Fourteen Ways

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I have more end-of-life questions than answers, but I am certain of one thing. Some people, like Lynn, live in ways that inspire those they leave behind to emulate them. Here are several ideas on how we can keep her spirit alive. There was only one Lynn, so pick your favorite few.

Fourteen ways to be more Lynn-like.

  • Take your watch off on occasion and leave your phone behind. And don’t worry about being exactly on-time, instead be even more present to people.
  • Consciously choose intimacy and commit especially deeply to one person.
  • Jump in streams, lakes, or the sound, with or without clothes.
  • Pay closer attention to plants by learning their names and caring for them.
  • Never speak negatively of anyone, instead always give people the benefit of the doubt.
  • Be proactively friendly. When you move somewhere new, if your neighbors don’t initiate for whatever reason, bake them something, walk over with it, and introduce yourself.
  • Trust in kindness and resist the urge to keep score in relationships.
  • Travel, learn new languages, and immerse yourself in other cultures.
  • Eat a lot of fruit and leave a trail of apple cores wherever you go.
  • Volunteer at a food bank, respect the homeless, and give generously to non-profits that care for the most vulnerable among us.
  • Commit to a faith community.
  • Dance.
  • And if you want to embody the most Lynn-like attribute of all, make it this one. Be especially mindful of and friendly to the newcomer, the outsider, the immigrant, whomever is lonely.
  • And lastly, somehow, despite touching so many people’s lives so profoundly, self-compassion illuded Lynn. She often felt she wasn’t nearly enough of a daughter, sister, wife, mother, educator, citizen. She lived with a nagging sensation that there was so much more that she could and should do. Somehow, she understood and forgave others’ shortcomings with more of a generosity of spirit than her own. I struggled to accept this and felt relatively powerless in helping her muster some semblance of self-compassion. Given that, one more especially poignant way we can honor her legacy is to pick up that baton and practice self-compassion. To learn together to accept that although we’re flawed, we’re enough. And with that assurance, to keep her memory alive by consciously and imperfectly being as Lynn-like as we can in whatever time we have left.

Blessed be the life of Lynn Byrnes.

Reverse Psychology

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This morning, on my final Lynn CaringBridge post, I wrote, “Lynn’s memorial is going to be lit.” The truth of the matter is I’m dreading it.

Largely because almost all of Lynn’s most special friends will be there, but she won’t be. What she would give to be able to look each person in the eye, smile, and hug them one more time.

If you’re at the memorial and wondering what I’m thinking it’s, “I really, really wish Lynn was here to see everyone whose lives she touched and to enjoy their company.” Remember, she loved parties.

Last night, Alison asked me how I’m doing. I explained that it all depends upon the level of distraction. Like most people these days, I’m pretty damn good at distracting myself from the permanence of the loss that I wrote about previously. Landman, estate executor details, Facebook reels, UCLA portal comings and goings, U.S. imperialism and related bullshit, etc.

When someone thoughtfully checks-in, like Ali, and I’m forced to stop and remember all that’s been lost, I’m immediately overcome by emotion. I cried in the kitchen.

For me, Saturday afternoon will not be lit. Absent any distractions, I will be a complete and total mess.

I’m approaching the event mindful of what basketball analysts say an offensive player should do when going against a fearsome shot blocker/rim protector. The inclination is to opt for finesse, maintain a safe distance, and lob something high arching up and hope for the best. Counterintuitively, the advice of the best basketball minds is to negate their strengths by driving right into them. Or as the kids say, “Getting up in their grill.”

That’s what everyone coming together Saturday afternoon is going to help me do. Get up in the grill of grief. Jumpstart it. Press “fast forward” on the process.

Prob, so much so, I’ll be fine Sunday morn. Right?

Adrift

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Alternative title. Winter of Grief III.

I’m pretty good about keeping my peabrain psychological theories to myself. Por exemplar, I would never ever try to interpret someone else’s dream.

But my own. . .

Last night I dreamed I was someplace like the Forty Foot which I discovered watching Bad Sisters. I was mesmerized by its beauty. I guess so much so it was etched in my consciousness.

Last night, my ocean swim was a little diceyer than at Forty Foot with taller, more jagged outcroppings to negotiate before relaxing into open water. Steve Wright, a Cypress High School water polo legend, won’t be surprised to learn Kevin Babb, stud teammate of ours, and another SoCal bestie, was already in the water waiting for me. Steve and I were always the last in the water, typically getting airborne into the early morning steam clad water only after Coach Drent threatened us with additional yardage.

