never existed and never mattered. I was talking about it with a good friend of mine, and he asked if there was something I could do, as he put it, “to celebrate Gary while getting rid of his things, too.” And then it hit me: I could honour Gary by doing for him what I was going to do for Nigel, and burn those personal papers. Gary’s ashes were scattered in Sydney Harbour sometime before Nigel returned to New Zealand in 1994, and there was nowhere I know of in New Zealand that was special to Gary. So, I’ll take the ashes from those papers and mix it in with my garden compost to help nurture life with the ornamental plants I’ll be planting on my property: Life from death to honour a life.

I’m keenly aware that lots of people simply won’t get why this matters to me so much, and that, as I said back in July’s post, “Some might say I care too much, but I wonder, why don’t others care as much?” The reason I care is that Gary mattered to Nigel, and Nigel mattered to me. That’s really all there is to it. Gary loved Nigel and helped him become who he would be when I met him. I’m grateful because it helped prepare the way for the wonderful life that Nigel and I had. So, I need to honour Gary’s life by symbolically closing the book in a more respectful way than just dumping the bits and pieces in the rubbish. Clearly this is all about me and my values, and I’m okay with that: Rituals surrounding death and mourning are always about the living, anyway.

I’ve learned a lot about Nigel and his life through dealing with all the stuff he left behind. It’s been fascinating to learn more about how he approached his career, and also to finally be able to fill in some of the gaps (like the date that Gary died, which answered a decades-old question for me). I even feel like I know Nigel a bit better now, and that’s probably surprised me the most about this gargantuan job of sorting through stuff.

I’m determined that this project will honour the life of my Nigel, just as he tried to honour Gary. It’s not always easy or straightforward to work out, and it’s often exhausting, but finishing the “mission” is what’s important to me. That, and honouring the man who was important to me by honouring the man who had been important to him.

Jake is home

I posted the photo above on my personal Facebook this afternoon after I got home from picking up Jake's ashes. As is so often the case, there’s a lot more to the story.

It begins at the beginning, oddly enough: The place rang me around 10:30 this morning to tell me Jake's cremains were ready. I was ready to head out shortly after lunchtime, but I realised I didn’t know the actual address so I could have Apple Maps guide me there (it’s a part of Hamilton I’m not familiar with). Apple Maps couldn’t find it. I Googled it and Google Maps could find me directions, and told me it would take me more than two hours to get there—until I realised it was set to give me walking directions. It was about 17 minutes by car.

Once I was ready to head out of the driveway, I realised that Google Maps was sending me toward a road that doesn’t exist (though it’s under construction, it won’t open until somewhere toward the middle of next year). I went the correct way, though I was worried this was a bad start.

As I got close, I found out that the road I was headed for was closed for construction (as so many are in that part of Hamilton). I missed my turn and it seamlessly directed me in a big loop back to the turn I missed. However, it turns out the road I missed was no more than a few hundred metres from my destination—a win.

I parked my car and rang them, as I had on Friday. There was no answer. I waited a few minutes and rang again. Same result. And also a few minutes later.

I moved my car out on the road and rang again. Nothing. I knew the place has a small staff, and I thought that if they were dealing with someone dropping off a furbaby, there might not be anyone to answer the phone. I completely understood that, and how some folks could have trouble leaving after bringing in their loved one.

However, that was the worst possible thing for me, that sitting here waiting. It made me picture Jake lying there when I dropped him off, and also remember leaving him there. Remembering such things is always a trigger for me, and sitting there like that, watching the front door to see if the person left, just prolonged the possibility that I might lose it.

Luckily, after waiting more than half an hour, I was annoyed, and that cancelled out the rest. Though I couldn’t be sure until I was back in the car with Jake.

I rang again and let it ring, and finally someone answered. I went to the door, she joined me, and I collected Jake. I had another stop to make, so I put is ashes in the boot of my car where I knew they’d be safe, and then left. A few metres down the road I stopped: I realised I was so anxious to get out of there that I hadn’t properly looked at what they handed me to make sure it was Jake. It was, and I continued on.

My next stop was the vet which had offered to give me credit for the medicine I bought for Jake only hours before he died. I tok a credit to use for future vet services. Meanwhile, I also had a large bag of Jake’s dog food that I’d never opened, and the pet store in the complex agreed to a refund (they don’t do store credit). Then, I got a harness for Leo so we can go on walks and I can secure him when we go in the car. That wasn’t smooth.

I’m still on a diuretic, and sometimes, with little warning, I have to go to the loo. Except, due to Covid restrictions, their loo was closed. I knew if I was there much longer I’d wet myself, but the very friendly and helpful clerk was explaining all the benefits of the various harnesses, then, when I picked one, she told me all the colours available—it would’ve been hilarious if it hadn’t been my pants that were about to get a big wet spot. When I sat back down in my car, I was much better.

Traffic was a bit heavy (school was out by then), but not too bad. I got home, gave Leo his welcome home treat, went to the loo, and then we sat down and I took the photo above. How I got to that point was a bigger deal than I’d expected, but there’s even more to it, a background to everything.

Nigel and I had all our late furbabies cremated and put into small cardboard boxes because we always planned to do something with them.

They all ended up in our buffet cabinet, and we often sadly joked about our “collection”. We talked about getting a big rimu box to put all those little boxes in, but we also talked about what, ultimately, should happen to them.

We weren’t going to scatter them because there was nowhere special enough to them or us. One time we even talked about which furbabies should go with whom when we died. Years passed.

In Nigel’s last few days at home, we talked anything and everything, as I’ve said many times. What to do with the furbabies’ ashes was one of those things.

“I want you to put the furbabies ashes in the box with me, and you can take Jake, Sunny, and Leo with you,” he said to me—and immediately interjected, “Unless you want to take Curzon!”

Curzon was the cat Nigel gave me for my 40th birthday, and he was my special boy: I was the only human he allowed to pick him up outside where the other cats might see. But he was also Nigel’s special boy: Every night when Nigel went to bed, Curzon would curl up beside him, Nigel’s arm wrapped around him. Then, when I went to bed, he’d move over and curl up against me. It was pretty magical for both of us.

