Category: Uncategorized

            I’m realizing there are some things I can’t keep doing if I want to stay sane.  Case in point, the background anger I’ve had with the world ever since Colin died needs to go away, or at least die down.

            It’s gotten better, it’s true.  I no longer find myself welling up with rage and ready to tell off random rude acquaintances and people in the street (though, that said, I kind of wish I had been able to turn it on with a particularly rude cashier on Saturday, but that’s another story).  No, with me, it’s become more subtle.

            Like, a few nights ago, I was having drinks with friends and the topic of this infamous picture from 2015, of a boy who had drowned while his family was trying to cross the Mediterranean and reach the EU, showed up.  Now, full disclosure, I’ve learned since Colin’s death that alcohol and media criticism are a bad, bad combination.  So, I should have walked away.  But I didn’t, and the debate turned unpleasant.  And we kept coming down to whether there had been a need to show this particular image.  Part of the argument was: Did the world really need to be forced to look at a dead kindergartener?

            So, that might have been a second red flag for me.  And I responded by pointing out that several people in the room had already seen a dead kindergartener. 

            I’ll admit, logically, I don’t know what point I was trying to make.  Other than: They should know how it feels.  What worries me more is that I wasn’t really trying to make a point.  I was mad and I felt that gave me the right to share my pain.  Like, “Dead 5-year-olds?  I know all about that.  Come along for the ride.”

            I don’t think anything gives me the right to do that, yet I keep doing it.  I find myself bringing him up, not entirely inappropriately, but it’s definitely sometimes forced.  Just because I want people to remember him.  Sometimes because I want them to realize how lucky they are.  Sometimes, I worry, that I just want to bring people down.

            It’s not every time.  A few months ago, I was sitting outside with people complaining about the lockdowns and how they hoped those never come back, because it was awful being home all the time.  “I’m not doing it if they tell us to,” one person said.

            I sat quietly.  What I wanted to say was “Being trapped in your home feels practically liberating after being stuck in a hospice for a summer.”  Being able to sit down with my family and have a meal – instead of hiding the fact that we’re eating from Colin because we don’t want him to think about the fact that he’s got a trach and can no longer take normal food – feels like such a weight off of our shoulders.  Not having to tiptoe around the home health care worker – assuming he showed up – is great.  Being stuck in my own walls was great, because it meant we were keeping death outside, instead of watching it take Colin inch by inch.

            You see how easy that came to me?  You see how quickly I can ruin a group kvetch session about lockdowns?  You see how I just throw Colin’s death out there because I want to pass along some of the pain I still feel, because it’s too much for me?

            It’s been three years since his death and I feel it keeps on making me a worse person.  I feel people are throwing me metaphorical life preservers.  Like, here, join this conversation and be normal with us again.  And my first instinct is almost always to see if I can drag them down with me.

            Christina took me to a concert last week, a birthday gift.  The plan was that we would leave around 7, grab dinner and then head to the show.  Of course, we got started a lot later than we’d planned, so we opted for a taxi.  And then the taxi got held up in traffic on its way to us, so we were even later.

            While we waited for the taxi that never came, Christina had me look up online to see if there was an opening act.  Because, if there was one, then we’d know that we had a little extra time before we had to be at the hall.

            Turns out there was no opening act.  There had been one planned, but the lead singer of the main act has gotten embroiled in a scandal about cheating on his wife and sexual assault on others.  Lord knows if any of it’s true and it’s not my place to judge.  All I know that, in the process of learning that there would be no opening act – it pulled out in protest at the allegations against the main act – I learned a whole lot more about the main band than I ever really cared to know.

            It changed the show, I must say.  I mean, most acts will have a song or two about relationships ending or dying or what-not.  And now, watching this show (they had a DJ play music for an hour for lack of an opening act), it all got really weird.  The singer was up there with his allegations.  His wife was up there too.  And there are random lyrics about things being a big deal and where did the love go and so on and so on.  It’s the closest I’ve ever felt to watching a divorce play out in real time.

            I’m not saying I loved it.  I have to admit, for the first hour or so, there was a strong urge to just leave because it was so awkward to watch the show, knowing what I had just learned.

