the missing

For twenty minutes we snaked along the road which, in most places, while not obvious, hugs the river. The breeze from my open window smelled fresh and dry and as we drove I watched the wind toss oceans of oak and maple leaves onto their silvery backs.

Michael slowed and pulled into a shady hollow at the side of the road. I helped him haul his fishing gear down a steep path cut into the river’s bank. Despite the wind, the Androscoggin appeared as glass under which waves of golden grass slept undisturbed. A cloudless sky bore the morning sun and it filtered through a canopy of green in such a way that reminded me of camping.

“I miss camping,” I told Michael.
“So do I,” he solemnly replied, as he stepped into waders, cinching the straps over his broad shoulders.

Crouching on a dry rock at the water’s edge, my knees poking through ratty denim yarns, I snapped a few photos. Melancholia crept over me, the scene's beauty bitterly tightening its grip. As Michael inflated his boat and prepared his gear I sat in sorrow wishing I was going with him, missing him already, missing Calvin who was at home with the nurse, missing camping, missing my old, child-free existence, missing a life that could have been but isn't—one blessed with a healthy child capable of hiking and camping and fishing and swimming and sitting with us around a campfire roasting marshmallows and watching sparks fly into the night sky.

As Michael sailed off, fly rod in one hand and a freshly caught bass in another, gazing into the ripples of his wake I wondered what my life would have been like had I married someone else, had I never married at all, had I decided not to have children, had I learned earlier in my pregnancy that Calvin’s brain was so messed up. I felt myself sorely missing my independence, missing the West Coast, missing San Francisco and its people, Big Sur, the golden hills of the Alexander Valley, Point Reyes and its oysters, missing Sonoma, Napa, Marin. Then I realized these are all places I spent with Michael, all places where I remember dreaming of starting a family with him, of having a little boy with thick, wavy hair, blue eyes and a beautiful smile who loves us. That boy is Calvin.

But, with a disabled, chronically ill child, there’s still the missing, and on its chest the grieving and the loss and the heartache, each resting heavily in my marrow, like a lost love, a dirge, the familiar scent of a dwindling campfire or the heart's stirring at twilight and dawn, all constant reminders of what could have been but isn’t.


walking the caldog

Yesterday, Calvin, who we sometimes lovingly call The Caldog, walked farther than he's ever walked hand in hand with me in our neighborhood. We traipsed down to Woody's house, gave him a hug, then along to the end of the block. Calvin twisted and balked some, and tried his best to stare at the sun, but I kept encouraging him to keep going. Once we reached the end of the block, we crossed the street as traffic slowed for us, then continued on to the end of that block where Bob and Nan live.

There was Bob, in his usual place, sitting on a folding chair in the front of his garage smoking a pipe. I haven't walked past their house much since Rudy died and I've never walked there with Calvin without the stroller. Bob let us into the side garden which was, as it always is in spring and summer, blooming like crazy. Nan met us in the back yard and we embraced while Calvin flailed happily on the grass at our feet. I mentioned how, since Rudy died, I hadn't seen them much, so she asked if we were going to get a new dog. I told her that I hoped so.

After a brief but pleasant visit, Calvin and I said our goodbyes then headed back home. On the way, we passed Woody again, but this time we motored on past. When we arrived home I showered Calvin with praise, then watched a huge, proud smile creep across his darling face.


under the skin

A murder of crows cawed and cackled outside my son’s bedroom window. I laid next to him and held him after his seizure, which happened shortly after waking. I had found him face down gurgling and twitching in an indigo puddle of drool.

The day, Sunday, felt like olden days, though not in a good way, because throughout it Calvin had several of what appeared to be complex partial seizures, the kind he'd sometimes have eight or ten times in a day eventually developing into status epilepticus, which always landed us in the pediatric intensive care unit via ambulance. These seizures, likely the result of the previous days’ benzodiazepine reduction, are semi-conscious episodes during which Calvin spaces out, his lips blanch, his breathing shallows and, at the end, he takes a deep breath and sighs.

Though these seizures usually only last between thirty and sixty seconds, they sap the energy out of him. Yesterday, he was so listless he let me cradle him for minutes at a time without squirming out of my grasp. With my arms around him, his head on my shoulder, I remembered a time before the epilepsy, before the psychoactive pharmaceutical drugs he’s taking caused him to become so hyperactive. I recalled a time when I had nursed a calm baby, when I had napped in the embrace of a calm boy, when I had played catch with a child who’d sit still, at least for a while, to receive a ball placed into his hands. Now, Calvin can’t stay still because of the paradoxical effects of the antiepileptic tranquilizer, clobazam, and the mood altering, agitating Keppra. Thankfully, the THCa cannabis oil seems to be helping some to soothe his soul.

