An improvised life

I attended my 25th high school reunion in Boston last weekend. High school for me did not involve pep rallies, parties, sex, drugs and rock-and-roll. Alas no, I attended an uber-academic, all-girls, 8-year prep school. I don't even try to describe to Alaskans the bizarre over-education I got, with highlights like mandatory declamations (that's speeches to you mere mortals) in Latin on Exelano Day. That would be March 4 -- a homophone for "march forth," or exelano in Latin. Of course. The reunion was intimate and inspiring. There was no scramble to compare notes about money and accomplishments, to flirt or one-up each other. I felt instead genuine warmth and openness in the vignettes and insights my classmates shared in our too-brief time together. One told me she felt lucky her husband turned out to be such a great match for her because she married him for all the wrong reasons -- she liked his smell and how hot he looked in his beach-style attire. One told me abo

A friend recently wrote sharing news of her partial victory in a difficult divorce. I sensed a wariness in her tone, which suggested no one greet this bit of good news with too much enthusiasm. I responded to her:   “In my experience of trauma and transition there are no big moments of closure, victory, or exultation. It is a process, tiring and winding, up and down, internal and external, non-linear. Sometimes others want to inject these artificial, wishful concepts – especially ‘closure.’ You are wise to quietly head off too much cheerleading from well-meaning friends and family who may not understand the ongoing nature of the process.” This circuitous, unpredictable trajectory has been the theme of the past month for me. I was cruising along, maybe 95 percent done with my cancer treatment, when an ominous chest pain set in on February 1. A cascading series of medical mishaps and other setbacks put me in the hospital for the better part of the month (that’s just an expre

I met a woman a few years ago who had suffered a severe concussion that resulted in brain injury. About six months after her injury, she updated friends on her condition. Her window of cognitive capacity had increased to four hours; after that, she said, she was physically and mentally wiped out. A previously busy and involved working mother, she now rested most of the time, and had to make constant tradeoffs. For example, if she balanced her checkbook or called a friend, would she be able to manage the next part of her day?   “My doctor describes my cognitive capacity like a gas tank,” she wrote. “Mine is smaller than it used to be, or it burns up more gas to do the same tasks I used to be able to do several of.” I was almost 18 months out from John’s death when I received her update, and I recognized myself in her description. I was fighting to maintain my involvement in the world around me, but felt increasingly unable to give my children what they needed, unable