What do Bastille Day, Pluto, San Francisco, Seattle and Teatro ZinZanni all have in common? July 14, 2015. Permit me to explain ...
The Reader's Digest version of the story: I returned home to Seattle yesterday from my San Francisco visit with my bestie and God daughter. Yesterday saw the intersection of several events including Bastille Day, New Horizons' close pass of Pluto (nine years in the making) and an acquaintance's memorial service at Seattle's Teatro ZinZanni.
The full version of the story: I no longer look forward to traveling. There, I admitted it, as much as I hate to. Maybe it was just being twenty- or thirty-something, having the ability to just throw some shit in a bag last minute and be on my way to wherever. Now there's prep involved. Meds and supplements, feverishly tying up loose ends with work (only to have them unravel while away). Making sure I have some healthy "snacks" just in case I get low on energy. Often it ends up feeling like a part time job just getting everything together just to step outside the front door and be away a while. I guess that comes with age, responsibility, oh, and chronic illness.
Before I get to sounding too much like Debbie Downer, I want to acknowledge what an amazing life I have. One of the most honorable titles has been bestowed upon me; Godfather. When my nearest and dearest friend had her first child, a girl named Gia, I flew to San Francisco on a moment's notice to greet her. It will have been two months since she first came into the world. Time goes by and they grow up so fast. If I didn't get to see her now, my next opportunity isn't likely until the Christening in Denver late August. That's far too long.
Meanwhile I just got a strange bite on my arm last the weekend before leaving for San Francisco. The bite had a distinct bullseye with bruising surrounding it. Within a day I was having challenges regulating body temperature, energy and having headaches. So my prep going into my trip also included blood draw and a last minute acupuncture treatment.
At the same time we're playing host to my Husband's bestie, who, as lovely as she is, suffers from anxiety and depression. On the morning of my most recent departure to San Francisco, hubby's BFF also was leaving us and preparing to embark upon her several day drive back to California. The same morning my long time friend was flying out to L.A. on the same airline I was booked on and at the same time as my flight to San Francisco. He lives in Town and no longer has secure parking, so he likes to leave his car at my house (in a very quiet suburban neighborhood close to the airport). My long time friend also suffers from anxiety. Since my health went sideways, I too suffer from anxiety. This is going to sound a bit flakey, I have also learned how sensitive I am to other people's energy, and my anxiety can easily be fueled by others'.
Like any morning of departure, it's rush, rush, rush to get ready and out the door. I wasn't feeling particularly well. Some lingering symptoms from my peculiar bite perhaps. General malaise, my stomach was burning a bit (that's new). In fact, in the 17 years I've known my good friend, for the very first time he asked "are you OK" while we were in the car driving to the airport. I've never known him to sound so concerned. He said it was because I was being so calm and quiet (which I try to have as my default when I'm feeling "off").
It's after the long July 4 holiday weekend, so airport security checkpoints are choked. My friend has TSA pre, so he could practically walk directly into the terminal. He chose instead to escort me through security, despite my insistence that he take advantage of his travel perk. It was very kind of him to see me through, and when we cleared security I was grateful to have him watch my bags while I had to urgently expel my bowels. Something was not right with me. The moment I sat down in the stall, the podium put out an APB fore me. Apparently my flight had already boarded and they were in the process of closing the doors.
I finished as quickly as I could. My friend also informed me about the loudspeaker announcement. So we hastily said goodbye and off I ran down C Concourse to catch my flight before it left without me. When I reached the gate, the agent greeted me and I explained my holdup in security, which was mostly true. The gate agent was kind, seemed understanding and went directly to the keypad to reopen the jetway door. Then off I went.
The plane door was still open. It looked as if everyone was seated and I was the very last person to board. Thankfully had an aisle seat, so no one had to get up to accommodate me. Except there was no overhead bin space. The flight was jam-packed. The head purser wasn't very helpful, insisting they would have to check my bag. After pleading for closet space, another, kinder flight attendant made it happen. I finally sat down and was getting situated when I noticed how incredibly hot I felt. I wasn't sure if it was the plane or just me that was so stifling and stuffy. I wasn't breaking a sweat and yet I still felt incredibly hot, like I've never felt before. My insides were burning. I suddenly felt dry and dehydrated. Then I remembered in my rush to the plane I didn't fill my water bottle. I could feel the blood drain from my head and my vision started to blur. Then I felt like I was on the verge of passing out.