            But there was also a part of me that liked it.  Like, “Ha.  Let someone else have the problems for a change.”

            And that’s the part of me I’m having a hard time liking.  I notice it becoming a more and more pronounced part of me, and I really want to keep it at bay.  This need to bring others down.  This need to make sure everyone feels just a little bit awkward around me.  This tic I’ve developed where I’ll make sure to bring Colin into conversations here and there, just because I want to make sure that no one forgets him, but also because I want to make everyone a little bit uncomfortable.  After all, if I can’t be happy, why should anyone else get to enjoy their home and their children and their life.  Mine’s not a mess, but it’s not the way I envisioned it.  Why not let everyone else have a taste of that from time to time.

            I know most of my friends get it.  I know most of my friends know that I’m carrying a world of hurt and that, even when I’m enjoying something, there’s a maudlin aftertaste right behind the fun.  I suspect several people would take away the pain if they could.  But the only way to take away the pain would be to take away the memories, and I won’t let those go.  So, I need to find ways to share the pain.  To exorcise it.  But I have to make sure I don’t use it as a weapon.  As a downer.  As a buzzkill.

            The concert got better in the second hour and I stopped worrying about who was divorcing whom and who slept with whom.  Maybe he is a bad person.  Maybe he’s falsely accused.  I came for the music and, whatever I think of what he might have done, the tickets had already been paid for, so he had my money no matter what I did.  I might as well get a good show out of it.

            Likewise, my son is gone.  It’s made me realize a lot of things about myself.  But nothing I’m going to do is going to bring him back.  So I have to remember him in ways like this, by writing about him.  But I can’t use him as a weapon.  He deserves better than that.

I wrote this on Friday on a train back to Berlin, thinking I would post it on Saturday after giving it a quick reread. Then some kind of flu reared its ugly head and I was basically flat on my back for four straight days. So, some of the information is a little out of date but, given that the point of the post was how I haven’t posted in a long time, I guess that’s just keeping with the theme…

For lack of a photo to better illustrate the idea, I default to one of Murphy.

            Once again, we’ve reached the time of the year when the sun rises later in the morning.  It jars me a little bit every since Colin died.  That whole summer in the hospice, I got used to waking up at 5:15 a.m. and getting to his bedside, just so he didn’t have to spend any of the time he had left alone.  The fact that the sun came through the windows was my signal to get up and get up to him.  It probably helped that that was also about the time the first planes began taking off and landing at Tegel airport.  You heard every plane tearing through the sky from the window to the room they’d set aside for Christina and me.  Strangely, I don’t really remember ever hearing them in Colin’s room.

            I can’t really tell you why I haven’t posted in an age.  I’ve had a few ideas I wanted to write about.  I definitely felt a need to write from time to time.  And it’s not as if I haven’t been writing about him: I recently finished work on a novel that is – spoiler warning – based on how I might have acted if I had had an actual mental break after his death.  I don’t know if that was cathartic to write or set me back, but I needed to get that story out of me.  So, now it sits on my hard drive, while I try to figure out how or whether to publish it.

            Maybe it’s just been busy.  We had our vacation in southern Germany last month.  Then we had a barrage of visitors, which was all very pleasant, but, after two years or more of barely seeing anyone, it was an awful lot of people compressed into two weeks.  But also great to catch up with so many people from back home.  And to use them to provide us with precious supplies we can’t get here in Germany.  We are now an eastern German hub of US baking powder supplies, should anyone need any.

            There’s also been a fair bit going on professionally.  More on that at a later point.

            But I’d always found time to write before, so I can’t really tell you what pushed blogging to the back burner for the last few months.  I can’t tell you is this post is a flash in the pan or if I’m going to get back to a semi-regular cycle of writing.  I can tell you that I’ve already nearly cried once while writing this.

            We did just have the third anniversary of his death.  It’s the first time I’ve worked a September 17 since his death.  I can’t tell you why I did.  I thought about asking for the day off, but then thought that maybe I should try to treat it like a more normal day.  Everyone seemed to have plans and it wasn’t until dusk that we got our act together to go to the cemetery.  There was talk that we should make new candles for him, but we didn’t pull it together.  Even the act of going to the cemetery is different now, because I’m tethered to Murphy, who will take off if he sees a squirrel, somber moment or not.  He didn’t do anything at the cemetery, but it’s something you’ve always got to think about when you’ve got a dog of Murphy’s size and energy at the other end of a rope.

