Le monde de fromage de Kate

I have mentioned the life and death of Simon Craig Vodosek numerous times on this site (take a look at my In Memory Category). I just received word that Brighton Ski Resort is going to name a ski run, the “easiest,” after Simon. Let me quote Simon’s Mother, Mary:

We are thrilled about this meaningful tribute to Simon. In 2004, Simon skied on this same hill during his brief one-season career as a skier. The little run, rated “Easiest,” will be accessible to all levels of skiers–a fitting tribute to our son, who was six when he first skied and seven when he died of neuroblastoma, an aggressive childhood cancer.

On this Friday, April 14, 2006, Simon’s Way will be dedicated at 2:00 p.m. Here’s a prototype of the sign:

Please visit Simon’s Place to see pictures of Simon sking. More importantly, on this page you can find out how to purchase an all-day pass from Simon’s Family that will benefit the Children’s Neuroblastoma Cancer Foundation.

One last word from Mary:

If you can’t join us, please think of us as we make this happy step in our mourning of Simon’s death and our celebration his life. For years to come, we will all be able to ski past the sign and know that we are traveling “Simon’s Way,” remembering a little boy who lived a joyous life.

Earlier tonight I received the belated news that I’d lost a friend – too soon, too young (how many times have I said that in the past year and a half).

Eric loved irony, so the title of this entry is a line that Eric said in a play he opened, performed four times, and wasn’t able to close because of sudden liver failure, Love! Valour! Compassion!. His dear friend and the play’s director said:

…I believe he [Eric] loved us enough to hold on until the show closed…so we could hold on…before he slipped away.

There is peace in knowing that the last thing Eric did was something he loved. There is peace in knowing that someone as full of life as Eric is out there, somewhere, armed with wit and heart.

Oh, how I wish I were not so out of touch with everyone and everything; I could have seen him one last time. Ah – something else I’ve said too many times in the last year and a half, “I could have seen him/her one last time.” Ironically, I did see him one last time – I can’t remember how long ago (I know it was at a calmer time in MY life, so it must could have been at least three years) – and I was delighted to see him and he was pleased to see me; we caught up a little, and I put his number in my mobile – yet another phone number I will not be able to erase right now. But you rarely have the privilege of KNOWING that it is the last time you’ll see a person; just as you seldom know when it is the last conversation, the last phone call – or, in regards to another sort of bereavement – the last kiss, the last vacation, the last time you’ll spoon together in a bed that belongs to both of you. I suppose I am learning a great deal about loss at this point in life. I only wish it had NOTHING to do with unalterable death. Too young, too soon…

You see, Eric was and always will be “Little Eric” to me. I first me him when we were both in a production of A Little Night Music at the Babcock Theatre at the University of Utah. I had already graduated with my vocal performance degree (on the ten or eleven year plan – with a myriad of unofficial minors, including theatre and anthropology). Eric was a freshman – a BABY of eighteen or nineteen. When we realized that I was almost EXACTLY ten years his senior (I was born in early 1970, he was born in mid-1979), it only strengthened my initial feeling – he was Little Eric. But Little Eric always had a surprise up his sleeve. He had a rich baritone voice – and he was still essentially a TEENAGER. Furthermore, he was well-read, could discuss at heated length – very articulately – which requiems he admired and which were garbage (if I remember correctly, though we disagreed on some counts, he had the excellent taste to esteem the Fauré Requiem) – his knowledge of music in general was extensive and impressive (and I was the snot with the B.Mus. – assuming in the first place that just couldn’t be the case with a Freshman in the Actor’s Training Program). And then I found out he was from Butte, Montana. It is true, as his obituary says, that “he would tell anyone who would listen all about his hometown.” And he was an exceptionally good sport about the ENDLESS amount of amusement I derived from discussing (okay, sometimes mocking) Butte. Years earlier, I had been, I believe, one of the few people who actually STAYED OVERNIGHT in Butte. At that time they was a big fundraising effort to light the ninety-foot statue, Our Lady of the Rockies, that stands on the Continental divide “overlooking Butte, Montana at the Interstate Hub of I-90/I-15.” He was pleased to convey to me that the dream of lighting up “Our Lady” had been realized so that now it is visible at night. And I don’t think the comedy inherent in the fact that a ninety-foot statue of the Virgin Mary looms over a wee mining town was at all lost on him. I doubt ANY comedy was lost on Eric.

