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A few weeks ago, I was listening to music after spending the night helping my mom in and out of bed as she recovered from a collapsed lung.  I hadn’t left her house yet, and she came into the living room to join me.  We didn’t talk; we just sat and listened to the music as the sun came up over the trees and filled the living room with light.  It was a peaceful moment.  We talked briefly after a while, and then I went home to sleep before coming back the next night.  She stayed in the living room for the morning, watching TV and visiting with my dad.  If I had known then that it was the last time I would spend time with her in her living room, I would have stayed all day.

My days are like that right now.  Everything is about Mom.  The roses she and I ordered came in yesterday, a week and a half after she passed.  On her desk sit the art project she was working on, four 6×6 canvases featuring her with her grandkids.  On her doors hang the wreaths she had ordered for summer; they arrived the week she went to the ER, one being only taken out of its box when we were getting the house ready for visitors.  I’ve caught family members talking about the pain she was in, which she was.  I’ve heard them hint at how she seemed to have lost some of her spirit, which she had.  But I don’t want anyone to think for a moment that she had ever given up on living.  Nobody loved life more than she did.

Mom’s life had become about pain and struggling through the many surgeries she had over the past ten years.  I’ve lost count; she had lost count.  But never did a surgery keep her down.  She fought through it because she did not want to be an ‘old person’ and never meant to end up spending so much of her life in bed recovering.  These recoveries were temporary, and she spent her time either getting ready to fight after a surgery or working on getting back to her life.  Being stuck in bed made her feel left out at times, and it was frustrating for her to not be able to join her sister, friends, and other family on various outings and vacations.  She wished she could go to church every Sunday, as her church family was so much a part of who she had always been.  She wanted to be healthy enough to stay with her granddaughters more often, but did not have the ability lately.  But most people didn’t know any of these feelings.  Mom did not complain about her plight to people.  She didn’t want others to ever feel bad for enjoying their own lives, even if she couldn’t be a part of it.

ER visits had become so routine, so when she was rushed to the hospital on May 18 it didn’t even phase me.  I thought to myself that I hoped she stayed through the weekend; the stays in the hospital were often good for her and gave me peace of mind that someone was checking her out.  I also felt relieved that I would get a little extra sleep over the weekend.  Then they called me from the hospital to say she was being transferred to Oklahoma City.  Dad didn’t seem to remember what the doctors had told him, and Mom and I shouted at one another through his speaker.  She told me it was her colon and they needed to do surgery.  I have no idea what I said to her, but it was definitely not the right thing.  There is no way it could have been.  It was the last time we would talk to one another.  How could I have known, and what words would we have used.  She was aware the next day as she slipped from up, and could nod/shake her head.  I was able to talk to her then, but it wasn’t a conversation.

This doesn’t feel real.  I’ve passed the part when I think I might finally wake up, but now I keep thinking she will come home from a trip she’s been on.  But at the same time, I’m empty.  My whole world has been consumed by this growing emptiness, and mostly life seems pointless.  It’s raw of course, but it is hard to see what meaning I’ll be able to find in life.

I’m babbling.

I’ve been spending a lot of time on my front porch, listening to birds in the morning and watching fireflies in the evenings.  The birds don’t seem to know that the color has gone from the world.  The fireflies still light up the night, even though life is so fleeting.  I’m not sure what to think about it all, or even if I’m thinking about anything at all.  Every time I start slipping into despair, it starts to rain and I can’t help but find joy in storms.  Joy seems inappropriate.  I have moments when I laugh or smile and think to myself that I’m being disrespectful.  That’s such a backward thought.  Mom loved life, saw the good it it always, and wouldn’t want anyone to despair.

This was not a part of my plan.  I never imagined I would lose my mom in my 30s;  it feels stupid.  I was ready to watch movies with her, to laugh with her, and to enjoy the nature around us with her well into my 60s.  I deserved that.  She deserved that.  And now I have to figure out what I’m going to do with my life.

