Category Archives: Spirituality

Maybe We’re All Sign-Holders

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What do you think when you pass under political, sign-holding people on freeway overpasses? Of either variety, bright red or dark blue?

My internal dialogue. “Apart from posting on Facebook, I don’t think anyone could choose a less effective form of political persuasion. Has anyone ever, in world history, said, ‘You know, I was driving south on the I-5 when I looked up and saw an outstretched sign that said ‘X’. Until that moment, I really believed ‘Y’. But now, I realize how misguided I have been and I’ve completely come around to ‘X’.”

At 65 mph, the outstretched sign advert might last 1-2 seconds. That’s not even subliminal.

The sign holders are careful to keep a safe distance from their opponents they’re hoping to somehow convert. Their method is a metaphor for our modern age. We’re all steadily improving at keeping a safe distance from one another. Getting better and better at reducing the inconvenience and unpredictability of direct, interpersonal contact.

Abrupt shift. You may be wondering how I’m doing. Lots of people appreciated the “rawness” with which I described Lynn’s final chapter. Now though, I feel like the humble blog is completely inadequate for telling my story. Of how I’m doing.

I suppose, like the sign holders, I’m afraid too. Afraid to “keep it real” in way too impersonal a format.

So what to do? I don’t know.

Taking Turns

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I was awed by my daughters’ poise last weekend, both at the memorial and the “day after” brunch.

The Winter of Grief hit hard for Alison on Monday; for Jeanette, Friday night. Fortunately, like cars simultaneously arriving at a four-way stop, we’ve edged out and then taken turns losing it. Maybe not the best analogy because it hasn’t been that intentional; fortunately, it’s just the way it’s worked.

Similarly, while I have things I could communicate about my first quite lonely, quiet week post memorial, they seem less weighty than this paragraph from Jeanette’s most recent Substack. So without knowing it, it’s her turn.

“Mom’s memorial weekend was hard and surreal, and also beautiful, honoring, and full of loved ones; those who came to be with and support us, as well as those who sent their love from afar. I spent the reception looking for mom in the crowd, wanting to walk over and rest my head on her shoulder, get a hug, or simply stand by her side. I just wanted to stand beside her, listen to her wrap up her conversation before leaving with her by my side. When I was by her side, I knew I always belonged, I was always wanted. I came into this world by her side, cozy and comfortable in her womb for two weeks past my due date. I was born from her body, I fed from her as an infant, I grew up under the caring watch of her loving and attentive eye. Being by her side is the most natural environment I have ever existed in. I miss her every day. The longer it’s been, the more surreal it feels, the more I think, ‘it’s been long enough, she should be coming back now’. And she doesn’t.”

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.

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.

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

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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.

“Keep Your Hand On That Plough, Hold On”

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Science has no answers for Multiple Systems Atrophy. Some day it will, but until then, I lean heavily on the humanities for sustenance.

Ian McEwan is on my Mount Rushmore of writers. Presently, I’m reading his most recent novel, What We Can Know. The main character is a former academic caring for her husband who is suffering from Alzheimers. I marvel at McEwan’s ability to evoke that world. A hyper creative, all-world imagination that deeply moves me.

Then, a week ago, I stumbled upon a Robert Plant/Saving Grace Tiny Desk concert. Plant’s voice, at 77, is more bluesy and folksy than rock and roll. Major props to him for continuing to create. And for moving me. Deeply.

Lynn’s hearing is about the only thing M.S.A. has spared. So I shared this song with her. All I know to say to her now is, “Keep your hand on that plough, hold on.”

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, all them prophets dead and gone
Keep your hand on that plough, hold on
Never been to Heaven, but I’ve been told the streets up there are lined with gold
Keep your hand on that plough, hold on

Hold on, hold on
Keep your hand on that plough and hold on

Mary wore three links of chain, every link was Jesus’ name
Keep your hand on that plough and hold on
The only chains that we should stand are the chains of hand in hand
Keep your hand on that plough and hold on

Hold on, hold on
Keep your hand on that plough, hold on
Hold on, hold on
Keep your hand on that plough and hold on

Hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on
Keep your hand on that plough, hold on

It’s Happened

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A large part of the rationale for the move to the Adult Family Home three months ago was that I could recover, and therefore Lynn and I could heal and get in sync, and spend whatever time is left as positively and peacefully as possible.

I am not in a good place, but a much better one. Way, way less stress. FuFu, Alison, and Jeanette, among many others, have saved me.

As a result, for the last two months, Lynn and I have enjoyed my visits. We look at photo albums. We listen to music. I tell her about my day. We loop the hood.

Most of all, we touch. I hold her hands and massage her calves. She hugs me tightly as if she’s not going to let go. We press our foreheads against each other. I caress her head as she falls asleep. We kiss.

It’s how we communicate.

I’ve never partnered with someone who is dying, so I’m improvising. All the time. What to say?

Last week I kneeled on the floor next to her hospice bed as she cried before napping. I told her I loved her and that she was okay, which of course, was untrue. Then I told her how sorry I was for what she’s experiencing. And that she’s been fighting it every minute she’s been awake for a few years and that was why she was completely exhausted. And that I wanted her to Rest even if that meant being alone. I told her how much I am going to miss her. More tears.

Then I told her she wasn’t alone and wouldn’t be alone. That she is bearing the fruit of having built such a caring and loving family.

We have had a much more intense relationship than you would probably guess. Intensely good most of the time, intensely bad some of the time.

I told her I was skimming an old Apple Note I wrote from when we were in marriage counseling five or six years ago. And how my one regret is all the time we wasted being mad at each other. I asked her to forgive me for being so stubborn and selfish. More tears.

I suspect she wanted to say something similar, but I was okay with her not being able to because I wanted to take most of the responsibility for our epic, sporadic struggles.

Even though we wanted to at times, I told her we never quit, and that was something.

In hindsight, we probably wasted 10% of our time together being too mad at each other to thoughtfully interact. Even though we learned to repair things, 10% of 38 years is almost four years! What we would do to have four years back.

More than Lynn, I accepted that we were never going to coast conflict free like some couples seemingly do. That the heartache was part and parcel of the intense intimacy. Again, in hindsight though, I wish we had far fewer, less intense conflicts. Fewer days where we couldn’t even talk to one another.

My unsolicited advice. Don’t take whatever committed relationships you’re in for granted. Be as proactive as you can. Trust one another enough to talk about what lies below the surface so that resentments don’t build up. Learn to listen and get more comfortable probing your partners’ feelings. If possible, by yourself, or together, enlist the help of a professional to learn to have fewer, less intense conflicts.*

Most of all, don’t assume you have many years and decades left, because you may not.

*LOL, I’m gonna get slammed for that wee bit of hypocrisy. :)