            Maybe we’ll still make the candles.  It can’t be overlooked that Christina’s going through a busy phase at work and that everyone has been sick for the last two weeks, none of which was conducive to us sitting down for a family project.  Christina and Noah are going to the hospice tomorrow to discuss how Noah’s week away with the kids group went and we’re going to get Noah started on a new rock climbing program set up by the hospice.  I am determined to be at the men’s groups meetings for the next few months after barely going to the group since the start of the pandemic.  I am facing situations where I’m going to have to tell new people about having watched my son die.  This will all be staying with us for the rest of our lives, so I don’t see the blog going away.  I’ll simply have to see how I integrate it into my life going forward.

            My laptop was out of commission for a week, which is bad for the blogging business.  And, at about the same time, the end of Noah’s grade school career came, which brought with it an insane amount of final concerts, picnics, meetings and nostalgia.  I’ve got another kid starting, for lack of a better word, high school later this year.  And I’ve got none left in elementary school, because Colin died before he could even finish kindergarten.

            Sigh.

            During my daily Bible reading, I came across this passage in Job, which is making a lot more sense to me this time around:

            My days have passed, far otherwise than I had planned.

            To which I can only say “Tell me about it, Job.”

            He goes on with “and every fiber of my heart is broken” which is probably a step further than I’m prepared to go, though, had you spoken to me in 2019, heaven knows what I would have said.  Still, it’s bad if you’re reading with the book of Job and identifying with it quite that much.  But I guess that’s what childhood cancer, followed by a pandemic, followed by potential thermonuclear war two countries over can do to a person.

            I don’t know when I last read Job.  I usually get to the end of the Bible and then pick it up from the start.  Usually I read 2-3 pages a day, so I’m guessing it was 2-3 years ago.  I can’t imagine my mindset was that much better 2-3 years ago, but maybe I’m reading it more thoroughly this time.  I could imagine that, in 2018-19, a lot of things just washed over me.

            But religion is my point today.  It’s come up a few times since we went to a neighbor kid’s first communion.  Emma did her first communion while Colin was still with us.  Noah had his in the midst of a pandemic, delayed a year and even then, in my opinion, conducted under circumstances that were less than ideal, pandemic-wise.

            Now they’re both going to Catholic school, and the topic of confirmation is coming up.  That discussion was in turn inspired by an event that was most definitely non-religious.  The girl across the street had what is called a “Jugendweihe” party.  It’s a tough one to translate.  I have no good ideas and, when I go to translation engines, I get “youth declaration,” “youth inauguration” and “youth consecration.”  None seem really right.

            What it amounts to is that religion was discouraged during the communist regime here in eastern Germany.  But people wanted to have some kind of event that marked a child’s transition to adulthood (and the kids wanted an event that came with tons of cash gifts) so they came up with this non-religious event to announce the transition into pre-adulthood.  The kids dress up, there’s a lot of speeches (this year, all on Zoom, I’m told) and then there’s a party.  This was just a garden party, but I know of people who have rented halls.  As Christina was trying to help me wrap my mind around the topic, the best interpretation we could come up with was “communist bar mitzvah.”

            So, we had kids getting first communions and kids getting non-confirmations, which all raises the question of what Emma’s going to do next year.  Like I said, it’s a Catholic school, so there will definitely be an offer to go through confirmation preparation and have the whole ceremony.

            Except Emma isn’t really sure what she believes in any more.  I can’t blame her at all.  I mean, I’d expect most 14-year-olds to be full of existential questions these days.  Emma literally watched her brother die while other people with, shall we say, more questionable claims on being deserving of a long and rich life keep on ticking.  And, as noted, she went straight from that to coronavirus to the Ukraine crisis which, admittedly, has impacted us very little at this moment.  That said, it could be a very cold winter here in Berlin.  She hasn’t quite come out and said she doesn’t believe in God, but she’s close to it. 