Mom’s final moments were spent surrounded by family.  She understood what was happening, and knew she was not going to make it.  It was so sudden, so the fact that everyone could get there was a miracle.  We cried, we sang songs, we prayed.  The room was so filled with love and life, I cannot think of a more fitting situation for her to passing.  We were singing I Can Only Imagine though our tears when the nurse came in and nodded her head.  I felt like I had been shot in the stomach and we continued on.  Brent and Dad were each holding her hands and they felt her relax and slip away.  Sobbing followed, and family trickled out to the waiting room.  I sat in the chair in the corner of the room and wanted to stay there forever.  Once everything had been gathered, my brother and I finally left the room, leaving her by herself.  It made me numb.  It’s typically not fair to a person to remember that person for one day in their life.  People tend to dwell on a person’s death and not on their life.  I’m sure I’ll do that for a while, but if I’m going to have to focus on her last day, I will at least have those beautiful final moments to focus on.

It’s true: Mom won’t be in pain anymore.  She didn’t want to give up on life, but she doesn’t have to fight through so much pain.  That’s going to comfort me one day, but today is not that day.

This weekend, my nephew Conner and I will plant the roses Mom and I had picked out.  And I’ll makes sure they are planted where she wanted them.  And I will just try my best to get from one day to the next.  I’m going to be sad for a long time, but there are things to be done.

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LaDonna Marie Fuchs

On May 19, 2018, LaDonna Marie Fuchs finished her work here on Earth.  She had done what she needed to do, and in spite of protests by her loved ones, it was time for her to accept her reward and move on to the next life.

LaDonna was born October 18, 1953 in Champaign, Illinois to Billy & Christine Tucker.  She grew up in Stillwater, Oklahoma with her sister Ann and brother Stan.  She graduated from Stillwater High School in 1971 and received her Bachelors degree in Early Childhood Education from Oklahoma State University.  She was a member of the Stillwater Church of Christ.  It was there that she added chosen family members Dale & Mary Combs, whose children David and Mark would be added to LaDonna’s life as brothers.

LaDonna fell in love with Curtis Fuchs in 1977, and the two of them married August 20 of that year.  They had three children:  Brent in 1978, Brian in 1979, and Bradley in 1981.  Each of them can confirm that LaDonna was the best mom anyone could have.  Her incredible love of life, of God, and of children made for a warm and happy home, which they made in Stillwater.

LaDonna’s love of children eventually became too much for just her own, and she and Curtis started Rainbow Preschool at Stillwater Church of Christ in 1982.  It was open until 2007.  There, LaDonna showed her incredible skills at teaching and guiding children.

In 2001, LaDonna started her role as Nana, a position that filled her heart with more joy than she knew she could have.  Conner, KC, Jason, and Avery made her life even more beautiful, and she thanked God everyday for allowing her to be their Nana.  People, especially children, were her ministry.  She even took on the role of second Mom to Justin & Simona, and Nana to Abby because there was no limit to her love.  And her home was open to countless people, whose happiness and comfort was her greatest concern.

She was preceded in death by her parents Billy & Christine Tucker of Stillwater, OK; niece Rechelle Bystedt of Anchorage, AK; as well as close family friends Dale & Mary Combs of Broken Arrow, OK.  She is survived by her husband of 41 years, Curtis Fuchs; sons Brent Fuchs of Edmond, OK, Brian Fuchs of Glencoe, OK & Bradley Fuchs of Stillwater, OK; her grandkids Conner, KC, Jason & Avery: sister Ann Wilkinson (Ron) of Tulsa, OK; brother Stan Tucker (Michael McDermott) of Fort Worth, TX; chosen brother David Combs (Lisa) of Broken Arrow, OK; chosen brother Mark Combs (Krista) of San Antonio, TX; sister-in-law Rita Wilson (Jerry) of Anchorage, AK; nieces Rebecca Stone (Luke) of Flower Mound, TX & Annie Tucker (Adam Ampaipitakwong) of Dallas, TX; Denise Rogers (Matt) of Chugiak, AK; nephews Mark Wilkinson of Georgetown, Kentucky; Matt Wilkinson (Cheryl) of Bixby, OK; & Christian “Opie” Tucker (Laura) of Waco, TX; Les Wilson (Kim) of St. Louis, MO; and other family members Emily Combs (and son Levi) of Broken Arrow, OK; Justin Ward of Glencoe, OK; Abby Dye of Perkins, OK; and dog Chip.  She also leaves behind countless friends who meant the world to her.

