I’m a Stranger Here Myself

December 15, 2016December 15, 2016 / Erica Herd / 13 Comments

Years ago, I did a cabaret show that included the Kurt Weill song, “I’m a Stranger Here Myself.” If ever those words rang true, it is now.

I feel like an alien, a zombie (not that I know what a zombie actually does or does not feel).

If I hear “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” one more time in a shopping mall, I will go postal. Yes, I have done all my Christmas shopping and have wrapped most of the gifts. “Fake it till you make it,” as someone said.

The world feels like a dangerous place, a place that offers no security now that my security blanket is gone. Yes, Lorin was my only security blanket in an unpredictable and often cruel world.

I started a list of “Things I Miss About Lorin,” which includes:

(1) How he told me, “I love you,” several times a day and always insisted on a hug before he departed for work.

(2) How he would grab me and start dancing with me in the kitchen while I was cooking and not let me go.

(3) His telling me, “All I need is the love of the Sweetie.” One of his nicknames for me was “Sweetie.”

I’ve come to the realization that no one needs me anymore, except, perhaps, my mom. Lorin needed me. It was good to be needed. It was good to be co-dependent, if that’s what it was. I don’t care. It worked for us, and we were happy.

I haven’t been able to cook or bake since Lorin died. He was grateful for all the meals I prepared for him and even bragged to his co-workers about the lunches I prepared for him. I made extra Christmas cookies so he could have his own tin. He thanked me for every meal, every cookie, even a frozen dinner. I miss having him to cook for, and how grateful he was for every culinary offering.

I made a spontaneous decision to go to New York this weekend to visit my mom and Lorin’s grandmother on Long Island since I won’t be able to see them for Christmas. I need to connect with people who need me (Mom) and loved Lorin (his grandmother). It makes me feel closer to him. I also have a keen sense of my mortality right now. Why wait?

In the evening, I light candles in the living room and in our bedroom, hoping he’ll see them.

This afternoon, I talked to a couple of turtles at the marsh, and asked if they had seen Lorin. No reply.

I said, “Well, if you do, tell him to come and see me.”

Lorin loved animals, turtles included. He said he wanted to die in Savannah. I wish he had lived here too.

Ghost

December 5, 2016December 5, 2016 / Erica Herd / 8 Comments

(google image)

I am your friendly neighborhood ghost,
like Casper.
You see me every day.
I do what you do,
even Christmas shopping.
I wear normal clothes,
don’t smear myself in feces
or wear a burlap sack.

I look normal,
but I’m not.
I’m lost
flying in and out
of reality
thinking thoughts
no person should
grieving,
raging,
wanting vengeance
for the loss of
the one who will never return

Hating Jesus,
hating people who want me
to embrace him
as my Lord and personal savior
I don’t want a personal savior.
I want my husband back.

I am your friendly neighborhood ghost
don’t mind me
I’m not really here

Loss

October 24, 2016November 11, 2016 / Erica Herd / 38 Comments

I have not been on word press for the past several weeks due to an unforeseen tragedy.

My husband Lorin and I and our five cats were driving to Savannah, Georgia on September 28 with a loaded car, ready to start a new life, to escape the rat race of New York / New Jersey. The movers were at the house from 1 p.m. till around 7 p.m. We started the drive at around 7:20 p.m.

We drove through the night without sleep, enduring a torrential rain storm, unscathed. By seven a.m. Thursday, September 29, we were both bleary and falling asleep; Lorin at the wheel. I begged him to pull over, but he said we only had 70 miles left to go and we would be in Savannah in an hour.

At some point we both must have dozed off. I opened my eyes to see a silver oil tanker truck directly in front of us–seemed like inches away. I screamed for Lorin to veer off to the left side. He did so, and our car rolled and tumbled violently down a grassy hill. When the car came to a full stop, I pried open the passenger door and ran out. Lorin was lying in front of the car, his right leg bent slightly up, left cheek pressed to the earth, blood pouring from his ear and mouth. I screamed for help, crying hysterically.

A nurse who must have witnessed the accident came running out of her car to help. She checked his vitals and tried to revive him, but it was too late. Tears streamed down her face. She said, “I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”

I begged her to revive him, to help him. I begged Lorin not to leave me.

Our belongings were scattered on the grassy area and all over the road. It looked like a plane crash. Only two of our cats, Sylvester and Bernie, were in view. They were struggling to get up, but could not move. I didn’t see the others.

An EMT escorted me to an ambulance, saying I needed to go with him. He asked to take my blood pressure, but I refused. I asked him to please help my husband.

He asked if there was anyone I needed to call and asked where I kept my phone. It was not in my purse. I said it was in my purse. He gave me his phone so I could call family members, first Lorin’s mother who lives in Savannah. I was terrified she would be angry with me and wish I was dead instead of Lorin. I felt the same way when I called his grandmother on Long Island, but got her voicemail, asking her to call me back, but not conveying the news. I asked if someone could help my cats, and the EMT said animal control was on its way and he later gave me their card. Through the window of the ambulance, I saw someone placing a pale blue blanket over Lorin.

“Where are they taking him?” I said.