“No, that’s okay—you can take Curzon,” I told him. I was happy that our beloved babies would be mixed with Nigel’s ashes—it felt like the perfect thing to do. Besides, I thought I’d have a long time with the other three, and they’d all live out their lives with me. I now completely understand that there are no guarantees whatsoever in life.

I’ll keep Jake and Sunny’s ashes right next to Nigel’s for now. Eventually I’ll put them all away, just not now, not yet. I’m not ready.

The bigger question is what will happen to Nigel’s and my own ashes. Nigel left that up to me, which is actually one of the biggest burdens I faced, even though I’m pretty sure I know what I’ll do (a topic for another day; some details aren’t settled yet).

My advice is to think thoroughly about what you want to happen with your mortal remains and write it down so no one has to guess. Still, since Nigel and I did talk about everything, I instinctively know what’s right, and what isn’t. I also know he completely trusted me to make the choice that was right for us both, me in particular.

Our furbabies never had to think about such things, of course, but they were always a part of our plans, just as much as they were a part of our lives. Working out what to do with their ashes and our own was just another, logical part of that.

Collecting Jake’s ashes was hard on me, and incredibly sad in what’s already a sad month for me. But I carry the strength of certainty that comes from having spent so many years talking about so much so often with Nigel. I have no confusion or uncertainty. So, sad, yes, but the truth is that I’m incredibly lucky to be so centred.

And all of that carried me through the entire day. I’ll take it.

This post includes revised and expanded parts of something I posted to my personal facebook this afternoon, and is also based on notes I wrote while waiting in my car.

AmeriNZ Blog is fifteen

Today, this blog turns fifteen years old. Whooda thunk it??

I published my first post, “I live in a land downunder. No, the other one…” on September 13, 2006 at 10:53pm NZST, and the journey ended up being quite a bit different than what I expected. In fact, I’m nowhere near adjusted to my new reality

This is one of those anniversaries that meant more to me than to most people—obviously—but as long as I keep blogging, I want to acknowledge it. It’s something I’ve done for a long time, something into which I’ve pored too much time and effort, and ended up with hundreds of thousands of words, most of them, I think, entirely forgettable. But it’s the effort, and the record all those words created, that matter to me even now.

With so many bad memories in this month, I’ll take whatever positive ones I can get, and, to me, this definitely qualifies. That’s kind of an incentive to keep going, I think. Maybe. I can’t know that for sure any more now than at any point over the entire 15 years.

Some traditions continue despite it all. I wrote this post in advance of its publication, as I’ve done most years, so that it’ll auto-post at the exact moment I published my original post fifteen years ago. It’s one of the few traditions I have left. That, and acknowledging this particular anniversary.

As always, thanks for joining me on the journey so far.

Previous posts on my blogoversaries:

Anniversay Time (2007)
Blogoversary 2 (2008)
Anniversaries Three and Fourteen (2009)
Fourth blogoversary (2010)
Fifth blogoversary (2011)
Sixth blogoversary (2012)
Seventh Blogoversary (2013)
Ten years of the AmeriNZ Blog (2016)
The AmeriNZ Blog is eleven (2017)
The AmeriNZ Blog is twelve (2018)
The AmeriNZ Blog is thirteen (2019)
The AmeriNZ Blog is fourteen (2020)

An AmeriNZ Video I made in 2015 explains the origins of the name “AmeriNZ”:

26 years ago today

26 years ago today, September 12, 1995, I arrived in New Zealand as a tourist, marking the beginning of the story arc I lived for 24 years—until 2019. Since then, it’s been a changed story arc, but it’s one based on, and a continuation of, what began on this day in 1995. That’s precisely why it still matters.

I’ll be honest: After Nigel died, I wasn’t sure I’d keep acknowledging this date, and I seriously considered make the 25th Anniversary post last year the last one ever. But September is such a crap month for me, even more so now with the death of my beloved boy Jake, that I think something positive within the month is the best I can do to sort of balance things out a little bit. A teeny, tiny, little bit, but still.

I stand behind everything I’ve said in previous years, and I've noticed how often I've repeated something I said back in 2012: “Never underestimate the power of love to make the improbable possible, or to transform the unlikely into an entirely new life.” I still believe that’s sound advice, not in spite of what I’ve been through, but because of it. And yet, there’s more.

In 2013, I posted  about the day on my personal Facebook (an image of that is at the top of last year’s 25th Anniversary post, linked to above and at the bottom of this post), and I quoted that same line from 2012, and added, “I still believe, despite everything, that love always triumphs. Always.” That, too, is a conviction I still have, and, again, it’s because of what I’ve been through.

Today, I wrote on my personal Facebook why this day still has importance:

September 12, then, will always be an important day for me because it was the start of the adventure I’m currently riding, and also because it was the last anniversary of one of our important days that [Nigel and I] were able to share together. Because of what began on September 12, 1995, I’ve always said love is powerful, and that it always wins. I still say that. I now know that love is more powerful than death, too. But damn, I wish I hadn’t learned that lesson.

And that’s why I’m not going to stop talking about this day—not yet, anyway. My tragic experience has taught me far more about the power of love than I could ever even have guessed had I not suffered such a huge loss. It’s the secret to why I’m still here and still moving forward. Damn right I’m going to celebrate it!

So here I am, 26 years after I arrived in New Zealand as a tourist, now completely anchored in this place—and whatever my life will become. This is now me, my story, my place in the world. I can’t change the horrible thing that happened two years ago, but I would never give up the 24 years before that horrible day, because it’s all part of of the core of who I now am. And the date that really started it all was September 12, 1995, 26 years ago today. There had to be one good thing about this month.

Previous posts about this anniversary (the first three only mention it):

Anniversay Time (2007)
Blogoversary 2 (2008)
Anniversaries Three and Fourteen (2009)
Where it began (2010)
Anniversary of the beginning (2011)
Another anniversary (2012)
18 years ago today (2013)
19 years ago today (2014)
Twenty years ago today (2015)
21 years ago today (2016)
22 years ago today (2017)
23 years ago today (2018)
24 years ago today (2019)
25 years ago today (2020)

Just the two of us

It’s kind of hard to get my head around this: Leo and I are all that’s left of the family of six we had on February 14, 2019. Bella died that day, Nigel a bit more than seven months later, then on February 2 of this year, Sunny left us, followed by Jake yesterday. So, roughly two years, seven months ago, we were a happy family getting on with life, but on Valentine’s Day, 2019, life started to leave our family. And now it’s just the two of us.