Services will be at Stillwater Church of Christ on Sunday, May 27, 2018, 2:00 p.m.  LaDonna will be laid to rest at Sunset Memorial Gardens in Stillwater, OK.

(Obituary written by me.  Pictures are from the handout I created for the funeral.  The missing page has the obituary printed on it.)

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Armadillo

I squish through
henbit and moist soil
under moonlight, slowly
taking the usual path,
intriguing cats who think
they might soon be fed
and startling an armadillo
digging for grubs or worms
in the yard, ensuring that
it will continue being soft
and moist.
She’s a frequent visitor,
nearly at times earning
a name, an honor not
even given to the cats I feed.
The distance increases,
nightly pulling, stretching.
The air is cold and heavy,
the armadillo a distraction
from the fear and frustration
I find myself falling toward.
I’m anxious to see Mom,
the path has turned to gravel
and the house seems further
than it was last night,
when the armadillo was on
the other side of the yard,
making a racket through
last year’s dry leaves
still undisturbed where
they fell, spilling out
around the trunks of trees.
One day, the nights
will be for sleeping
and everyone will be whole.

Notes

Written April 2018 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Armadillo” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)

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This has been a difficult week for me.  On the 28th, I lost my kitty Franz who was born in my living room 16 years ago.  He has been a part of so many moments in my life.  I’m not sure how to express how much he has meant to me, but I can tell you that his absence is very much noticeable.  I miss him.  I miss him waking me up in the morning, cuddling with me while I watch TV, and greeting me when I walk in the door.  I feel guilty that I couldn’t keep him alive, and the whole week has felt like such a blur.

Franz

I was 22 when Franz came into my life.  I really feel like my adult life has been defined by him.  And yes, his mama is still with us.  Molly is 6 months older, and she seems to have not really noticed that Franz is gone.  And I’m glad to have her — I don’t mean to take away from her impact on my life, but they had such different personalities.  Franz was a sweetheart.  He was timid and gentle.   Molly more or less tolerates me.  She is independent and self-determined.  And she always gets her way.  I’m trying to think of a creative way to memorialize Franz.  He deserved to live forever, and I want to keep him a part of my life forever.

Highlights from Tumblr

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I’ve been listening to a lot of Christmas music, especially in the car.  I love it.  I look forward to the switch to all every year, and like everyone, I have some favorites I’m excited to hear.

“The inexpressible depth of music, so easy to understand and yet so inexplicable, is due to the fact that it reproduces all the emotions of our innermost being, but entirely without reality and remote from its pain…Music expresses only the quintessence of life and of its events, never these themselves.” ― Oliver Sacks, Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain

So many Christmas songs have an ability to move me in ways that other types of music lack.  Maybe that is just because they are played annually and often during the season.  Maybe it is just that the holiday season is full of activity, and that gives these songs special meaning.  There are a handful of songs that make me think of the smell of the Santa bag we had at our house one year.  Another group transports me to my grandparents’ house on a December evening, the tree glowing intensely red.

I’ve made a “Top 15” list here, which was pretty hard.  There are so many I love.  A week from now, this list could be a completely different one too.  At the time of writing this, these are my favorite Christmas songs.Continue Reading

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Meeting Skylar & Wesleyan at the Grey Gardens Disco

Secrets feel more like friends than flesh,

written on the tightly rolled scrolls and tied loosely with a scrap of string.
These are the days when life is slipping past so quickly that I cannot seem to find a way back to it, a way to engage. I want to write my own secrets on tiny scrolls, but their contents would drive away even those I’m barely clinging to and they’d slip further into the torrent
away from me.