The dream was short, simple, and hella scary. The second I succeeded in getting out past the farthest outcropping, I was immediately swept up in the strongest current ever recorded. In seconds, I was gone, out of Kevin’s earshot and sight, headed no where good. No doubt to a dark, cold, watery death had I not woken up.

Here’s the image I keep returning to when I think about having lost Lynn.

Same as when my mom died. I’ve never experienced unconditional love like my mom’s and Lynn’s. Their love kept me moored. Among the synonyms for “moored“, fastened, secured, anchored.

Now, I feel completely unmoored. Unfastened. Unsecured. Unanchored. And especially susceptible to strong ocean currents.

Postscript. Cypress (California) High legends in their own minds.

Indie Bookstores For The Win

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From The New York Times, “Dragons, Sex and the Bible: What Drove the Book Business This Year”.

This year, 422 newly opened stores joined the American Booksellers Association — nearly a hundred more than joined last year. . . .

“It’s exciting to see so many people shopping in alignment with their values, and I see that reflected in the tremendous support communities have given indie bookstores this past year,” said Allison Hill, the C.E.O. of the A.B.A. “In some ways, I think that’s a response to the turmoil of 2025 in this country and reflects a backlash against billionaires and algorithms. Indie bookstores are proving to be an antidote for the time we’re living in.”

My draft novel is about a hopelessly promiscuous dragon experiencing an existential crisis.

Wholly Unprepared

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2025 was the most challenging year of my life and it wasn’t even close. And 2024 was the second most difficult.

Being educated, white, straight, and male in the wealthiest country the world has known made the other sixty one largely a breeze. Especially when you add a successful hardworking dad, an extremely loving mother, and an extremely loving wife into that mix. I was pedaling downhill with the wind until I wasn’t.

Occasionally, until Lynn was stricken with Multiple System Atrophy, I found my privilege so extensive as to be disorienting, wondering, “Why me?”

Was the cosmos playing catch up? Not even Steph Curry can make 63 straight free throws. The odds had to be against me running the table.

And of course, 2024 and 2025 were way, way worse for Lynn. I was just collateral damage.

I spent nearly all day, every day caring for Lynn during the first eight months of 2025. Never travelled anywhere, rarely saw anyone else. I knew that type of intense, nonstop closeness was really bad for our relationship. For us, absence, whether for a few hours, days, or weeks, always, always, made our heart(s) grow fuller and fonder.

I felt like I was suffocating in the house doing the best I could to stay on top of Lynn’s multiplying symptoms. The few times I lost it and told her I was worried about my mental and physical well-being, she said I just needed to figure out how to get away for a weekend. Which was hugely deflating.

I understood that to mean she was way too overwhelmed by MSA to appreciate how far I’d slipped from my normal contented, happy, healthy self. I told her and A and J that what I needed was months with no responsibility to rest, recover, and heal. And I knew that was a pipe dream, so I kept grinding until I couldn’t anymore. Which turned out to be late summer, at which point A and J realized the seriousness of the situation and we pivoted to finding an adult family home, which of course, initially at least, added to the family’s trauma.

Like a burglar inside a vacant second home, MSA took its time taking everything from Lynn and me. Over a few years we lost the ability to be active in nature together, to travel, to go out to dinner, to be physically intimate, for Lynn to do anything for me, to work together to accomplish anything, to communicate, to know something of what the other person was thinking and feeling. And to add insult to injury, any ability to plan for a shared future.

Intensely sad, painful, compounding losses, but spread out over enough time I was able to fool myself that I’d be prepared enough for Lynn’s inevitable death that I would be alright and somehow piece together a new life.

But strangely, as it turns out, I was wholly unprepared for the most obvious thing of all, the permanence of the loss. I was deluded to think a break was possible. Now that the movie is over, forever, it’s jarring. To say the least.

It’s devastating to think that I’m never getting back any of the amazing, life-fulfilling things that were lost. Ever.

Paragraph To Ponder

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From an excellent essay titled, “When A.I. Took My Job, I Bought a Chainsaw” by Brian Groh.

