Makeda For The Win

Posted on January 26, 2026 by Ron Byrnes

Don’t tell anyone that Makeda was one of my favorite students in my Fall 2024 First Year Writing Seminar.

In large part, because she was from Gondar, Ethiopia. As if our Ethiopian connection wasn’t enough, she was super diligent and hyper intelligent, both academically and interpersonally. As a result, she elevated every class discussion by picking her places to make extremely thoughtful contributions. She dug the course material and it showed.

I’m worn down from having read thousands of first year essays, and yet, I always looked forward to Makeda’s. A superb writer with mature insights that belied her age.

So I was happy to get an email from her today asking if I would edit her nursing school admission essay. As I suspected, the essay didn’t really need anything apart from massaging a few phrases.

But it left me with a familiar dilemma. I’ve had the good fortune to teach several Makeda’s from near, meaning mostly Eastern Washington, and far. Students who are the “first in their families” to attend university. Students who are motivated by their families sacrifices to excel. Students who do excel relative to their peers.

These Makedas almost always aspire to the helping professions, teaching, nursing, social work; because, I think, it’s as ambitious a future as they can envision for themselves.

And of course, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being a third grade teacher, or registered nurse, or social worker. “Absolutely nothing wrong” is a poor way of putting that, more to the point, there’s everything right with choosing those professions.

Still, I get this nagging feeling that inspired me to write this to Makeda just now when I returned her barely marked essay.

“Excellent work Makeda. You will sail through. Trust my few suggestions came through, if not, let me know. Only question I have is whether you might make even more of an impact as an MD. Either way, I’m excited for your future. Ron”

I have no doubt Makeda could excel in medical school and in practicing medicine, just like I have no doubt that my Makeda’s who plan to teach K-12 could pursue PhD’s and someday replace and exceed my university colleagues and me.

Maybe I’m projecting a superficial impulse that mo’ status is mo’ better? An obviously problematic premise.

I just don’t know if Makeda has considered the possibility of becoming a doctor, thus my nudge. I would love to turn her life upside down with that suggestion.

Either way, she’s destined to flourish.

Postscript. The reply.

“Thank you so much for your kind message and encouragement! I really appreciate it. I received your comments and suggestions and will do my best to adjust accordingly.

I also wanted to thank you for your thoughtful comment about the impact I could make as a physician, it really encouraged me! God willing, I do have a plan to pursue an MD in the future, and I was wondering if you think it would be a good idea to mention this in my last essay.

Thank you again for your time and support!

Makeda”

Postscript 2. Anyone who has ever uttered the phrase “shithole countries” has never met a Makeda.

Reverse Psychology

Posted on January 9, 2026 by Ron Byrnes

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?

The Winter Of Grief II

Posted on December 13, 2025 by Ron Byrnes

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.

Money, Money, Money

Posted on December 2, 2025 by Ron Byrnes

The O’Jays > Abba, but I digress.

I dig this story, “Gift to help cover tuition for students in lab medicine” for a few reasons. Mostly because the donors wanted to remain anonymous. Such a refreshing choice in this “look at me” day and age. I also like how targeted and thought out the gift is. There will surely be positive ripple effects. And of course, the recipients’ gratitude is heartwarming.

Then there’s this. “Michael and Susan Dell donate $6.25 billion to encourage families to claim ‘Trump Accounts’”. Not anonymous, and a very unfortunate name, but a staggering amount that compensates for both of those things.

Both are interesting in the context of this The Nation pod, “Liberal Philanthropy and the Fight for Democracy“. Sentence-long summary, “As powerbrokers of the elite, liberal philanthropists are averse to challenging ‘the systems that spawned them.'” One does not have to be as far left as the typical The Nation reader/listener to conclude that we’re far too dependent on the capriciousness (and ego) of the oligarchy for the infrastructure and safety nets we desperately need. What we need is the the dependability of a more progressive tax structure.

Yours truly just sold some AAPL purchased in 2011. The initial investment was small, but the shares appreciated over 2,000% in the fourteen years, resulting in a large sum. Which I will now gift to several nonprofits.

In revealing that, I’ve violated my fave philanthropic move, remaining anonymous. And, I’ve also sidestepped considerable capital gain taxes.

I can live with those demerits because I do not aspire to be in any pantheon of modern-day philanthropists. My aim is simpler. It’s to honor the memory of those who’ve been generous with me and to transmute the incredible luck I’ve had as an investor into tangible contributions to the common good.

It’s Happened

Posted on November 17, 2025 by Ron Byrnes

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. :)

Raye For The Win

Posted on October 30, 2025 by Ron Byrnes

Infectious beat. Funny lyrics.