I think that, in a sense, I’m shell-shocked by all the loss and grief over that time. I never get the chance to just sort of adjust to my new reality because death has been always hanging around, just out of view in a shadow somewhere, but I could sometimes catch a glimpse of it, and usually sense it, just waiting to come and take away another member of my family.

This leads to unpleasant thoughts: What if something happens to Leo? What if something happens to me? Something will happen sooner or later, but is death still hanging around waiting to harvest one or both of us sooner rather than later?

The truth, as I so often say, is that none of us has the slightest idea when, precisely, we’ll take our last breath, unless, maybe, we choose the time and method of our departure, but even then nothing’s certain. That’s why I keep harping on about living for the moment, not the hour, day, week, month, or year, because sooner or later the very last moment for ourselves or someone we love will arrive.

At the same time, we can’t live our lives with the expectation of imminent death because it could be years or decades away. Focusing only on the possibility of death would waste the moments we so have, every bit as much as if we ignore our mortality completely and pretend we and those we love will live forever. The balance, I think, lies in being prepared for the inevitable, but to also try to pack as much life as we can into however many moments we end up getting. In other words, I think we should focus on every moment, not on how or when it, or any other moment, might end.

I’ve been trying to do that for the past two years in particular, often succeeding, actually, but sometimes failing miserably—I’m not perfect, shocking though that may be for some people to hear. But this parade of tragedy and grief I’ve been enduring keeps me determined to continue striving to live every moment, not just pass through them.

Toward that end, yesterday we gathered for dinner at my brother- and sister-in-law’s house, and I brought Leo. I could never bring three dogs, especially with Sunny’s lengthy illness, nor even Jake as age began to catch up with him. It also had to be all three (then, two…) or none.

Leo has a history of being carsick unless someone is holding him (no, I wasn’t driving last night), and my plan is to slowly try to get him used to riding in the car so I can bring him with me when I go visiting some people. That, and maybe to take him for walks in different places.

Leo hasn’t been on many walks since he came to live with us. Jake and Sunny were much older, and Jake was already getting arthritic, when Leo came to live us, but even so, Leo was too little to be able to walk as far as them. After Nigel died, I knew I couldn’t handle walking three dogs by myself, then Sunny got sick and Jake got even more arthritic, and walks with them became impossible. Leo will get them now.

I need to add here that my fully-fenced yard is quite large by Hamilton standards, and the dogs were always able to wander around the yard as much as they wanted to, and Leo often ran around the yard—or insisted that I run around inside the house chasing him. All of which means that they had lots of opportunity for as much exercise as they could tolerate, but Leo will now get to come on walks with me, something I need to do for health reasons. That was something I’ve put off mainly because I didn’t want to leave the dogs alone, sitting in the front window watching me walk away, and them not understanding why I was leaving them behind (they were used to seeing me drive off).

Life for Leo and me will be very different now that it’s just the two of us in our (very) little family, but I’m going to do the best I can to make sure it’s a good one for him—us—so that we can have many wonderful moments together for however long the fates allow. And if I do catch a glimpse of that dark, figure lurking in the shadows, I’ll do what I’ve always done: I’ll ignore it. Leo and I have far too many great moments to experience, even though it’s now just the two of us. I intend to make the most of as many as I can.

Leo and I took the photo above earlier this evening.

Farewell, Jake

This morning our beautiful boy Jake died here at home. He was 14 years, 5 months old.

It was only yesterday that I took Jake to the vet and got some prescriptions that might have made his condition better so he could have a better quality of life. I was going to start them this morning, but never got the chance.

I woke up around 8 this morning, intending to sleep in. Jake was laying on the blanket box at the foot of the bed, panting, much as he did the day before. The fast breathing wasn’t unusual, nor was where he was: He often lay on the blanket box when he got too hot. About 10 or 15 minutes after eight, I got up to go to the loo, but first I went to the bottom of the bed and petted Jake and spoke softly to him, much as I’d done yesterday morning, I was hoping I might calm him a bit.

I went to the en suite, and then realised it had become quiet in the bedroom: I couldn’t hear Jake panting. I went back out to him, and realised he wasn’t breathing anymore. I stroked him, told him he was a good boy, everything was okay, and that I loved him. It then became clear that he was gone, but I talked to him some more, anyway. I lay a “dog towel” over him like a blanket—not that it made any difference to him or anything else, but it felt like the right thing to do.

I rang my brother-in-law, and he and my sister-in-law came round to be with me for awhile. I rang the crematorium that handled Sunny and made arrangements to being Jake in. My in-laws left to run a few errands while I fed Leo and had a shower, then when they came back, I picked up Jake and his towel, carried him to my in-laws car, laid him on the back seat and then sat next to him. I held one of his legs and gently stroked the fur.

Once we got to the place, things were a little more complicated than they’d normally be because we’re still at Covid Alert Level 2. For example, I had to go into the room by myself (I was meeting with a staff member, and the space was too small to have more than two people in there.

She took the information, I paid the bill (I could’ve paid on pick up, but by paying today I could have someone else pick up Jake’s cremains for me, if need be). They should be ready on Monday or Tuesday of next week.

I spent a few last minutes with Jake. I removed his collar, and the towel I’d wrapped him in, gave his some final pats and a kiss, told him I loved him and thanked him for everything. Then I left. I didn’t want to spend any more time there because I knew other people might be bringing in their lost furbabies, but mostly because I won’t cry in front of others, especially strangers, so I needed to leave.

We had lunch after that, which was a nice diversion. They dropped me off at home and headed out. Once inside, I put the towel on the floor for Leo to sniff, just as I did with Sunny’s towel after she died. I got out Jake’s collar and let Leo sniff it, then I hung it on another knob on the dresser in the my bedroom. Leo sniffed it again.

Leo was acting a little off, not sitting in my lap as he ordinarily does, and a couple times he lay on the floor in one of his spots that was near the towel. I think that was coincidental, though, because when I stood up I realised he wasn’t as close to it as it appeared when I was sitting down.