“In towns like mine, outsourcing and automation consumed jobs. Then purpose. Then people. Now the same forces are climbing the economic ladder. Yet Washington remains fixated on global competition and growth, as if new work will always appear to replace what’s been lost. Maybe it will. But given A.I.’s rapacity, it seems far more likely that it won’t. If our leaders fail to prepare, the silence that once followed the closing of factory doors will spread through office parks and home offices — and the grief long borne by the working class may soon be borne by us all.”

What Now?

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My best friend took her last breath Monday afternoon surrounded by Alison, Jeanette, and me. It was peaceful and we’re relieved she’s no longer suffering. However, even though we had a long time to prepare for this, we don’t know how we’ll pick up the pieces seeing that she’s left a Grand Canyon-like hole in our family.

In the middle of the five last hours we spent bedside, Ebony, a Certified Nurse Assistant, who helped Lynn shower twice a week, joined us around the bed and held her hand. She only met Lynn three months ago, but she loved her like Abigail, Olga, FuFu, and all her caregivers did. Ebony talked about how loving and special she was and all I could think is how Lynn connected with all these women while at her absolute lowest point.

There’s no humanly explanation for that.

Blessed be the fact that MSA never broke her spirit. A few days ago, when a former caregiver came to visit, it didn’t matter that Lynn had stopped eating and drinking, she lit up, and flashed the smile that warmed people’s hearts.

A friend forwarded this message today from Lynn’s former student Miriam.

Her last of a lifetime of selfless acts was donating her brain to science. If you want to honor her memory please consider a gift to the Brain Support Network.

A favorite poem of hers.

The Winter Of Grief II

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My mom was 64 years 10 months old when my dad died from a heart attack while driving to work in Tampa, FL.

I’m 63 years 10 months old.

I wish I could go back in time and interact with my mom with the wisdom gained from what I am experiencing. It’s not that I wasn’t compassionate, it’s just that my compassion would be on a whole different level.

One painful insight that I’d bring to our relationship is the knowledge of how the person’s life lingers and how the trail they left offers constant memories which both deepen and lengthen the grief.

For example, today, after visiting Lynn I went through her collection of papers and books from the last few years. A literary tower balancing precariously on the piano bench.

And I stumbled across the attached picture. The crossed out “2020” speaks to some procrastinating, but I love how dang aspirational her list was. Ward Lake laps, haha. The “Oregon hill” is McKenzie Pass which I raved to her about after each of my ascents.

“Surf in Gull Harbor current” meant kayaking to the mouth of the harbor then riding the current into the harbor. Sometimes in the boat, sometimes not.

“Hike a lot” unchecked. “Hike Mt. Eleanor” unchecked. Fuck, why didn’t we go on more hikes?

The wisest thing anyone has said to me during this ordeal was a hospice chaplain who said don’t focus so much on Lynn’s mortality that you ignore your own. That was piercing. And stuck.

I wonder, what if things were reversed and Lynn had to interact with my material wake. Would she take the seven iron out of my golf bag and hold the grip seeking some sort of cosmic connection? Yeah, I think she prob would.

Here’s what I think about my own mortality. Lynn had just over four years left when she cobbled together her “Summer Fun” list. I’m guessing she assumed she had more than four summers left. I know I did.

I do not want to save up for the future, to put things off, to assume a long, healthy future.

One of the simplest ways I’m doing that may seem silly. These days, my uniform is t-shirts and jeans. I have about 10 t-shirts, some that I like to wear more than others. And I have one fave, that I used to reach for and then stop and say to myself, “I should save that for next time.” Now, I look for it and wear it whenever it’s clean. Because of Lynn.

Without being morbid, take your mortality seriously. Don’t wait. Hike. Cycle. Be on or in the water. In your favorite t-shirt.

The Winter Of Grief

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What the hell am I going to do when I can’t make Lynn smile anymore?

My go to when her lips are barely moving and no sound is coming out is to say, “Not so loud.” She likes that one.

Six months ago, I had a whole morning routine featuring her, the Slo-mo Turtle. That got pretty elaborate with the log she lived on, her forest friends, and all kinds of silliness delivered with the staccato of a nature documentary. That routinely got not just smiles, but guffaws.

Early in the week I told her I got stuck in the driveway waiting for a gaggle of Garfield Elementary students to walk by on their return from downtown. And how some of the umbrella-less boys were drenched. The former elementary teacher smiled widely at that image.

What a difference a week makes. Today, I needed Jeanette’s help to get her to muster a slight smile.

She is not in pain and was quite peaceful when I left. But she’s waving the white flag.

We’re at mile 26 of the marathon.