            I don’t really know what to tell her.  My faith remains, but it’s kind of hard to rally a family member to Team God under our circumstances.  I’ve long since reconciled myself to a God who isn’t a magic fairy godmother who comes and solves all my problems with a snap of a finger.  But I remember a time when I thought if you prayed enough you could get about anything.  Emma learned way too young that’s not how prayer works.  And if she’s having those questions, what’s the point of confirmation?  Yeah, there’s the party and all the gifts, but that’s not why you get confirmed.  There’s no point if you don’t truly believe.

            I imagine there’s numerous families who go through this kind of thing.  Churchgoing is less common than it ever was and, in Germany, people are leaving the church in droves due to disgust at the way some parishes handled sexual abuse scandals.  We’re not that unique in many respects with these family debates.  And yet, in that sad way, we have a very different problem than anyone else.  I guess this is one that we have to let Emma work out for herself.  I mean, we’ll support her and answer questions, but she’s going to have to make the choice herself, ultimately.

            I think it’s fair to say that my professional development hasn’t gone quite as I planned.  This is, in and of itself, not a great disaster.  For example, had I wished to have a truly stellar and non-stop-exciting career as a journalist, I probably shouldn’t have moved to Berlin.  There are plenty of stories to be found here, to be sure, but the international media, by and large, isn’t interested in quirky stories out of Germany, and German politics can be oh so dull.  No, if you want to interest the foreign media out of Germany, you’re best off heading to Frankfurt and reporting on the stock markets and the latest German business scandal that seems to shock the world, because everyone seems to have this image of Germans as upright business professionals … despite generating a new business scandal of fairly shocking proportions every five years or so.

            But that isn’t it.  Christina’s job was in Berlin, so I put my career on hold and, honestly, was lucky to find regular work here ever since I showed up in 2004.  I can’t get too grouchy that I was never an international superstar reporter and, let’s face it, my personality is not one that would have lent itself to stardom.  I’m better off working in the background, producing stuff.  My goal always was to be the reporter other reporters respected.  Like, you might not see my face on TV, but people would know to come to me if they wanted to get the straight story.

            That isn’t what happened, but I found something that was pretty close to good enough.  And then, about a year after Colin died and I was starting to get my feet under me, despite Covid, the rug got pulled out.  I still have a job.  I’m just not enjoying it the way I used to.  Plus, Covid and Colin’s death have understandably had their impact on me.  While I was out of the picture at work, dealing with Colin’s death, some decisions understandably got made and I wasn’t there to influence them.  I’ve felt a little sidelined ever since I returned.  And then we all got sent home thanks to the pandemic, so it was a sidelining on top of a sidelining.

            This is not meant to be a complaint about my job.  Besides that not being a topic for an open forum, it is important to point out that my employer has been amazingly understanding through all my health-related absences and the quirks I’ve developed in the wake of my son’s death.  I’m employed, I make enough money to feed my family and I have predictable hours that give me the freedom I need to pursue other ventures like this blog and the fiction writing I’m trying to start doing on the side.  So, I can’t complain on that front.  But some things have come to the forefront in recent weeks that, frankly, enrage me.  Maybe I’m right.  Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe I’m overreacting.  Ever since Colin died I find there are a few people and issues with which I simply can’t react rationally.  I see myself overreacting, but I just can’t stop myself.  So, I don’t really know if there’s a problem or if I’ve just lost perspective.  The point is, it’s making me unhappy.

            Which brings me to the point.  For the longest time, even when things weren’t going great with my job, when I resigned myself to the fact that I might never be a reporter again and I probably wouldn’t get that many bylines, there was always the option to say “Well, my career might not be going so great, but what counts is that I’ve got a great family.”

            Which I do.

            It’s just that we lost a person.  And it wasn’t our fault and we did the best we can, but the whole “at least my family is doing fine” philosophy doesn’t hold up when your youngest is buried a five-minute bike ride from your home.  It’s hard.  I’ve been trying to see what I can do about my professional life for more than a year now, but things are not coming together terribly quickly.  So, I stay where I am and stew and worry that I might lash out at the wrong person at the wrong time about the wrong thing. 