I went to the bedroom and looked at the spot where Jake died—which was hard not to do, since it’s directly in my line of sight as I approach the room. I sat down on the edge of the bed and started sobbing. Leo looked at me, then walked over and sniffed Sunny’s collar, then Jake’s. He walked back to were he had been, and looked at me again. Then he looked at the collars, back at me, back at the collars, and back at me. I felt like he was telling me he understood, and maybe he did. He’d sniffed Jake after he died, and they can smell things we humans can’t, so maybe he understood far better than I could’ve known. Later, he sniffed the spot where Jake died.

My brother- and sister-in-law told me later that while they were waiting in the car at the crematorium a tui landed on a branch and started singing loudly, and two smaller birds landed near it. Some people, some Māori in particular, believe that birds showing up after someone dies is their spirit coming to say hello and goodbye, to let the survivors know it’s okay. In this case, it seemed to them like it was Nigel, Jake, and Sunny. I don’t think there’s likely to be any sort of afterlife, much as I’d like to think there’s something, but I do like the idea of the furbabies being reunited with Nigel, all of them happy and free of pain or suffering. Whether I think that’s likely or not, and so, whether I think birds can be messengers or not is irrelevant: The thought comforts some people, and that’s a good thing.

I know that if Jake could choose, he’d have chosen to die at home, a place he knew well and felt safe in. And, if he was capable of such a thought, he’d want to spare me from having to make the decision to take him to the vet for the final time. Just as with the birds, I don’t know if any of that is actually what happened, but I like to think it is, for his sake as much as mine.

The main thing for me is that my family is now just me and Leo, and the all of the beings that made up our family for most of the 24 years I had it have all died. Leo came into our lives only about 16 months before Nigel died, and since he arrived he lost his best friend Bella, then his other daddy, then Sunny, and now Jake. Our family may be greatly diminished by our losses, but we still have each other, and that’s a good thing.

However, my family is still dimmed a lot. When I shared the news on my personal facebook this morning, I added in a comment, “I fucking hate September.” I truly do, and this is just more reason for that. That feeling is so strong and real that only the strongest curse word I use would come even close to conveying the depth of my feeling. Losing loved ones is the worst possible feeling, I think.

The only other thing to say is to adapt what I said after Sunny died: Goodbye, Jake. Thank you for the honour of being your furdaddy. And if there is something after this life, then please give Daddy Nigel an extra kiss for me, and also kisses from Leo, too. ❤️

The photo up top is of Jake on his fourteenth birday back in April. The photo at the bottom of this post is apparently the last one I took of him, about a month ago. It was shortly after that day that he stopped trying to jump onto the sofa.

Now, it’s Jake’s turn

This morning I noticed that Jake was breathing quite fast, faster than normal, and fast enough for me to notice. I tried cuddling him in case he’d just awakened from a bad dream, but his breathing didn’t calm. I watched him for the morning, then I rang and booked him into the vet.

The thing is, Jake’s now considered “geriatric” and, at 14, is the equivalent of an 81 year old human. I knew he had a lot of problems that could be expected of a guy his age: I often say, “He’s hard of hearing, hard of seeing, and hard of moving. But he’s happy.” Even so, I know he’s declining as he ages, and I could tell something had changed today.

Jake was diagnosed with heart failure, which is common enough in old dogs, and he has problems with his mitral valve (like Sunny had). This has led, the vet believes, to a “collapsed trachea”, which makes him cough. It’s also led to a bit of muscle loss along his back.

Even so, he’s in good spirits and seems happy, he has a (very) healthy appetite, and he doesn’t seem to be in any distress, so we’re going to try medication to ease his symptoms. We’ll see how he goes and decide what to do after he adjusts (he’s got a recheck on Tuesday).

The thing is, I’m well aware that he’s an elderly dog now, and even under the very best circumstances, the time before him won’t be long—we just can’t know how long. I’ve said for some time that I don’t know if he’ll see his 15th birthday, but that’s up to him.

As always, I’ll do whatever I need to do to help him be as healthy as he can be for as long as he’s happy and content. He’ll let me know when it’s time (they always do), but that’s not now, and probably not soon. Hopefully.

So, that’s where we’re at. Leo (who, by the way, at 4 is 30 in human years) was NOT happy about being left home all alone. When I got home, he cuddled up in my lap to keep me home. Meanwhile, Jake lay on the floor next to my chair. I hope both will continue doing that for a long time, but none of us knows how long we have, do we? I learned that in the hardest possible way. So, I’ll just be glad for what I have in each moment, and for the gifts those moments truly are.

This is a revised and extended version of something I posted to bt personal Facebook when I got home from the vet. The photo above is of Jake saying hello to me on his first night in our home, back in June 2007, and it was included in my blog post about his arrival.

There was a Lockdown cooking adventure

During the Lockdown last year, I experimented with cooking a lot of different things I’d never done before. Some went really well, and others… didn’t. Those cooking experiments helped fill the time, and it was kind of fun. This year, things were a little different.

I didn’t do any cooking adventures this Lockdown. That may have been that Lockdown (Alert Level 4) was two weeks and Lockdown Lite (Alert Level 3) was one week, and maybe it wasn’t long enough for me to get bored. In any case, I didn’t cook anything at all unusual until Sunday night’s project: I made chocolate brownies like I used to make in the USA—and never since.

I actually only like American-style chocolate brownies that are cake-like, but denser, and fudge-like, but cake-ier. Sort of a hybrid, I guess. The recipe (I think) originally came from the back of a box of baking chocolate, which was my first problem: The brands of baking chocolate I was used to in the USA aren’t sold in New Zealand, and I wasn’t familiar with the brands that are. However, they don’t seem to be in the same square blocks I’m used to. Moreover, they range from 42% cocoa to 60% cocoa, neither of which is all that “dark” for dark chocolate.

I knew, then, I’d have to find an appropriate substitute, but I just never got around to it. I wanted to make it for Nigel, so he could taste one of the things I often made before moving to New Zealand, but he wasn’t really a fan of chocolate brownies, so it was never a priority. Then I ran out of time.

Still, it’s been on my mind, off and on, for years, and this Lockdown I knew I had a bunch of chocolate in my pantry from to make fudge using the same recipe I used during Lockdown last year. In that same stash I had a block of Whittaker’s Dark Ghana, which is 72% cocoa, and I decided that would be perfect.