The EMT said he didn’t know.

I called my father and my best friend Nancy, asking her to please tell my other friends.

I was taken to a hospital in Colleton County, South Carolina and seen by a nurse, social worker and physician. I asked about my cats. The social worker told me that two had died at the scene, and three were taken to the vet. Quincy and Bernie died at the scene. Karl and Sylvester went to the vet; Sylvester was undergoing surgery. Both Karl and Sylvester died.

The nurse gave me two Ativan and the doctor gave me a 10 day prescription of the same.

The social worker returned to my bed saying that one of my cats survived unharmed–Samson. They brought him to me at the hospital.

I don’t remember anything after that. I don’t remember going to my mother-in-law’s home in Savannah or who drove us.

My stepmother came to Savannah two days later to provide support and assistance.

I am so torn up inside, trying to get through each hour and each day the best I can.

Mom’s Roommate Is Dead

May 22, 2016May 22, 2016 / Erica Herd / 16 Comments

The mattress was gone and all her belongings except for a Town and Country magazine laying across the metal rungs of the bed frame. Mom and Florence* had been roommates since Mom moved into the Actors Home in September 2014. I met one of Florence’s daughters and her son. Her daughter said she had had a stroke which had affected her speech and motor ability. She was a thin African-American with close-cropped salt and pepper hair; when she spoke, her voice wavered, but she had very expressive eyes.

Mom said she died two Saturdays ago, the last time I visited, when we watched The Hustler on TCM. It was also the day Mom told me she had been proposed to.

“We were watching The Day the Earth Stood Still and All About Eve. I was laughing at something, but I didn’t know she was dead,” Mom said. “I feel bad. I miss her.”

She went on, “I saw her mouth open and she looked like she was having trouble breathing. I didn’t know she had died.”

“She was young,” I said.

“Yes, she was.”

“Her daughter told me she had a stroke,” I said.

“Oh, I didn’t know that. She had arthritis, like me,” Mom said.

Mom said, “The two guys came to my room and we talked and had a good time, Florence too.”

“Was one of the guys the one who proposed to you?” I said.

“Yes,” she said, giggling like a love-stricken teenager.

It sounded like quite the party.

“Do the guys live here?” I said.

“No, they work here.”

“Oh, are they cleaners or nurses?”

“I don’t think so. They help us out here.”

“So they’re aides?” I said.

“They might be.”

“Maybe it was a blessing,” Mom said.

“Yes, maybe,” I said.

“We were watching The Day the Earth Stood Still and All About Eve. It was a good night.”

“I know, Mom. I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Mom said. “She was with me all the time.”

“I know.”

“Then they did something at the window with the thing. They couldn’t get the window open. And she was dead.”

“Did they tell you that night?”

“Yes, the nurse came in and told me,” she said.

“That must have been hard.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to go for a spin?” I said.

“Yes, let’s go.”

In memory of Florence:

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

–John Donne

*Pseudonym.

No Reason for Me to be Angry with You

June 15, 2015June 15, 2015 / Erica Herd / 15 Comments

Angry with you
but you wouldn’t understand
I have no reason to be,
You didn’t say or do anything mean or cruel.
You asked, “Did you get your hair cut?”
And I said, “Yes.”
I didn’t ask, “Do you like it?” fearing
the answer would be no, and I’d be madder still.

No reason for me to be angry with you.

We were talking about the documentary, The Roosevelts
that aired on PBS.
You said, “Did you see the World War show?”
“No.”
“They showed all the people coming,” you said.
“Immigrants?” I asked.
“No . . . people.”
“Oh.”

A sunny day.
The nurse unlocked the door to the “Secret Garden”
so we could go outside.
I leaned over to sniff a yellow rose,
most of its petals gone.
“Does it still smell?” you said.
“Yes, it smells good.”
I couldn’t push your wheelchair close enough for you to sniff it
without hurting another plant,
So I didn’t.

Mom in the Secret Garden (photo by me)

No reason for me to be angry with you.

I can’t tell you that your sister died
I think it would be too much
(for me or you?)
A few weeks ago you said,
“I’m so worried, I haven’t heard from her
in so long.”
She called you, and sent hand-painted cards,
chocolates and Victorian magazines
even while she was ill.
I wish I could tell you how things really are,
and that you would understand.

No reason for me to be angry with you.

We watched ER and ate cookies.
You stared at me sometimes
without speaking.
Sometimes you’d smile,
but today it wasn’t enough.
Why can’t you say something?
Tell me that you understand.

No reason for me to be angry with you.

Death Is Not Sexy

January 30, 2015January 30, 2015 / Erica Herd / 20 Comments

The Super Bowl is sexy. Well, at least the Victoria’s Secret commercials and some of the halftime entertainment are, from what I’ve heard. I don’t watch it (sorry), so I don’t know. Death is not sexy.

I haven’t seen my mom in a couple weeks due to the death of my father-in-law and being sick myself, but I spoke to her last night at around 8 p.m. She was in a state.

I don’t like it when she’s in “a state.” Most of the time she seems fairly serene, even content and happy. On other occasions, she is lucid and questions her life and how she’s living.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Not well,” she said, a faint moan in her voice.