Time has been cruel, much more than I could have expected.

Mine will be the story that goes untold, unrecorded, unremembered.
Inaction fuels inaction and so I do not move, do not move, do not move. There are lives happening, I’ve been told, beyond the threshold I’m so afraid to cross. The moments I should’ve had hold me back, keep me wondering, force me into the safety of my empty bed
where the quiet loneliness can comfort me.

After the house has filled with leaves and dust and snow,

beyond the carefully orchestrated solitude, celebrations go on without me.
The most beautiful hear the music within themselves, gaily swinging auburn hair and laughing at their own unfunny puns. Merriment and giddiness come on like migraines and I find myself waving a flag and dancing joyously, still unable to coax myself from my home.
Happiness feels so foreign.

Ugliness greets me in every mirror, an old addictive friend

and the voids I’ve created have grown to feel comfortable on my miserable soul.
I’ve failed to learn the steps, and I am terrified that the dance will go on with out me. I look at the hollowness of the collected things around me, dismayed that I’ve become this me. This is the me that will keep happiness in its place
far away.

Nothing excuses knowing about leopard print,

a secret that seems to have allowed me to let go of ill-advised longings.
How incredibly sad it is to not find me so alluring that you can see past my plentiful flaws. I have known for quite some time that if I live my life alone, dying before I know love, that it is not me who is to blame, although I understand the temptation. It is others
who fail to see how happy I would make them.

Could these children have caused my empty world’s destruction?

set in motion events that will cause this tomb around me to collapse.
It’s too soon to know, but I welcome the crumbling. My stacks of nonsense are poised to fall into a blissful abyss. Oh, what exquisite joy I know I will feel when the rooms are all empty and there is just me to fill the space.
And someone to help me fill it, I hope.

Hope, indeed. It is all that keeps me from dropping into the crevasse myself,

cementing my loneliness forever with my inability to change.
I’ve begun to remember who I used to be and have found people who make me hate myself less and less every moment. But not even their patience can be endless, so if I am not to miss out on the Brian I’ve been trying to become again, I need to ask fast
and meet my friends for a drink.

Notes

Written 2 December 2012 in Anchorage, Alaska.

Brian Fuchs, “Meeting Skylar & Wesleyan at the Grey Gardens Disco” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

Formatting on WordPress ended up looking a little off, but this was as close as I could get it.  The first lines of the stanzas shouldn’t be separated, but indenting a line requires making a new paragraph.  If I figure out how to change that, I will.

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Mambo Italiano

for JoBeth

You bounced in wearing sweaters
with Christmas faces or purple things,
matchmaking for us like we belonged
to your own family, and we did.
We’d talk too long about
New Jersey, your husband,
H.R. Geiger’s suggestive images,
“where have you been all my life?”
you said, splitting my side,
sunshine spilling from the wound
lightening a dismal day.
Rosemary Clooney music played
overhead and we told the new hires
about your metal leg, pretended
to stick magnets to it.
We’d pepper your introduction
with tales of your uncle, John Gotti.
That took on a life of its own
after you left; it became true,
part of our mythology, our genesis. We felt your absence,
didn’t talk about cancer or dolls,
and we danced and drank with
Spider-man’s worn out ambassador,
your brother who couldn’t tell you
about his cancer, his fear.
He sat with you, dying with you
propping your up and shining
a spotlight on your face.
We could see on his face how much
he wished to carry your burden.
We’ve listened for your melodic voice,
laughed and smiled,
looked for an oversaturated rum cake,
but by then you were gone.

Notes

Written 22 August 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska & 8 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Mambo Italiano” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

This is how this poem appears in the book Okie Dokie. I’m considering rewriting it, or maybe I’ll just write something new to express these thoughts. We’ll see.