The recipe calls for butter or margarine, but I used coconut oil instead (it's reputed to be healthier). Besides, I had some of that, too. I couldn’t easily find my newest baking powder (organising my messy pantry is on my “Someday Projects” list…), and I knew that the one I used was a wee bit elderly, but I’d gone that far, so I decided to just use a bit more than the recipe called for.

The result (photo above) was a little less high than it normally is, but still moist and fudge-like while also cake-like—pretty nearly perfect, in other words, if a bit short. The other difference was that the top was a bit shinier than it usually was. But it tasted perfect (for my taste).

I cut up the brownies into relatively small pieces (the one in the photo was actually among the bigger ones) so that I could have several over the course of a day without actually eating a lot, as I knew I would if I cut them into big pieces.

Most of the cafes I’ve been to in New Zealand that serve this sort of chocolate brownie usually offer yoghurt to go with it, or sometimes whipped cream or maybe thickened cream. They may also have icing sugar (usually called confectioner’s sugar in the USA) sprinkled on top. I’ve never done that, and I don’t serve it with anything because I like it just the way I made it. But I’ve had all the various add-ons on offer, and I think it’s okay, even though none are my preferred thing.

One last thing: Nuts. I’ve never put nuts of any sort in my brownies because I didn’t like it as a kid, and, probably because of that early start, I still don’t. I don’t put nuts in my chocolate fudge, either, for the same reason.

This wasn’t exactly the most earth-shattering culinary adventure I’ve ever had, and it certainly wasn’t the healthiest thing I’ve even made, but I enjoyed it. I’m sure I’ll make it again at some point, but with baking powder that’s still good to go. There won’t be any nuts in any future editions, either, of course. The nut is the one who made the brownies. Guilty as charged, and completely unapologetic—but also not craving chocolate brownies any more.

At least I got in one culinary adventure during this recent Lockdown.

A whole new two

New Zealand, except for Auckland, just moved to Covid Alert Level 2, but this time there are new and stricter rules. The government will decide on Monday, September 13, whether any Alert Levels will change: Auckland’s, the rest of New Zealand, or both.

The government has tightened the rules for all levels because of how transmissible the Delta Variant is. The difference between Levels 4, 3, and 2 is primarily in what sorts of businesses are allowed to open and how customers can access those businesses. The facemask wearing requirements are all the same for Levels 2, 3, and 4. Scanning/record keeping is also mandatory at all levels, too. We don’t know yet whether there will be new rules for Level 1, but I’m guessing there will be.

For me, the main advantage of moving to Level 2 is that the family can get together again. Under Level 3, I could form a small exclusive “expanded bubble” with one other small household, but under had to stay home most of the time. So, Level 2 offers similar opportunities for the family to gather as we have under Level 1.

Another difference is that under Level 2 we can shop in shops rather than ordering stuff for delivery or click and collect. That’s helpful for those times we need to see items to evaluate them, as I do for some of my home projects, or if we need something more quickly than we can get it delivered. physical distancing requirements (2 metres apart) can mean having to queue outside and wait, but at least we can go inside. And, I can finally get a haircut!

Eating inside restaurants and cafes is also permitted again at reduced capacity than used to be the case under Level 2, but it’s another way we can get together with family. Even so, I’m not sure how often any of us will do that before Level 1. Takeaways, maybe.

Things are still rough for Aucklanders, who have at least another week under Level 4 Lockdown. They can’t leave the Auckland region without special permission, which has to be for good reason, like essential work. Even then they’re planning on introducing Covid tests to catch any infections that escape Auckland carried by such travellers.

It’s also going to be rough for the people who live in Northland, the region north of Auckland, because they’re essentially cut off from the rest of New Zealand. They’ll be able to travel south through Auckland for things like weddings and funerals as long as they don’t stop anywhere in Auckland. However, tourists from other parts of New Zealand won’t be able to drive north through Auckland.

So, this is good news for everyone except for Aucklanders, and not totally good news for Northlanders, though it’s pretty good. Maybe things will ease further when the government reviews all Alert Levels next week. The important thing, though, is that, we’re making good progress toward once again eliminating Covid. That’s what all of this has always been about.

In my photo for this Level change, above, I continued the imagery from my photo for the recent change to Level 3: One padlock is still firmly locked, representing Auckland still under a Level 4 Lockdown. The now opened lock is the rest of New Zealand under Level 2, but it's still hooked to the closed Auckland lock. The key is still in it because it could be locked again if things go wrong.

The actual starting point

It’s quite common for a chain of events to begin, but the actual starting point isn’t obvious until later. Today is one of those times in which a starting point has become clear only later, in fact, two years after the fact.

On Friday, September 6, 2019, I drove Nigel to Mairangi Bay on Auckland’s North Shore for an appointment for an abdominal ultrasound. We had to drive more than an hour for that because it was the only place he could get an appointment in less than a week.

He’d been feeling increasingly unwell for about a month, and had mostly thought—or, maybe just hoped?—that it was something ordinary. At one point he thought bread I was making from a mix was giving him indigestion. I stopped making the bread. As August wore on and became September, he decided it might be tea, which he’d been drinking all his life, that was causing problems, so he had me buy him green tea (or it could’ve been because it has purported health benefits—he never explained). Nothing helped, though.

He’d already been to the doctor, and a visit to her in at the border between August and September led to getting the scan to find out what was going on. Blood tests had shown nothing definitive, so more investigation was needed. I was really happy about going to the appointment (even though I was driving; I deliberately never drove him anywhere) because I felt we were finally going to get somewhere, that we’d be able to fix him so we could get on with life.

I remembered all that, and I’ve known its importance to the end of our story, but I’d forgotten when the scan was done until yesterday when I found the receipt in the bag Nigel carried that day (his wallet was still in there, too). The discovery firmed-up the timeline of our final chapter.

The following week, Nigel continued feeling worse and worse, and I ended up driving him to the doctor where he was given fluids intravenously. They called an ambulance because it was obvious something was very wrong—we just had no idea what. I ended up driving him to the hospital because the ambulance was stuck in traffic.