That said, what happens if I do move to a better job?  At least everyone I know at my present employer knows my history.  When I panic during a meet and greet with a new colleague on Zoom – do I say why my career hasn’t advanced?  Do I follow other people’s leads and talk about my family?  If so, do I say I have two or three children? – they at least have some inkling of what I’ve been through.  In new surroundings, assuming I don’t tell everyone individually about my backstory, which I’m not sure would be appropriate, I wouldn’t get that leeway.

            So, there is this sense of either having to stay where I am and make the best of it, or making the terrifying jump into the unknown, should an opportunity ever present itself.  I keep telling myself it’s just a career.  My family should be the most important.  And it is.  It’s just that, even if everything goes perfect from here on out, it’s impossible to look back and say “that was a success” when Colin is dead.  Looking at my professional life, I wish I could get it pumped up just a bit better.  But I’m losing hope.  But, whereas before, I could turn my thoughts to home and think ‘at least my family is fine,” I know that’s not absolutely true.  We cope.  We make do.  We have a lot of good days.  But we took a hit and it’s left its marks.

            Nothing to do, I suppose, but show up to work and do the best I can and then see what opportunities present themselves.  But it feels like it should be easier than it is.  Except, I’ve learned that it isn’t.

            It’s one thing knowing it. It’s quite another saying it.

            It’s been quite a while since I had to tell anyone new that I was the parent of a dead child (those who already know probably hear me say it too much).  Pretty much everyone who ought to have known found out right when Colin died.  Since then, it’s something I kind of chose to keep to myself.  Like, why bum the room out with that information, if it’s just someone with whom I’m making small talk.

            Now I’ve gotten to bring it up three times in just a month.  It’s an odd sensation.  I mean, there’s no good way to present the story.  There’s no “Here’s a funny anecdote lead-in.”  There’s no way to soften it all.  I try to say “This is going to be heavy,” but “heavy” doesn’t really do justice to a kindergartener dying of cancer.  But you also don’t want to bludgeon your way into the conversation that way.

            I suppose it comes down a bit to how I think others view me.  I’ll catch us in the backyard, when we’ve tempted the kids outside and Murphy isn’t actively barking at a neighbor and we look like a happy family.  We are a happy family.  We genuinely enjoy each others’ company.  But I can’t help but think how someone looking in from the outside would act.  Should we not be dressed in black?  Should we not be having a moment of silence for Colin at every family gathering?  Should we not all be openly weeping?

            The radio show I listen to on my phone while making the kids’ lunches each morning keeps coming up unexpectedly with shows that touch on death, which is always an unexpected kick to the gut.  Just a day or so ago, I listened to one about the parents of one of the victims of Sandy Hook taking on the internet trolls who insist that no children died that day.  In this instance, the trolls had latched on to the fact that the dead boy’s mother seemed so composed in a TV interview.  Shouldn’t she be crying?  How could she have had time to get her nails and makeup done?  How come she’s not a complete mess?  Those were the questions they asked as they sought to prove she was an actor.

            It’s because you have two choices when a child dies.  You can crumple up into a ball or you can choose to keep on living.  And if you have other surviving children, you really need to pick the option where you keep living, because someone has to care for them.  That’s what it comes down to.

            And then, after you’ve lived a while longer, you run into new people who don’t know you spent a summer in a hospice and that your wife spends part of every weekend tending to your son’s grave.

            The first case was a professional one.  Not to get into details, but I’m exploring my options professionally.  And it became necessary during this Zoom call to find out how much time any new options would give me for my surviving children.  I didn’t want to beat around the bush, so I laid it out there.

            Then, this last weekend, I was at the school where Emma goes and where Noah is going to start in August.  I remembered that, although we told the head office about Colin, the news never got to Emma’s classroom.  So, when everyone introduced themselves and Emma got up to talk about her dead brother, the poor teachers never had a clue what was coming.  I wanted to avoid it, so I pulled aside the English teacher and asked what I should do.  Not that the English teacher has anything to do with any of this, but because I didn’t want to go through this in German.

            And then a friend I hadn’t heard from in years emailed out of the blue.  And asked how I was doing.