I will never forget that, one night, during the run of A Little Night Music, Eric showed up at Village Inn where a few of us were grabbing a bite (the evening’s party having been shut down by the police just as we arrived). He was several (maybe even five or six) sheets to the wind, and was lavishing affectionate kisses and hugs on all friends he chanced to encounter. “I LOVE you, Kate!” “I LOVE you, Dan!” And on and on. “I just LOVE you guys!” he said, looking absolutely thrilled with each individual. Then he said, with a somewhat vain attempt at a more serious tone, “I KNOW you think I am saying these things just because I am drunk. But it’s BECAUSE I am drunk that I feel more free to share them.” I believe that’s true. In my opinion, he was never the sort of person – and here I’ll add “pardon my French,” because I think he’d really like that – “blow sunshine up your ass.” No matter his blood alcohol level, I think his expressions of love and friendship were genuine and sincere.

An hour or so after I heard about Eric’s sudden death, I just HAD to find pictures from A Little Night Music. This was no small feat (as those who know me and my current situation can confirm) as my belongings are scattered from here to France (that, too, is for you, Eric) in boxes and piles and blown to the wind. But I found those pictures because I HAD to. Here is the very first I found:

There you are, Little Eric, holding my hand. Yes, I am the “blue one” (Mrs. Anderssen). For you, Eric, I flout a personal “rule” – one which I’ve managed to keep unbroken for going on four years (I swore I’d never include a photo of me on this blog taken during, say, the last couple of decades in which you could clearly see my face and/or body). Someone wise recently told me that I should break some of my own rules, especially those that must MIGHT be arbitary in order to see how I really feel about them. He said it could be very freeing. He was right. Granted, I might still prefer a picture SANS my image, but it captures a moment I never want to forget, and I WAS there. We’re posed in our approximate ending positions for the song Remember. Ironically, I DON’T “remember” exactly which of the song’s lyrics were ours, though I know for certain that we had a tête – à – tête in that number (the distribution of lyrics was confusing with added Liebeslieders). I DO remember dancing with you. You waltzed beautifully (and as a mere infant TEENAGER). You were so poised and graceful, despite the fact that (perhaps because of the Babcock’s lights or because of the show’s costumes) you were sweating profusely.

Thank you for that memory and A Little Night Music. I have always adored that show, and from now on I will not think of it without thinking of you. Thank you for our EVERY encounter, no matter how brief. I am deeply honoured to have known you.

And I am certainly in good company. I hope you’d be gratified by how much material about you a simple internet search produced. Here is just a sampling:

• Eric’s Obituary from The Montana Standard
• An article about Eric from The Salt Lake Tribune
• An article about Eric from Salt Lake Metro
• An article about Eric from KUTV.com
• A memorial notice from the University of Utah Alumni Association
• A personal tribute to Eric by his friend, Sarah Stoeckl
• And, as an enduring testament to his skill and perception, an article by Eric entitled Tori’s Sacred Journey

Later today, February 10, 2006, there will be a memorial service for Eric at 4:00 p.m. at the Jeanne Wagner Theatre at the Rose Wagner
Performing Arts Center (138 West 300 South, Salt Lake City).

I don’t know if you’ll see this or not, but I wanted to tell you how much I love you. You know you are one of my oldest and dearest friends. My thoughts are with you and your family so strongly, deeply at this moment. I respect utterly that you need time before you receive calls and visitors, and I hope that this entry does not violate your need for privacy (if it does, I will remove this IMMEDIATELY).

My intent, born out of a feeling of helplessness at my inability to do ANYTHING to soothe the unimaginable grief you must be suffering, is to somehow honor you as a friend and a mother, and to somehow honor James as your child.

Joanne Cacciatore, MSW, founded the M.I.S.S. Foundation in 1996 after the death of her daughter, Cheyenne. She often tells others that she has “five children: four who walk and ‘one who soars.’” I think that’s a lovely image. She also said:

There is no greater tragedy, no more devastating human experience, than the death of a beloved child.

That’s certainly not something I’m telling you, but quoting as a reminder for others. There’s a ton of information on her website, but one of the things that resonated with me was the following flyer – about changing the way our Culture mourns, which I think everyone should read.

I still cannot find the sense to know whether or not it is crass and presumptuous of me to post such a personal missive, especially since I don’t know how to give you much-needed solace or could ever be so bold as to guess how you are feeling. Just know this: Tomorrow (later today, I should say) I will light a candle, sit down at my beloved piano and sing one of the songs I cherish the most – Angel by Sarah McLachlan – for you, your family, and for James. An unusual lullaby, perhaps, but I hope it means something. (“You’re in the arms of the angel, may you find some comfort there.”)

And I must reiterate a sentiment I know is shared by so many – anything you need, ANY TIME – please ask.

All My Love,

Kate

Happy Birthday, Syd.

You are missed so much.