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything. I can’t get anything done. What will become of me?”

“What happened, Mom?”

“I can’t get ready for bed. What kind of life is this? I’d rather be dead.”

“I’m sorry you’re upset, Mom.”

“What’s going to happen to me? I can’t do anything, can’t go anywhere.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

I had no words of wisdom to impart. I agreed with everything she said. What kind of life was this?

“What about the grahams?” she said.

“I’m bringing you the cookies this weekend.”

“Are you sure? Are you really coming?”

“Yes, I’ll be there.”

“It’s been such a long time.”

“Lorin’s father died, then I was very sick last weekend. I didn’t want to get you sick.”

“Oh, right. But you will come this weekend?” Pain in her voice.

“Yes, I promise. I’m sorry you feel so bad. Is there anything good on 13?”

“No, nothing but junk—ads.”

“Oh. There’s still snow on the ground. Isn’t it pretty?”

“Yes, I always like that.”

“It’s going to snow tonight into tomorrow morning, they said.”

“Oh, that’ll be good.”

She loved shoveling snow when we lived in Jackson Heights. I have a photo of her shoveling on the stoop, cheeks flushed and smiling.

“Okay, Mom. Try to get some sleep. I’ll see you in a couple days.”

“Okay, good night, dear.”

She still sounded awful. I didn’t provide any comfort and felt utterly helpless and sad.

She lives at The Actors Home in the Enhanced (Alzheimer’s) Unit, with fellow performing artists. It’s the best place she could possibly be. But I don’t like bearing witness to her pain and suffering.

Jeffory Morshead wrote a bestselling book called Alzheimer’s: The Long Goodbye (The Emotional Aspects of Caregiving). That is what it is: a long death, not a speedy, graceful one. There are different qualities of “good nights” and goodbyes. Last night was not a good one.

Mom as a young actress (photo by Joe Ratke)

The Ice Storm

January 19, 2015January 20, 2015 / Erica Herd / 15 Comments

Thomas E Bush IV

Yesterday was not a day to be out of doors. Ruby, our red Pathfinder, was covered in a sheet of ice, icicles hanging like fringe from the side mirrors and the bottom of the doors—not the surrey with the fringe on top. We had to venture forth. Ruby saved me during a car accident almost 4 years to the day; she would come through for us today.

We were out of salt, so Lorin scattered kitty litter on the front steps and walkway before we left. It does the trick, but it’s a bitch to clean up later.

It took about two hours to drive from New Jersey to the Bronx—there was an accident on the Bruckner Interchange. We headed to the Whitestone, onto the Cross Island Parkway, then onto the LIE. It took another hour to reach Long Island with the brakes acting up, Lorin pumping them to try to unfreeze the brake pads. It took a while to come to a full stop on icy roads. It was a white knuckler of a ride.

When I allowed myself not to be afraid, I took in the sky: thick and white, only the outlines of trees visible. Hauntingly beautiful and composed.

Cold, snow, ice and loss have mixed together into a kind of cosmic blender. A gentle snow fell the night of my accident in 2011, the first time I diapered my mother, recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

Another January has come, and Lorin’s father has passed away after a heart attack from which he never awoke. Lorin, his dad’s girlfriend B and I were at the hospital on and off for nine days. The palliative team at Bellevue Hospital kept him very comfortable, and he died peacefully. A good death, you could say.

We gathered on Long Island with family for bagels and coffee, to look at photographs, to reminisce and make plans for a memorial, most likely in the spring.

“Dad liked nature,” Lorin said. He would have liked to see the flowers in bloom.

Out of the ice and into the bloom.

He sang in the choir at his Lutheran church. They laid his robe over his chair during the church service yesterday.

We drove his girlfriend B back to Brooklyn, Lorin still pumping brakes, no ice falling, but heavy rain.

When Lorin lit up a cigarette, B said, “That reminds me of your father.”

“How many did he smoke a day?” I asked.

“Only 2 or 3. I’ll miss him when I’m at home,” she said.

It was a little easier driving home, but still scary at times. At times we stopped breathing, I think.

This morning, I scraped off the cemented-on kitty litter on the stairs and walkway with a shovel, disposing of as much as I could; some was frozen under a layer of ice. Later on, Lorin hosed off more of the litter and put down liquid blue Ice Melt. We dropped Ruby off at the mechanic.

A London Broil’s in the slow cooker, listening to the new age music channel, Soundscapes.

No ice storm in the forecast. We welcome the mundane.

Frida Kahlo in the Window

November 18, 2014November 19, 2014 / Erica Herd / 3 Comments

(photo: Erica Herd, outside art gallery in Beacon, NY)

Frida Kahlo in the window
eyes skyward
such power in a single gaze
hold tight, Frida
your eyes climbed the trees
if your body could not

I gather strength from those eyes.

Her last diary entry read: “I hope the end is joyful – and I hope never to return – Frida..”

When asked what she wanted done with her body, she said, “Burn it…I don’t want to be buried. I have spent too much time lying down… Just burn it!” (www.fridakahlo.com)