            You can tell when you break open this news that you’ve ruined their day.  You could tell the Zoom lady was happy not to be in the room with me.  You could tell the old friend by email was happy to quickly change the topic to the nightmare of work and home repairs.  The English teacher was the hardest, since I was right there.  I could tell as I told her that I was breaking into my nervous laugh, because it’s the laugh I do when I’m nervous, but what a bad time for it.  She teared up and asked out loud why she was getting so sad.  She had the good graces to not ask why I was acting like I was sharing a knock-knock joke.  Like wandering around telling people about Colin’s death is just something I do.

            It’s going to happen again.  It probably would have happened a lot more in the last few years if not for all the lockdowns.  Christina recently had to tell someone and worried for a few weeks after that this person was going to cut us out of her life, due to the sheer surprise (she didn’t).

            Another of those radio shows I listen to involved people who were fat.  This one woman, who is apparently fat (it’s a radio show … I can’t say) had started telling her friends and acquaintances that she was fat.  The general reaction was that, well, um, they had noticed.  But it was still a different vibe in the air.  There was a transition from “Everyone knows, but we don’t talk about it” to “Now we have talked about it.”  On some level I get it.  It’s one thing that I act weird when the topic of sick and dying children comes up.  It’s quite another when I’ve told a person to their face why it’s a tough topic.

            It comes down to this: I look too normal.  There’s no warning bells that I’m a little broken inside.  For instance, the new dog-walking friend I have has no idea what’s gone wrong with my life up until now.  Then again, I have no idea what’s up with him.  And maybe that’s the trick to it.  I can’t tell everybody.  And the people I do tell won’t have fun while they’re being told.  And maybe it’s good being anonymous every now and then and not having to share the weight of Colin’s death with just anybody.  But sometimes, maybe it is good to get it out.  As usual, there are no good answers.  There’s just getting through it all.

            I sometimes wonder if getting a dog was the best thing for my mental state.

            Don’t get me wrong.  Ignoring what seems to be his twice-a-day rowdy period – which we’re hoping will fade as this condition we’ve learned is named ‘dog puberty’ runs its course – he is a great dog.  He gets me out on long walks all around our neighborhood.  I can’t remember the last time in my life I felt more in touch with the seasons, noticing when the trees bloomed or the animals emerged.  Just last week, we almost ran into a wild boar together.  Granted, that wasn’t an experience I’d want to repeat, but it’s also not one I would have had if not for Murphy.  It’s probably very good for my physical health.  Having an animal you can sit with and pet is probably good for my mental health.  There are far more pros than cons on this list.

            And yet…

            He’s an irrational actor, being a dog.  If he sees another dog, his only desire is to get to that dog as soon as possible, leaping and bounding all the way.  There are dogs who are into that.  There are plenty of owners and dogs who want no part of it.  Murphy doesn’t care.  And I’m the one who is losing feeling in my forearm from all the times I’ve had to hold him back.

            Then there is the way he has started to interact with people at times.

            Earlier this month, we were away with friends from our church group.  Maybe it was being away from his normal surroundings, but Murphy expanded his repertoire from lunging at other dogs to lunging at anyone unfamiliar.  He also seemed to develop short-term memory problems, lunging at people with whom he’d made friends minutes before and even people he knows well, like the one neighbor who took him on walks back in February when we were all housebound with Covid-19. 

Then again, I can’t blame the behavior entirely on the weekend, since he had started randomly lunging at people before we left.  A few weeks ago, I forgot the garden gate was open and he chased some poor man down the street, barking his head off and, apparently, snapping at him.  But it’s also not a given that he’ll behave this way.  On some days, he’ll let 10 people walk by without a fuss, but then the 11^th person he’ll make a run at.  Other days it’s the 8^th person.  Or the 14^th. 

He’s always on a leash, so he’s never made contact.  And I don’t know if he just wants to bark or if there is an intent to bite.  I just know that every time we run into another person, it’s begun to feel like we’re defusing a bomb.

            Of course I’m telling him off every time he acts like a little old lady in the woods is a mortal threat to our beings.  But I notice there’s this trigger that’s been switched from our experiences.  I can’t sit back and think “It’s all going to be all right.”  I’ve got the other trigger switched, the one that tells me that the worst possible thing is going to happen.  So, to me, it’s a foregone conclusion that there will come a point at which Murphy bites some stranger and then we’ll end up facing fines and most likely having to put this dog to sleep.  Like, I can’t convince myself we’ll have a dog and we’ll just be happy together.  The worst is going to happen.  Because, why wouldn’t it?