While before then they thought he might have an infection in his liver, in hospital they said they thought, based on the ultrasound, he might have cysts in his liver. We were hopeful! Then they did higher resolution scans, they were concerned it was cancer, but we were still hopeful. Then they did a biopsy and determined for certain it was cancer, and that it was late stage. We tried to remain hopeful treatment would help. It was Friday, September 13, 2019, only a week after the ultrasound.

The next day, they sent Nigel home. His brother, sister-in-law, and I helped him to the car. On the way home, we talked—and joked about—about getting me a better car so I could drive him to treatment appointments (he hated my car, even though it used to be his). We stopped at a place that sells fresh produce to get ice cream with fresh fruit because Nigel wanted some. I stayed in the car with him—I didn’t want to leave him. Nigel couldn’t eat much, but he enjoyed the cool of it, and the taste.

Back home, we helped him up the stairs, which was hard for him because he hated being unable to help himself much. We got him to our bedroom, and he got into bed. Apart from going to the toilet, he never got out of bed, and he also never left the room until the following Tuesday, September 17, when the ambulance crew took him away from our home for the last time.

In between the Saturday he came home and the Tuesday he left home, Nigel and I talked about anything and everything, as much has his strength would allow. I made a lot of mistakes in those days, including letting him always lead what we talked about. I should’ve asked more questions to give him space to talk about what he was feeling, his fears and worries, because he wouldn’t bring such things up out of fear of upsetting me. I should’ve done better, not that I could know that then. Still, over those days alone together, we wrote most of his story for his memorial, and he told me how he wanted it to go. I was able to honour his wishes in all that, and it still gives me a lot of peace knowing I was able to do that for him, that I made sure I gave him exactly what he wanted, with no deviation.

I have more regrets, of course: That I didn’t stay with him the night he went back in hospital. At the time, I was sure they’d stabilise him and send him home again. I was also utterly exhausted.

However, I spent the next two nights in his room, and he knew I was there (which was the whole point). I was determined not to leave him, even though I didn’t really understand what was happening until his final hours. Which is why I also regret not staying with him nearly every moment in those final days, but I wanted people to have their own time with him, and I wanted Nigel to have some space, including from me, and because I still didn’t understand what was happening until late on his final day. I absolutely made the wrong call.

I have those regrets at all because in those final days I was in my “crisis mode”, doing the logical, rational, necessary things, and focusing on the needs of others. But that meant I didn’t focus enough on Nigel’s needs, nor my own needs at all. It all ended on Friday, September 20, 2019 when Nigel died. It was two weeks to the very day from when we’d gone to get the scan.

On this day two years ago, I was certain we were about to turn the corner and Nigel—and our life—would soon return to normal. That turned out to be the thing I was the most wrong about of all, though I couldn’t know that then. In fact, the reason I regret all of the things I mentioned is precisely because I couldn’t imagine anything other than a return to normal: Right up to Nigel’s last hours I couldn’t grasp the enormity of what was actually happening.

So, on that day two years ago today, I was still filled with hope and optimism. We loved each other, and we’d helped each other through all sorts of health challenges, so, of course, I thought, we’d get through that one, too.

Two years ago today was the first actual, formal step on our last journey together, one that would end exactly two weeks later. We just didn’t know that at the time, and the starting point of that final journey only become clear to me two years later. Even now, it seems, this journey still has so much to teach me.

But, still. Wake me up when September ends.

Wake Me Up When September Ends

It’s Sunday, the day of the week I often published “Weekend Diversion” posts. This is not one of those, even though it’s about a song. Well, not about it, exactly, but it kind of is.

The song in question here is “Wake Me Up When September Ends”, the 2005 song by US rock band Green Day. It was the fourth single from their 2004, and seventh studio album, American Idiot. I think the song has a lot of merit, but the reason I’m mentioning it is because it’s my personal theme song for the month of September, the month that contains the horrible anniversary of the day that my life changed so completely. That’s reason enough for me to adopt that song as my personal September theme song, but there’s the thematic connection, too.

The song was written by the band’s lead singer and guitarist, Bille Joe Armstrong, and it’s about his father’s death from esophageal cancer in September 1982, when Armstrong was 10. Armstrong has said that the title comes from something he actually said to his mother soon after his father’s death.

The personal connection for me is, of course, that I had a terrible loss in September, too, but there’s one thing more: My mother also died of esophageal cancer, though in a different month. Put those two things together, and the thematic connection that I feel is pretty strong.

That doesn’t extend to the music video, however, which I’ve included above, but it’s set to begin playing when the song really starts going. That’s because I don’t like the video (directed by Samuel Bayer) at all (and that’s not common for me; I can separate a video from its song, if I like one more than the other; they’re different art forms, after all). In this particular case, I think the video’s prologue is far too long and I don’t think that the storyline of the video sufficiently reinforces the song's theme of loss and, especially, the implicit grief. But, that’s me: It’s easy enough to play the whole thing rather than the arbitrary starting point I chose (to avoid the issue of the video altogether, I’ve also included the Spotify widget with the song below).

Two years after that horrible month in 2019, I hate September every bit as much as I did last year. It doesn’t help that the horrible anniversary itself is around three weeks after Nigel’s birthday, so basically I realistically have maybe six weeks where losing Nigel is very often front of mind for me, and sometimes to the exclusion of nearly everything else. As August begins, that focus picks up strength and it lasts pretty much to the end of September before it starts to ease a bit (the month changing to one called “October” helps with that).

In a way, this actually makes me kind of “lucky”: The most potent reminders of my loss are grouped together into a relatively short few weeks, meaning the rest of the year has moments, not a sometimes unrelenting awareness of my loss. Many people have major reminders pop up throughout the year, but, for me, most of the big ones are all in August and September. And that’s why I’m always anxious to see September end.

There’s a cruel irony in that. Nigel would often talk about how anxious he was for the seasons to change, especially for winter to arrive and end the “hot” summer weather. I always said to him some variation of, “Stop wishing your days away, because sooner or later, you’ll get to the last one and find you wished away so many you could’ve had”. I didn’t really take myself seriously, but I wish he had.

Still, everything is what it is, and I can’t change any of it now. I should, possibly, heed my own advice and stop wishing September away. I should, but I won’t. Just wake me up when September ends.