My awareness was around needing water. I didn't have any. Then my second thought was around whether this condition might worsen. The prior few days I had been "off," and here we are confined to this metal tube for a couple hours. I didn't know what was worse, the woosey, too hot feeling overwhelming me or the fact that once the doors closed my fate would be sealed. Suddenly one last person boarded and I stood up to tell the nice flight attendant I wasn't well enough to fly today. I've never done that before and honestly didn't think I was. So she thanked me for letting her know and retrieved my bag. The not-so-nice flight attendant also thanked me for letting them know I wasn't well enough to fly, and she actually displayed compassion. As did the gentleman at the gate podium, who came back over to me when I was on the phone to my bestie letting her know I disembarked the plane prior to take off and offered to assist me with re-booking sans change fee. Quite kind.
Not just anyone gets the title of bestie. Mine was beyond understanding, compassionate and kind. My husband on the other hand freaked out on me. I had to disconnect our call several times as I literally could not handle his anger toward me. I returned home from the airport, feeling physically and emotionally defeated.
Air travel aside, which I no longer find appealing, I had been looking forward to some additional connections. The night I was to arrive in The City was my friend Andrew's premiere party for his starring role in Bravo's new Million Dollar Listing San Francisco. I know my dear bestie and new mommy would have really appreciated a glamorous night out, and at a day spa on posh Maiden Lane. Can't say there will be another time.
I also missed connecting with a long time friend from college. We worked on the paper together. She's also a bit of a celebrity, though more for her strength fighting for social justice after she was racially profiled by an airline and taken away in cuffs at the Detroit airport. Here's a link to some of her posts and the constitutional protections her case made possible:
https://www.aclu.org/bio/shoshana-hebshi
I did manage to visit with another long time college friend of mine. One out of three, yeah that's pretty shabby. I just couldn't fly that day. It was what it was.
Clearly I was meant to depart on the ninth instead of the eighth. Even the day following my last minute aircraft escape I wasn't feeling too well. Mostly had breath shortness and felt fairly weak. As my husband was on his way out the door to head to work, I wrapped myself up in his arms and burst into tears.
Envisioning a repeat of the previous day, the worst thoughts came to my mind. That we'd be thousands of feet above the ground and my body would betray me in some way. It's a really uncomfortable existence when one lives each day wondering whether one's body might suddenly turn on itself. I know, it's completely irrational. And yet my body has done this, on more than one occasion. Yeah, it's fucked up.
Pulling out my woo woo card here. I reached out to my energist and connected with her just before my cab pulled up. She tells me I've ascended to my light self so rapidly my body is having a hard time catching up. I'm not entirely sure what that means, it sounds kind of cool. She said my body's old programming for travel no longer works in this new paradigm, so I have to make changes. Incidentally I had consulted the day previous with the I Ching (the Chinese "Book of Changes"), and everything I was getting revolved around stillness. For me this means inner stillness; Zen.
She suggested I could repack into a different piece of luggage, which wasn't an option at this point. My Uber was on its way. Then she suggested I take with me a couple items that are more representative of the new me. So I put The Dalai Lama's Little Book of Inner Peace in my bag and a small, white origami crane I found on the street one day in my wallet.
At the airport I said a pleasant hello to each of the uniformed TSA staff I encountered. I breezed through security. I don't know what they did to make it so I could walk right up to the podium, show my ticket and ID, then put my belongings right onto the belt and pass through. I thanked a couple of them for their efficiency. One of them said "Don't get used to it." Of course not.
I sat next to two of the most lovely people on the plane. Within the first few minutes of introducing myself to Sorrel and Doug (from Victoria, B.C.), I came to know they, too, were Cal Poly graduates (class of '77 if memory serves). Most surprisingly, they shared with me about their daughter who just transitioned as a female. That's not your typical conversation starter.