            Let’s be honest.  It’s not as if I was Mr. Optimism before everything went wrong with Colin, but I don’t think I wallowed in pessimism either.  I felt like I was more of a realist.  Now we’ve gone the other direction and, yes, I find myself spending more time focusing on all the things that will go wrong.  Like, it doesn’t take much to convince me that, thanks to Russia’s invasion, we’re only a few months away from food riots and freezing in our own homes.  It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to see something going wrong with my job and me suddenly sitting around unemployed (which, conversely, Murphy would benefit hugely from).  And I notice that, having taken on responsibility for this dog, it’s one more life I’m now responsible for and for which I have to worry.  And so I do worry.

            So, I enjoy having Murphy around.  But, as with so many things since Colin’s diagnosis, there’s also a bit of a taste of ash in my mouth.  I’d like to just enjoy the good.  It seems it’s still going to take me a while to get there.

It’s not that the blog has become less important to me, but it feels like every part of my life is expanding to crowd out the time I would usually set aside for writing or reading or sleeping. It certainly doesn’t help that there’s a war two countries over, which has meant I got called in for a few extra shifts this month. The war doesn’t directly affect Christina’s job, but she works for the Foreign Ministry, so a war on the continent has ripple effects through every division. She’s been working some crazy hours too. So, for the last four weeks, it’s felt to me like I wake up, walk Murphy, get people to school, work, walk Murphy again, do chores, walk Murphy again and then get to bed.

This is not meant as a complaint. God knows, you don’t have to read very far into any halfway useful news feed to hear stories about people in Ukraine suffering infinitely worse than my fling with exhaustion here. I’m simply saying, I’m glad to get five hours of sleep at this point, so blogging has become quite a luxury.

Another thing distracting us from social media has been the return of the mystery gardener.

This all happened a few weeks ago, and it’s been on my “must blog” list the whole time, but here we are. The short version is that Christina called me up from the cemetery about two weeks ago, clearly agitated. Someone else had come and made modifications to the gravesite. Now, I already wrote a while back about the person who set down flowers and an angel statue that we didn’t really like. This time, the person (and for all we know, it’s a separate individual), actually put in new plants. I mean, these weren’t flowers laid on the grave, but the person dug up some soil and put these new plants in.

This created a few problems, namely:

• Christina didn’t care for these new flowers (let’s be honest, I barely notice the colors of the flowers)
• They dug up some of the bulbs Christina had specifically put in because THOSE were the flowers she wanted.

Suffice to say, Christina found time in her Murphy/chores routine to make a sign telling people we weren’t into freelance gardening at OUR family’s gravesite. As a bonus, when she went to put the sign down, she ran into Frau Krämer, who runs the cemetery. We’ve run into Frau Krämer all kinds of times since we’ve been there. I remember her asking me as we picked out the site how it felt to watch my kid die. I didn’t take the question as insensitive one. I think she was genuinely curious. But the only answer I had was “About as bad as you’d think it would be.” She’s also a hoot. Like, if I ran into her on the street, I’d assume she was a bartender at a biker bar, not a cemetery administrator. She’s all tattoos and piercings and making the cemetery as pretty as possible.

Anyways, Christina ran into Frau Krämer, who agreed that this kind of behavior was unacceptable. She kindly listened as Christina told the story and then asked “So, why is the angel still here?” Christina didn’t really know what to say, so Frau Krämer followed up with “You said you don’t like it, right?” Christina agreed and, like that, the angel was gone. To sum up: Don’t mess with Frau Krämer.

I find the odds that the person who is doing this isn’t reading the blog. Then again, I still get all kinds of exciting notes from people from Russia telling me how much they like the website and how they really want to sell me something, so who knows who’s reading this? Let’s just say: Don’t freelance decorate graves, people. Put down flowers, sure. I can’t even personally get that mad about the angel (though it wasn’t to my taste and I’m glad Frau Krämer took it down). But digging up dirt and putting in your own plants? Lines crossed, whoever you are. Lines crossed.

Our sign is up and Frau Krämer is on the lookout. You’ve been warned.