Footnote: In actual “Weekend Diversion” posts, I talk about chart performance. While that might seem a bit crass regarding a song in this context, that sort of thing always helps me keep things more balanced. So: The song hit Number 13 in Australia, 1 in Canada’s Rock Top 30 (Platinum), 10 in New Zealand, 5 on the UK’s Rock and Metal chart (Platinum), and 6 on the USA’s Billboard “Hot 100” (Platinum).

Springing into it

I closed all 3 Activity Rings yesterday.
That's very rare these days.

It’s Spring in New Zealand, and my lawns have really started growing, so I had to mow them. That’ll be my fate roughly every two weeks from now until probably April of next year.

Winter was colder this year than last, and that meant that the grass grew very slowly over the past few months, unlike last year, which was a warmer and mild winter. A few weeks ago, the grass started growing again, but the ongoing winter rains made the grass too heavy to mow. Until yesterday. And today.

Yesterday was the second of two sunny days in a row (!), so I decided to go for it, starting with the back because it was longer, and I figured that would mean it would take two goes to finish, and it did. We may have had two days of sunshine, but after a wet winter and cool temperatures persisting, the grass was gluggy. Still, I go it done, and all that sunshine meant that the battery was recharged (twice…) on solar power alone. Win!!!

Today I mowed the front "lawn" (I put that it in quote marks because the front is more weeds than lawn). The sun was shining at the time so I was able to recharge the battery on solar power—before it got mostly cloudy.

Both days it was kinda Spring-like outside today, but only 15 degrees (59F) when I was mowing, so still a little cooler than I'd like. The temperatures were too cool to mow without wearing something warm, but being in the sun, and being uncharacteristically physically active meant that I sweat quite a lot. To avoid swearing so much, I could’ve taken off my sweatshirt—but it was too cool to to that. I was in a quandary. So, I just kept going, mainly because I’d deliberately put off my shower until after I was done mowing, something I didn’t do yesterday, and I kind of regretted it.

This short video has a couple seconds
of me mowing the last part of the grass out front.

The lawns are all now mowed, and I get to do it all over again in a couple weeks. Yippee. I’m joking, mostly: I don’t actually mind mowing the lawns—especially after I’ve finished—but there are times I fantasise about hiring someone to do it for me. Today, though, I thought about hiring the same people who do my next door neighbours’ house to do just the front yard. That’s the only yard anyone actually sees, and that way the part of our boundary where we have nothing but grass would look better. I’ll probably continue to do the whole thing myself, though.

One thing I wasn’t able to do is use the line trimmer around the edges of the section. That’s because it ran out of filament months ago, and while I bought replacement filament, I couldn’t quite get how to load it. So, I put the changing of it aside, then the weather turned, and it became less important. But now the grass is growing again, and I need it, but there’s a problem: That replacement filament I bought but couldn’t figure out how to use? Well, months ago I put it “somewhere safe”, and now I have no idea where that was. This is a continuing problem, actually. I think I need to start writing down all the “somewhere safe” places I put things.

At least the mowing is done now. Soon it’ll be warmer and I’ll be able to get more work done outside cleaning up the gardens, and by the time we drop Alert Levels, it ay be time to plant some plants out there. This year, I’m determined to start making my yard pretty. I think I just might accomplish it, too.

The video in this post was captured by one of my security cameras. It had been triggered by my movement. Those are garden gloves in my back pocket; the grass was gluggy, so I had to scrape out clumps of grass from underneath when I was about half done (for both the front and back lawns, actually).

Some sun did shine

Three months ago, I lost ownership* of the Internet domain that Nigel and I had used for our emails for around a decade. When I lost the domain, and so, the email addresses. It felt, as I said at the time, “a bit like losing our family yet again”. There's a positive development in this story.

Yesterday evening I received an email from the company Nigel and I both used for some of our domain registrations: I had successfully obtained the domain again. I was really happy about that, and that someone else wouldn’t be taking over “what had been part of the life Nigel and I had for so many years,” as I said on my personal Facebook, before adding, “something I still want.” I was talking about the domain specifically, but it occurred to me later that it was equally true about the life Nigel and I had. I can’t have that back, but I do have the domain again.

Last night, after sharing the good news on my Facebook, I logged into my account and immediately set the domain to auto-renew. That means that I won’t have to remember to do it next year, which is always a good thing. The next thing I did was to buy email hosting from the company, and I chose a medium-priced plan and for two years. There are backstories to both of those two things.

Back in June, when I was still trying to work out what went wrong with the email accounts, I logged into Nigel’s account with the email host company to see if it would tell me anything. I really struggled with their site, which I thought was far more labyrinthine and opaque than it should’ve been (I’m being kind). There’s something else: When I accidentally broke my email account not long after Nigel died, I contacted that same company for help. They were, shall we say, extremely grumpy. I got it fixed in the end, but the person made me feel like a huge burden on their time, and like I was an idiot for not knowing how to fix the problem myself. In sum, I wasn’t exactly a fan of the company.

Last night, I tried to log in again, and the log-ins didn’t work (I originally planned on trying to update the settings so I could use the emails again). I presume that they cancelled the account for some reason, but I have no idea what happened. I wasn’t exactly upset by that development.

After checking the email hosting prices from that company’s services, anyway, I checked the prices with the company I got the domain from, and they were reasonably comparable when considering what my needs actually are. Also, I’ve had a different email address with the Internet domain company for years, and found it easy to use. More importantly, whenever I’ve had a problem, they've been friendly and awesome to deal with, and solve any technical problem that's popped up. I need good—and friendly—customer service because the fact is, I’m just not as good at such things as Nigel was, and there are times I need professionals to sort stuff out for me.

Once I got the confirmation email from them, I started setting up the email addresses (one for me and for “for” Nigel). Then I set up my email client, and tried to send an email to the "new" email address from one of my gmail accounts. Nothing worked. By that time, it was after midnight and I called it a night.

This morning they still didn’t work, so I used the domain company’s chat feature to sort it out and the friendly and helpful person found the problem and set the wheels in motion to fix it (it takes 24 hours for the changes to “populate” over the Internet). I haven’t used those email accounts in months, though, so what’s another day?

