Month: September 2017

John Adams Russell

October 4, 1944 – September 23, 2017

What I wrote about John this weekend on Instagram:

The world lost one of the greats yesterday, John Adams Russell. It was my privilege and honor to be John’s third and final daughter-in-law and to spend 19 years in the light of his love. John was fiercely committed to his family and one of the great joys of my life is knowing how close his relationships were with my children, who he called Whitty and My Amazing Grace. John received a life-saving heart transplant almost 15 years ago and since then (and probably before, but my knowledge isn’t as good) he embodied grace and gratitude. While he faced several health challenges over the last 15 years I never once heard him complain. John loved this wonderful world. He truly appreciated both the big, glittering moments (dinner atop the Eiffel Tower, having his whole family gathered for his and Marti’s 50th anniversary) and the small, quiet ones (a simple dinner with Marti on the back porch in Florida, a FaceTime exchange with a grandchild). He fought hard to stay here a long time and we are all thankful for the memories that allowed us to make. His awareness of his great good fortune and his loyal love of family are examples to me and will be all the days of my life. Rest in peace and godspeed, John. We love you and always will.

***

I have so, so many wonderful photographs of John.  The one above may be my favorite.  Like me, he liked to take photographs, and many of the pictures I prize from family celebrations came from him.  He was also an avid texter – Grace taught him how to use emojis, and we often joked she had created a monster.  I still have several text strings from him on my phone, and I don’t think I’ll ever erase them.  He was present and he was engaged and he was absolutely a vivid, bright, huge part of our lives.  His loss leave a huge hole.  This is the first thing I haven’t been remotely able to protect Grace and Whit from, and they are mourning.  We all are.

All we can do is focus on the immense gratitude we feel for his life, and our keen awareness that he got almost 15 extra years because of a gracious heart donor and his or her family (be an organ donor!!!) and because of his fierce fight.  He stayed here because he was determined to, of that I feel sure.  I’m so thankful he did.  He knew five grandchildren he wouldn’t have otherwise, and experienced more joys than we can count.

One of the primary lessons for me of these sad and difficult days is that we must say what we feel no matter what.  John died suddenly at the end, and did not have the opportunity to say formal goodbyes to a lot of people.  There’s sorrow in that, yes, but what it’s made us consider is that nobody, not a single person to my knowledge, was unsure how John felt about them.  He was an emotive and expressive man who said “I love you” a lot and the fact that my children and husband know without equivocation how he felt about them is a huge gift.  Don’t wait to say how you feel.

I’ve written a lot about John, but the piece that most specifically recounts the aftermath of his heart transplant is here, at Brain, Child. We were just so fortunate.  So lucky.  So blessed.  Yes, we were.  And we knew it.  And so did he.  What an enormous gift.

It is hard to choose favorites of my many photographs, so I wanted to include the pictures I have of the first time John met Grace and Whit. They adored him.

October 26, 2002.  A month before his heart transplant, and he basically broke out of MGH to come see Grace.

Easter 2005.  Whit was 2 months old and as you can see delighted to meet his grandfather.  This may be the only photo I have of Whit with Grandpa where he is not grinning ear to ear.

the edge of some new light

Driving west tonight, the city dissolves behind us.
I keep feeling we’re going farther than we’re going,
a journey that started in the deep inkwell
out of which our days are written.
Nothing is said to indicate a monument,
yet I perch on the edge of some new light.

-Naomi Shihab Nye, Lights from Other Windows

Thank you to my dear friend Denise for sending this right when I needed it.

To my Daughter Leaving Home

Dear Grace,

When you were little, before you could say “v,” you used to talk about having adwentures.  Nana wanted to get me a vanity plate for my car, actually, that said ADWENTURE.

And now you’re off on your biggest adwenture yet.

Back in the days when our adwentures took us to the Children’s Museum and the Aquarium, I had a conversation with a dear friend from college.  In that conversation, which I remember vividly, I said that my most devout hope in raising a daughter was that she grow up to be smart and brave (I might, now, add kind and thoughtful to that).  Well, you’ve exceeded every hope I ever had.  You are smart and brave, and it is those traits, along with your love of adwenture, that are propelling you on this next step.

This present is both precisely the future that I dreamed about – a brave, independent daughter, flying towards her dreams – and the hardest thing I’ve ever done as a parent.  I’ve known this day was coming – the day you would leave – since you were born.  Our family believes in boarding school so I always knew this was a distinct possibility; it was a likelihood, even. And yet it has absolutely knocked me over with how hard it is, the saying goodbye. I know you know this since you saw me tearful a lot this summer.  I am sorry about that, but I also know you know it’s the shadow side of how much I’ve loved this season.  It’s not an exaggeration to say that these years with small and then larger children at home have been my favorite of my life.  So far!  Who knows: what’s ahead may dazzle me.  I hope, and frankly sort of expect, that it will.

One thing that will never change is how much I love you.  That’s only been growing since we greeted you, with your shock of dark hair and wailing cries, after a long, long, long labor.  I will never be able to fully express to you how grateful I am that it was you that the universe decided would be my first child.  I delivered you myself, that morning of October 26, 2002, and since then, in ways big and small, we’ve felt like a team.  You’ll always be the person who made me a mother, and we’ve learned a lot together.  That’s not over now, by the way.  There’s a lot I still want to talk to you about and teach you, and vice versa.  Our reality may look different now, but I know our bond is only growing stronger.

You’ve made being a parent easy, Grace.  It hasn’t always felt smooth, but I know the bumps have been small.  Had I listed all the things you are when I described my fantasy first child, the other person would have told me I was asking for too much. You’ve surpassed every dream I had for you. You make me prouder than I can possibly put into words.

So, my brave and smart daughter, my child who is taller than I am and a full-blown young woman, I’m watching you with tears in my eyes and joy in my heart as you dash towards your newest and biggest adwenture.  You are in the woods, and I’m standing at the finish line cheering, waiting for you to emerge.

Run your own race. I say this all the time and I know you know it. Study hard, run fast, get some sleep, make some lifetime friends and connect with an amazing teacher or two. I know firsthand the power of a school like the one where you are to change your life. The years  before now have been golden, Grace, and I’ll never forget them.  I’m just as sure that what lies ahead will be wonderful.  Hold my hand, and let’s go.

I love you, and I always will, and I am truly excited to watch you fly.

Mum

 

the most authentic endings

The temptation towards resolution, towards wrapping up the package, seems to me a terrible trap.  Why not be more honest with the moment? The most authentic endings are the ones which are already revolving towards another beginning.

-Sam Shepard