Years ago, even before I began practicing journalism, I found I had a knack for getting people to open up. Now this was never really very intentional or pre-meditated. I'm just, clearly, a very open person. Naturally I believe this puts people at ease and allows them to feel comfortable enough sharing their lives with me. It's something I have always thrived on. I love sharing my stories and hearing others'. We all have such unique experiences to share with one another.
Both Sorrel and Doug Marks remarked about how much happier their daughter is now, that she walks with a new air of confidence and a spring in her step. Doug admitted at first he mourned for the loss of his only son. They have three other daughters. And yet seeing how happy she is now, getting to know this bright spirit, they both couldn't be more supportive.
The way they beamed with love when sharing with me about this experience, my eyes welled with tears. I told them how very lucky their daughter is to have them as parents. Truly.
As we descended into San Francisco, I felt utterly relieved to be greeted by cool, grey, overcast skies. Seattle has been a sweatbox, an unusually prematurely sweltering and dry one at that. My first night in The City, the moment I got into bed it began to rain. It's a sound I'm fond of and have ironically missed living in Seattle.
While I had a wonderful visit with my bestie and God daughter, it took a lot out of me. Late-ish to bed, early to rise, being out of routine. I feel like some geriatric eighty-something to admit it doesn't take much to throw my body for a loop. Historically, delicate isn't a word I would have ever used to describe my adult self. Now however ... Shit.
I had cut my trip a day short so my husband and I could attend the memorial service for an acquaintance. It was really more to support some of his survivors who have been close friends of ours. In fact, two in particular were his closest of friends. They were there with him his very last week on earth, tending to him in nearly every way imaginable.
His name was Mark Noyes. He died at age 50. A link to his obituary:
http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/daily-times/obituary.aspx?n=mark-lee-noyes&pid=174987223&
Apparently he had been battling liver disease for the past seven years. The disease was not enough to illicit any changes in Mark's drinking habits. In fact, no one even knew of his severe liver illness until a few weeks prior to his death. He kept it a closely guarded secret. It was only after his mother was given power of attorney and she looked through his medical records. She discovered he had been admitted to hospitals on several occasions to be treated for liver disease. Alas, when someone continues to use, the medical community forbids live saving procedures such as liver transplants. Such services are reserved for those who chose to play an active role in supporting their own health.
I see my mom struggle with cancer. Other than her western treatments, she does little if anything to take charge of and support her own wellness. Her bestie Sally, who underwent a double lung transplant this past year, she actually further injured her health by not following regimens and eating junk food. Post surgery she immediately developed type two diabetes.
Please don't misinterpret these statements as judgments. I'm only stating the facts. I just find it fascinating how people can get so in the way of their own wellness. For Mark he yielded to his addiction. That's powerful. And he was a good human, a very good human at that. While I've known him, and spent time with him, I didn't get to really know him until the night of July 14th, 2015.
The venue for Mark's Seattle memorial service set quite the tone. It was held under the big top at Teatro ZinZanni. Mark worked there for a time, and was ironically fired from there. He still had family there though. I don't mean the family you're born into. I mean the family you create through the sheer magic of touching their lives.
At first it was almost like a reunion of sorts. Attendees shuffled in sporadically, mixing and mingling. It was quite festive. The perimeter of the room was outlined in some of Mark's artwork, which included some modernesque paintings and a lamp he had made out of our friend's dress. If Mark were wealthy you could call him eccentric. He was definitely creative, and he lived enviably out loud.
One of Mark's nearest, his ex and our dog's uncle (he watches her while we're away) Chip, called the program to order. Another of our friends read her beautiful euology. Then a really nicely executed slideshow to music followed by a couple of Mark's former ZinZanni colleagues playing a song MTV Unplugged style. The rest was open mic night. So many people bravely went up to the podium and bared their souls. Tears were shed, great stories were told and often times laughter filled the tent.
Our dear friend Rhoda, who was one of the two with him in his final moments, started back at the beginning of their story. They first met when she was only 17 (and married) at a Marie Calendar's in Farmington, New Mexico. It was her first day on the job, and she was (barely) carrying a tray with four glasses of water. Mark whizzes by her carrying two trays full of plates and such on each arm. As he passes by, he looks her up and down and says, "good luck!"