As I laid awake next to my sleeping boy I reflected on a disturbing film that Michael and I had watched the night before. Under the Skin, the erotic and unnerving sci-fi thriller, had lived up to its name, its haunting images visiting me throughout the day as I cared for Calvin. In one scene, Scarlett Johansson, who plays an alien predator, lures a stranger into an inky pool from which there is no escape. Once submerged, the man appears able to breathe the thick liquid in which he is suspended. He expresses confusion and worry, looks as if perhaps he needs to retch. Nearby, he sees another man, bloated and thin-skinned, suspended in the silent blue. He reaches out to the man's swollen hand and, upon touching it, recoils as the puffy man unleashes a silent scream. The sickening image rolled around in my mind, its indigo fluid swirling in a mouth-watering river of nausea in which I found myself inert.

With my eyes closed tightly, I couldn't help but liken Calvin and myself to the two submerged figures, he and I suspended in the misery of our epileptic nightmare. I imagined our silent screams for help, Calvin's headaches and confusion, his inability to escape the seizures that engulf him and the drugs that bathe and bloat his brain. Under the weight of the wave there is nothing there for us to push off from. It feels as if we are immersed in a poison that seeps under our skin and lives there.

But at least for now, we are together and we can still breathe.

photo by Michael Kolster


andy and me

The last time I spent any significant time with my friend Andy, we were probably in our tweens and teens goofing off at the pool, tossing lounge chairs into it and surfing its bubble-plastic insulating covers at night, doing stunts off of the three-meter diving board, playing sharks and minnows, dipping our licked fingers into boxes of dry, sugary Jell-O between swim meet races, riding bikes up and down Phantom Lake and Spiritridge Hills eating sticky bits of broken Big Hunk nougat bars and handfuls of Whoppers and Skittles while listening to KC and the Sunshine Band.

If someone had told me that one day, at fifty, we’d be walking side by side along a fogged-in Maine beach talking about his wife Lori and one-year-old son Alec and my Michael and Calvin, I’d have laughed in amusement. After all, and regrettably, it has been a serious rarity, being so far away from the Northwest, to receive visitors from my youth.

After a long, leisurely hike through dewy white pines, maples and oaks teeming with mosquitos, Andy and I stood for a time leaning against a tangle of blanched driftwood piled on the shore by passersby into a kind of twisted triangular shelter. Looking out through the mist into the sea, I told him how the grief of having a severely disabled, chronically ill child never goes away—the loss, the disappointment, the constant worry and the nag of shattered dreams. As I spoke my lips quivered and tears spilled onto my cheeks. I turned to him and we embraced. After a good, long hug we started back to the trailhead. Walking arm in arm with him he felt like a brother. He said he was sorry—for me, for us—but I could tell it wasn’t pity he felt, it was sympathy.

At the salt marsh midway to the parking lot we spotted a great blue heron closing in on its prey. We stood watching as it crouched into the reeds at the side of a creek. Suddenly, it plucked what looked like a small eel from the water, then stood for a while shaking the life out of its meal before swallowing it whole. The eel never stood a chance. I thought of Calvin and pondered his fate.

When I dropped Andy off at the airport after his stay, we hugged again. He told me that I was a great mom then said how he felt like he’d made a new friend in Michael. As I drove home thinking about this person whom I’ve known most of my life—used to spend every summer with, hours and days on end—I realized it felt like I’d made a new friend, too. Because of Andy's visit we’ve crossed a kind of intimacy divide where, for a time, he stepped into my shoes, saw my world, felt my angst and joy and pain because I don’t hide it, can’t. Andy accepted no apologies from me, though I felt compelled to offer them in the wake of my ugly outbursts of frustration and exasperation. He takes me at face value, accepts me as I am. He promised to try and return to Maine some day. I am already looking forward to his visit.


august in tennessee valley

This weekend my friend Chris held a memorial service for his son, August, at the Tennessee Valley Beach in Marin County, just north of San Francisco across the Golden Gate Bridge. It's a favorite place my husband Michael and I have visited many times, making the four-mile trek from parking lot to beach and back along a narrow dirt trail which passes by fenced-in horses and grassy culverts. Wildflowers dot the mountainsides and the valley floor as the trail slowly descends to the Pacific, almost always under cloudless blue skies.

It has probably been fifteen years since I've been there, the last time being long before I got married though perhaps around the time I began seriously hoping to start a family with Michael. I think of our hikes in Marin often—Bootjack, Pantol, Steep Ravine, the Dipsea Trail which snakes up through Muir Woods to an open crest on Mt. Tamalpais before descending through a wooded glen into Stintson Beach—how the only thing I might've been burdened by on those excursions was my water bottle. I never liked carrying a backpack, preferred traveling as light as possible in sneakers, shorts and tank top with a camera slung over one shoulder.

