Karl T.

... to all of my Jewish friends, acquaintances, and colleagues.

I spent the first half of this week in the Central Valley of California, where the highs were 37-42C (98 to 108F.) And the hotel gym was nasty. So I walked outside when I could, in the twilight hours. Consequently, my averages were more like 8k steps than 10k. But the blood sugars stayed under control.

I switched blood thinners, from a spiffy new name-brand taken twice a day to a generic taken once a day. I mis-dosed myself for a couple of days this week, taking the generic twice a day. Whether that accounts for the odd indigestion-like discomfort, or whether it was just the heat, I'll find out in the week to come. Medication interactions and side effects are a bloody nuisance, but it beats the alternative by a long chalk.

The body wants to move, now, most of the time. A good book will still keep me immersed for hours, but when I come back to the world, I need to move. I'm hanging on to that need for dear life, because it's the only thing that will keep me from crawling into a hole and never ever coming out.

There have been deaths that affect people close to me in both my work and personal worlds this week. I am trying very hard not to think about what it would have done to both those worlds if I had made a different choice five weeks ago. My follow-up with my behavioral counsellor is in two weeks; if I can't hang on that long, I'll move it earlier.

I don't want to die, but some of the fatigue that made it so easy to neglect my medications, my diet, and my self-care is visible at the edges of my world now. I am slowly relaxing my tight focus on getting through the next day, the next walk, the next hour. And the world creeps in.

I spent most of this week in the company of people I love and who love me, and it makes a difference. I kept moving, kept breathing, kept loving. And I will keep doing so, until I can't anymore. This part of the state is still beautiful, the fog dragons are still great company, there is still a reason to get up and walk, to clear my head and remind me of how good it feels to move, to be able to move, to breathe freely.

But I'm not going to lie to you; it's hard. The cruelty on display everywhere just makes me want to scream. And nothing, nothing, nothing I see anywhere makes me believe it's going to get better before it gets much, much worse. These are excruciating times for those of us who have brain chemistries that make us more sensitive to others' pain. A world in which I personally get all the love I need but there is an Omelas in every city, every little town, in every country around the world, is a world in which my humanity feels very much compromised.

That got a little dark, didn't it? All I can do is sit with it, sit with the discomfort of knowing I can't fix it all. And then choose to do what I can, where I can, when I can.

It's not much, but it's all I've got. Suggestions and solidarity welcome. Take care of each other.

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Ten days ago, I was sitting in my mother's living room, listening to her tell stories about her mother and worrying about the pain she was in from a compression fracture in her spine that was not healing quickly enough to suit her, while a dear friend of ours was cooking for us.

A week ago, I was sitting at dinner with my wife and a friend, when I got a call from my cousin. She said, "We're at Sonoma Valley Hospital. Janet has leukemia."

Last night, just after midnight, I got a call from Marin General Hospital. My mother had slipped away in the night, sparing my cousin and me the agonizing decision of how to let her go when it was clear there was no hope.

This is what I wrote in the immediate aftermath:

If I have ever been gentle with you, ever been kind to you when you needed it, been a friend or a support or an ally to you, then raise your glass tonight and drink a toast to the woman who taught me how important it is that we love one another, that we keep one another as safe from harm and as cherished as we possibly can. Remember the good she has done in the world, and tell stories of it to your children and your loved ones. And go forth and make your love manifest in the world — love daringly, defiantly, completely and totally.

Thank you, Janet, for giving me life, and love, and for teaching me to cherish others as you have cherished me.

RIP Janet Roberta Barnes Thiessen. Born December 30, 1940, in Kentfield, California. Died June 13, 2012, in Greenbrae, California. Loving mother, devoted daughter, stalwart friend, passionate believer in justice and fairness, and all around hell of a human being.