She also offered up some of their final moments together. I have heard about pre-death dementia. And the story she shared seems in some ways like this, and in another way nothing like it at all. Apparently Mark's body had deteriorated to the point he was unable to get out of bed on his own. He kept asking his two bosom buddies to leave the room so he could get up on his own.
Rhoda wanted him to rest, and asked if he could just lay with her and nap. He asked her if all the travel arrangements had been made. She played along and said yes. He asked if he had given her money. She said he had and again begged him to just rest with her a while. He said he needed to get going, that she and Chip could rest and join him when they're ready. To me, that was rather spooky.
 |
| Rhoda adorned in a Hedwig wig paying her last respects to Mark. |
Chip shared about first meeting Mark. He was at a party with some guy when he first laid eyes on Mark. He was instantly attracted. Apparently so too was the guy Chip brought with him, so he said he had to do a lot of cock blocking that night.
Our friend Laurie told of Mark's promise of spring. Seattle winters can be dark and dreary. So he encouraged her to look for the first flowers that bloom. To me that's always the cherry blossom, and pink looks divine against a dark grey sky. She mentioned it was Forsythia but I think she may be confusing it with Scotch broom. Either way, she went to Mark's one day feeling a little blue. He had a fresh arrangement of these golden flowers in a vase, and showed her he had picked them behind his building. For Laurie, it was a beacon of hope, an incentive to look for what's blooming all around you. Such beauty may be much closer than one expects when one looks for it.
Then this guy gets up to the mic. Clearly straighter than an arrow. Mark was a drinking buddy of his as well as a co-worker at ZinZanni. They would drive up to Snoqualmie Pass together with bottles of wine, hike up a mountain until they fell back into the snow and that's where they would drink their wine. One night they were up on his building's rooftop, drinking. At one point Mark leaned over and tried to kiss him. The guy socked him in the stomach. He thinks to this day Mark told people they got to second base, which this guy doesn't know what that would be and of course denies. From what I recall when I was a younger, more active gay man, I think it might be a finger up the ass. Not sure. I digress ...
Another of Mark's gal pals, Holly, shared of the dreams where he came to visit her in recent weeks. He told her he was going down the middle road to find enlightenment and wanted to know if he was scaring her.
An artist once remarked about the people in our lives all being part of our collective conscious. Mark's is an amazing one at that, clearly having touched so many others' lives profoundly.
My husband watched as bottles of booze were passed under the table in front of us. A handful of people excessively imbibed. Is getting drunk at a memorial for a guy who accumulatively killed himself with alcohol appropriate? Is it ironic? I personally think Mark would have wanted everyone to enjoy themselves and live it up. He certainly made no bones about that for his own life.
Part of me reflects on Mark's memorial and wonders if it could be transformed into a musical or an inde flick. Would that be the ultimate remembrance? The people who shared and what they imparted was like performance art, an impromptu show. It was raw, real, unrehearsed and mostly unscripted. In that way it was touching, moving and quite inspiring. And isn't that what life is all about anyway? Touching lives.
A long time college friend in California recently wrote this piece, which I find dark and beautiful, entitled Dying Meat:
https://readpaintwrite.wordpress.com/2015/07/22/dying-meat/
Jolting is more the word than moving. Her piece begs one to question purpose.
After the myriad of people shared their stories of Mark, we gathered New Orleans funeral procession style and paraded ourselves down to International Fountain at Seattle Center in the shadow of the Space Needle. We wore beads, played with lit sparklers and had a really great time!
We didn't really observe Bastille Day. I had to throw that in there if for no other reason than to add to the intersection of events in a single day. Of course, I have been keenly interested in the Pluto mission. That's history in the making. Exploring worlds so far beyond ours rivets me. Fact, if the New Horizons spacecraft were travelling at the highway speed of an automobile, it would take 6,000 years to reach Pluto. Here's one final link before I put this post to bed:
http://www.nasa.gov/image-feature/nasa-celebrates-new-horizons-closest-approach-to-pluto
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