Years later, to a fair degree, I find myself boxed in here in the Northeast with a severely disabled son who is difficult to travel with and, now that he is taking cannabis oil for his epilepsy, impossible to take out of the state legally. Sometimes I pine for the West, its big skies, breathtaking vistas, warm dry air, its vast public beach access that stretches for hundreds of miles, its carefree vibe.

I remember Chris, a professor of English whom I met through Facebook, once writing about how he and his family were pretty much incapable of traveling because of the difficulties of managing their disabled son, August, who died last year at the age of fourteen. Sadly, I'm not sure August was ever able to enjoy seeing Tennessee Valley, breathing its fresh air, dipping his toes into its waters, but now his ashes will forever mingle with its sands and sea.

This weekend I thought of Chris, August and family often as we spent three days, without a nurse to aid us, following Calvin around the house and yard, righting him when he tripped or stubbornly balked, shielding him from staring at the sun, chopping his food, spoon-feeding him his meals and meds, changing his diapers, attempting to comprehend what he was trying to express through his annoying, worrisome whining and coughing. I wondered if we'll ever take Calvin to Tennessee Valley, if one day he'll be able to walk even part of that distance with us, wondered if we'll ever be able to get on a plane with him and his cannabis oil without being arrested for possessing it, even though it is his essential medicine.

Though it is absolutely gorgeous here in Maine, and we have a beautiful house and garden and a wonderful community, the land is mostly flat, significantly limiting the sight lines, and in the summer the air is often humid and close. So, for now, I will muse on the image of the California Coast, its openness and its magnificent views to the rest of the world, hoping that someday soon, if just briefly, I'll pass August in Tennessee Valley.

Tennessee Valley Beach photo by



I'm holding my breath, crossing my fingers, knocking on wood that the homemade cannabis oil I've been giving Calvin since late February continues to work its wonders.

It has been eighteen days since I last saw Calvin have a seizure. It has also been eighteen days since we reduced his benzodiazepine by ten percent, contributing to an overall reduction of twenty-five percent. Assuming I didn't sleep through any of his nighttime seizures, which is possible, it means he hasn't had a withdrawal seizure yet. That has never happened when we've reduced his benzos in the past. He usually has at least one withdrawal seizure within the first week to ten days after a wean.

It has been fifty-one days since I last saw Calvin have one of his daytime seizures that almost always occurred around bath time or dinnertime. More so, he has had only one of those seizures in eighty-five days.

I want to take this opportunity to thank the good people, Jenna and her husband Tim, at Remedy Compassion Center in Auburn, Maine, for setting us up with the cannabis flower from which I make the oil. They run a tight ship and live up to their name. Since my first conversation with Jenna last Fall, I've always felt taken care of. I think, here in Maine, we are lucky, because I know of many caregiver growers who are also held in high esteem, with many hoping to help our children who have epilepsy.

I also want to thank Dave from Epsilon Apothecaries, for the free download of his THCa recipe, as well as for answering scores of my questions. As I have said before, making the oil is easy as pie.

Lastly, I want thank Dr. Dustin Sulak for giving some additional guidance on dosing, his brother Clay for testing and to Proverde for providing additional testing.

Now, if we could just get the Feds to fess up that cannabis should not be considered a schedule I drug, should not be thought of as bad as heroine and worse than morphine, cocaine and methamphetamine. They need to acknowledge its well-documented medicinal benefits and deschedule it so it can be properly researched. The Drug Enforcement Agency needs to quit hiding behind age old lies and false, hurtful propaganda so we can get down to the business of healing instead of continuing to demonize and forbid this most helpful medicinal herb.


one world

Calvin's epilepsy—the suffering it causes, the challenges it creates, the sorrow it provokes—often gives me pause to consider bigger things, incites me to contemplate life and all of its complexities from different perspectives. Sometimes I peer from the inside looking out, at others I gaze from the outside looking in. And always, with regard to the world—the universe—I am forever humbled.

Alex Churney, A Milky Way Shadow at Loch Ard Gorge
How vast those Orbs must be, and how inconsiderable this Earth, the Theatre upon which all our mighty Designs, all our Navigations, and all our Wars are transacted, is when compared to them. A very fit consideration, and matter of Reflection, for those Kings and Princes who sacrifice the Lives of so many People, only to flatter their Ambition in being Masters of some pitiful corner of this small Spot.

—Christiaan Huygens, The Immense Distance Between the Sun and the Planets, 1698

Associated Press

When you're finally up at the moon looking back on earth, all those differences and nationalistic traits are pretty well going to blend, and you're going to get a concept that maybe this really is one world and why the hell can't we learn to live together like decent people.

—Frank Borman, Apollo 8, December 1968

The world looks marvelous from up here, so peaceful, so wonderful and so fragile. Everybody, all of us down there, not only in Israel, have to keep it clean and good.

—Israeli Air Force Col. Ilan Ramon, 29 January 2003