So many anniversaries today. Sixty years ago today the Enola Gay dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima. One year ago today, young Simon died (see “Perspective,” “Goodnight Sweet Prince,” and “I Have Learned What It Means to Wear Yellow“). I have been sitting and looking at the sunlight filtering through the leaves of the huge English walnut trees in the front yard and thinking about Simon. I’ve also been thinking about illness and death and those who I love so much. Some are going through Hell. We need to learn to go through Hell and still laugh, I guess.

This sunny day is for you, Simon. I hope Japan is also sun-drenched today. Finally, this light is for you, Bean. Thank you for the many luminous days you gave to me. Wow – it has been four “official” years and we had an entire decade together (more even – three “legally sanctioned” and seven, shall we say, “creatively endorsed” and four or so years before that during which I was privileged to know you. This year…who knows where to put that one – I could come up with some suggestions but they would, no doubt, be unthinkably ribald). See? I’m learning to still laugh even if I cannot have eleven or perpetuity. Happy Anniversary.

Glen battled with cancer many years ago and was required, because of life’s always ironic and sometimes cruel humor, to face it again (starting three years or so ago – one month after he was remarried). Exactly twenty days before he died Glen signed off an email to me with, “Love and peace to you, too, Glen.” I can’t envisage a better elegy for him, so:

I’ll miss you, you towering Basso Profundo (furthermore, such a “profound” bass in myriad ways). I am so gratified that you left this life with the love, peace and support you most richly deserved.

Here are Glen’s Obituary and his last words.

People often say in these circumstances, “I have no words…” I certainly feel that way at heart, but nonetheless I do have, perhaps, ill-chosen and inadequate words. Here’s an edited (sorry – not shorter) version of my entry in Syd’s Legacy guestbook as well as a follow-up entry. Here, too, is her Obituary.

Please Wear Yellow with Lance! Buy a Live Strong Wristband benefiting the Lance Armstrong Foundation and show your support for cancer survivors, cancer education and cancer research.

I wear yellow; the Live Strong wristband was my very best gift this Christmas.

Young, YOUNG Dad

My father survived “cancer-free” for 14 years after second stage prostate cancer (and after a radical prostatectomy when he was only in his 40′s). But that cancer has suddenly returned and has inundated his bones. "Opportunistic Cells," they call them. Indeed – they are absolutely everywhere.

So, I wear yellow. I wear it in fond memory of Helen Pawlowski and Joan Koralewski, other dear mothers of my growing up, who died too, too soon of merciless organ cancers. I wear yellow for Pamela and Janae (and their families) – my “brat pack” sisters forever and always. I never take the time to tell them how much I love them.

I wear yellow in memory of Simon Vodosek, an 8-year-old boy who spent half of his short life with neuroblastoma and still managed to teach and enrich the lives of everyone he met (and continues to do so with his legacy). I wear yellow for Mary, Markus and Miriam, Simon’s family. They are truly "survivors." Mary sent emails to ME during the time Simon was dying, concerned about how I was doing.

The Gorgeous Bride and Her Father

I wear yellow in memory of Laurie Walker, mother to my sister-in-law, who made every single one of her only daughter’s wedding invitations by hand and helped choose the gorgeous crimson wedding dress – yet she could not be at the wedding because of her disease. Nevertheless, her presence touched everyone there; the officiant (okay – me) only got through one line of the service before crying. Laurie died on September 17, 2004, almost exactly a month after the wedding, having survived eight long years of leukemia/lymphoma. I wear yellow for Ashley and her family, who managed to celebrate and grieve, simultaneously, with such dignity. I CAN wear yellow because of Ashley. Thank you for the bracelet, Ashley.

And, yes, I wear yellow in memory of Mister Rogers, the most gentle, honest and kind icon of my childhood, who died on February 27, 2003 after battling stomach cancer. “Mister” Fred Rogers supported my creativity, my whimsy and my love of music. Most importantly, Fred Rogers taught everyone, by perfect example, and best said in his own words, “I feel the greatest gift we can give to anybody is the gift of our honest self.”

This Logo Goes On T-Shirts Every Christmas
(Hopefully with more discovered genes added)

I wear yellow, also, in hope and support of Dr. Lisa Cannon-Albright, director of Genetic Epidemiology at the University of Utah and former director of the now defunct Genetic Research (where I worked for five years). She was one of the key players in the discovery of the two first breast cancer genes (BRCA1 and BRCA2), a prostate cancer gene (p16) and several others. Now, in what could be the ultimate definition of irony, she suffers from breast cancer herself. And I wear yellow to support the work that she and her colleagues around the world (some of them my dear friends) do every day to decipher the mysteries of cancer and other diseases.

But mostly, and foremost, with all my heart, I wear yellow in support and love of my father and in the hope that he survives enough of the future to do all the things he cares for most.