What all of this means is that what was a very distressing thing for me is being righted. Obviously, it would’ve been better all around if it had never happened at all, but getting something I’d lost restored to me is still important, especially in September, less than three weeks from the second “horrible anniversary”.

There’s one more things about this. Last night, I said on my personal Facebook, “This is actually part of my gradual process of changing what Nigel set up for us to things that work better for me (mainly because I'm a not as bright about such things as he was…). He'd actually be pretty proud of me for doing that.” I know that with absolute certainty.

*I think it’s odd how people talk about “owning” a domain—even though I do it, too. The fact is, we actually only rent them. It’s a bit like having a house on leased land: We control the house built on it (websites, email) and can do anything we like with the house, including selling it to someone else. But the land underneath it (the domain) is owned by someone else, and we have to pay rent (annual registration fees) to keep the right to use the land (domain). If we don’t pay every year, the owner can take it away from us. The only real difference is that with leased land there are legal procedures that must be followed and laws that must be obeyed, along with plenty of opportunities to avoid eviction. None of that is true for domains.

Update – September 4: My old email address is restored and working, just under three months after it stopped. Today I got an email from a mailing list I was subscribed to with the old address, which I thought was a bit odd. I would've thought their servers would have deleted the address when emails were bounced, but apparently not.

The title of this post is a reference to my post back in June (link above).

Ye Olde Macintosh Project – an update

Among my many (many, many…) projects are ones on which progress is extremely slow. It’s now clear that the slowest of all may be the project to get a 1990 Macintosh Classic running again, something I talked about in quite some detail this past Sunday. In the interest of brevity, I’m going to do some shorter posts updating progress rather than long ones with lots of details. Besides, this blog is often sort of a repository for things I otherwise would forget, and I find it helpful to have complete information about my projects.

The first thing I’ve done is give this project a nickname—of course I have: I give nearly everything that’s not serious a nickname. So, this project is now Ye Olde Macintosh Project, or YOMP for short. Because, why not?

This week I made further attempts to access my oldest floppy disks—after finding six more of the more “modern” ones. I said on Sunday that I ordered a new USB floppy drive that could read 720K floppies. That arrived yesterday, and no, it couldn’t read my old DS/DD floppies, either. I now realise why: Both the USB floppy drives were designed for PCs, not Macs.

The problem here goes back to the dawn of the double-sided floppy disk era, the mid 1980s. The original DS/DD disks were designed to hold 720K, however, the clever engineers at Apple worked out that they could get the capacity up to 800K (which was quite a lot in those days!) if they varied the speed the floppy spun at depending on the location of the read/write head of the drive. That never became a standard for PCs, and so, floppy drives intended for PCs can’t read 800K disks because the disk rotates at a constant speed.

Apple dropped floppy drives from their machines in 1998, with the release of the G3 iMac. Then, in 2019, they dropped support for floppies in the MacOS, too. All of which means that there are NO new USB floppy drives that can read 800K disks (something I should have researched before I bought the new drive, but, never mind).

All of which means that my options for those old floppies are quite limited. First, I could get the Mac Classic running. Second, I might be able to find a vintage external Apple floppy drive that’s affordable (not easy). Or, third, maybe I could find a munted vintage Macintosh that I could salvage the SuperDrive from. That last option’s the most problematic one by far because it would mean adapting it to work connected to a modern machine, and that’s way beyond my capabilities—if it’s even possible.

So, accessing those old 800K diskettes—which is a side project related to, but not actually part of YOMP—is now on hold until I find out if the Mac Classic is salvageable. If it isn’t, I’ll explore other options.

Meanwhile, the Zip Disk project (also a side project related to, but not actually part of YOMP) has had only negative progress: I’ve now confirmed that none of my PC computers have a serial port. The only thing left to try is to hook it up by USB to a PC, but I have my doubts that will work due to formatting differences. I looked for used USB Zip Drives and, well! If I thought the old ADB keyboards and the old Apple external floppy drives were expensive, I didn’t know what I was talking about: I saw prices as high as $3000 (!), with most in the high hundreds, and all with maybe another US$125+ on top of that for shipping. I think I need a lie down with a cool cloth for my forehead…

All up, getting the Mac Classic to work, or at least somehow getting access to a working vintage Macintosh, would be my best option for accessing all of those now vintage disks. Can’t speculate about the latter, of course, but the former will need more time.

My next step is to go back into my garage project and set up my workbenches so I have somewhere to work on the Mac. In addition to clearing space for the workbenches, I also need to find the bolts for the legs. I found them right after I moved in here—maybe even the very day I moved in—and I put them somewhere “safe”. The rest is predictable.

Still, even though none of this has actually moved forward, it at least keeps me busy, with no time to get bored. That’s especially good while we’re living in Covid Alert Level 3 and I can’t really go anywhere, anyway.

Now, back to work!

Spring 2021

I’m not sure, but this may be the most excited I’ve ever been about a first day of Spring. I’ve absolutely hated this past winter—cold, wet, rainy, or, to put it simply, absolutely everything I hate about winter in the upper North Island. Last winter was much milder, and it apparently lulled me into overconfidence.

Winters in the Waikato are usually much more unpleasant than in Auckland. For that reason, every time Nigel talked about moving to Hamilton, I always insisted we had to have central heat and even underfloor heating in some critical areas. It gets bloody cold in Hamilton. Normally.

Last year, however, was an extremely mild winter, so much so that I didn’t ever think about how unpleasant Hamilton winters can be. This year fixed that. Many times over.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve sat at my computer freezing, or sat watching TV with a blanket over my lap, or gone to bed asking one of the dogs to cuddle up against me to keep me warm (Leo usually obliges). Harsh fact: I never felt that cold in Auckland.

On the other hand, Auckland has had harsher Covid Lockdown levels than Hamilton has had, and sometimes that matters—but, does it really matter for me? I don’t go to all that many places, anyway. (it’s important to note that when I lived in Auckland I used to go to several of the places of interest in the latest outbreak, so if I lived there, I could’ve been caught up in it).

Right now, I just want even slightly warmer weather (I’m sick of being cold in my own home), and I want more sunshine so I can mow the lawns and get the gardens ready for Spring planting. And that right there may be why I’m the most excited I’ve ever been about a first day of Spring. I hope it’s a good one.