Baby (whoo-hoo), where the hell is my husband? (Whoo-hoo)
What is taking him so long (whoo-hoo) to find me?
Oh, baby, where the hell is my lover?
Getting down with another? (Whoo-hoo, yeah)
Tell him if you see him, baby, if you see him, tell him, tell him
(He should holler)

Why is this beautiful man waiting for me to get old?
Why he already testing my patience?
I only fear he’s taking time with other women that ain’t me
While I’ve been reviewing applications
Wait ’til I get my hands on him, I’ma tell him off too
For how long he kept mе waiting, anticipating
Praying to the Lord to give him to my loving arms
And despite my frustrations

And he must need me (he must need me)
Completely (completely)
How my heart yearns for him
Is he far away? (Is he far away?)
Is he okay? (Is he okay?)
This man is testing me, uh-huh, uh-huh
Uh, help me, help me, help me, Lord
I need you to tell me

I’m doing lonely acrobatics, unzipping my dress at 2 a.m.
And I’m tired of living like this
He must be out there getting ready, tryna fix up his tie
Uh, huh-huh, uh, hello? This where your wife is
Wait ’til I get your heart going, I’ma turn it up too
For how much I’m ’bout to love ya, no one above ya
Praying to the Lord to hurry, hurry you along
Baby, I intend to rush ya

T-t-t-t-tell him I’m mm, tell him I’m mm with the mm, mm, mm
Tell him I’m kind, tell him I’m 5’5″
Tell him I got brown eyes and a growing fear
That if he doesn’t find me now, I’m gonna die alone, so can he
Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, hurry up here, sir?
Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, huh
I want it, want it, want it, want it, want it

I would like a ring, I would like a ring
I would like a diamond ring on my wedding finger
I would like a big and shiny diamond
That I could wave around and talk and talk about it
And when the day is here, forgive me, God, that I could ever doubt it
Until death, I do, I do, I do, I-
Is he about it, ’bout it, ’bout it?
This man is testing me, uh-huh, uh-huh
Uh, help me, help me, help me, Lord
I need you to tell me

Baby (whoo-hoo), where the hell is my husband? (Whoo-hoo)
What is taking him so long (whoo-hoo) to find me?
Oh, baby, where the hell is my lover?
Getting down with another? (Whoo-hoo, yeah)
Tell him that my grandma said it, tell him grandma said it
(Your husband is coming)

I would like a ring, I would like a ring
I would like a diamond ring on my wedding finger
I would like a big and shiny (ooh) diamond (yes), diamond (yes)
Diamond (yes), diamond (yes), diamond (yes), oh
Where is my husband? (Ah)

Localism Is The Answer

Posted on September 18, 2025 by Ron Byrnes

Increasingly, it’s obvious that the more “plugged in” to the news, the more “on-line” one is, the worse their physical/mental/spiritual well-being because media algorithms know that outrage is the surest way to attract and keep eyeballs, and thereby sell advertising. As a result, outlandish opinions dominate. And once you and I are sufficiently outraged, we can’t unplug.

So if you and I want to maintain whatever sanity we have, we should intentionally tune out the news. Learn to leave our phones behind on occasion. Step away from our keyboards. Not watch as much t.v., or more likely, stream television clips.

Ignorance may in fact be bliss, but it also empowers those in power, because the more uninformed people are, and the more apathetic, the more free elected officials are to do as they please.

So what are we to do? Localism is the answer. Or a variation of the popular phrase that you no doubt remember, “Think globally, act locally.” Instead, maybe we should, “Think locally and act locally.” I’m advocating for a type of grassroots accountability, starting with ourselves and then branching out to where we live, trusting that if we do right by those we’re in closest relationship with, our county, state, country, and world will be okay in the long run.

So, in this way of thinking, we don’t get embroiled in fighting about national policies or current events. Instead, we recognize that our attention and energy are finite; consequently, we focus on being better partners, parents, and friends to those we live with, next to, and near. We go to the farmers’ market and initiate conversations with those closest to us.

Recently, someone, on-line ironically, asked a great question that gets to the heart of localism. They asked, “Do you know the name of the person that delivers your mail?”

I don’t. Why? Because I’m usually on my computer when she visits each morning.

Clearly, I have a ways to go.

Just How Loco Exactly?

Posted on September 1, 2025 by Ron Byrnes

After my last musing, SW, a close friend, texted me, “Please be more specific. I’m curious just how crazy you are.” Which made me smile.

The return text, “Where to begin?”

But then, I pressed pause. And thought about self compassion. And how I need to muster more of it given this most challenging chapter of my life.

And so I started to think about both sides of the ledger, the “irrational” and “rational”. The irrational mostly consists of what most objective observers would conclude is poor time/money decision-making. Meaning, I regularly do things that I could pay others to do for far less money than my increasingly limited time is worth.

But sometimes I just like popping the AirPods in, cranking up the Biebs, and washing my car in the driveway. Or washing the windows. Or cleaning the house. Which brings a documentary to mind about Japanese elementary schooling. When asked why young Japanese students clean their school at the end of each day, one Headmaster said, “Cleaning creates a calm and gentle spirit.” Love that. Sometimes there are less obvious, less tangible benefits to laboring yourself.

Without detailing the “rational” side of the ledger, suffice to say, there would be many more entries. In retrospect, I think I’ve done an extremely good job picking my parents, picking my in-laws, earning, saving, and investing. The first two highlight the role LUCK has played in my life. I wasn’t anywhere near perfect with respect to the other three, but I have made disproportionately more thoughtful decisions than thoughtless ones.

In my early twenties, when I was gifted some money from my parents for the first time, I had this deep-seated impulse to make the most of it. As an educator, I knew I’d never make bank. As a result, I educated myself about investing, and as our assets grew, we assiduously avoided lifestyle creep.

So much so, that family and friends get infinite amusement from teasing me about being too frugal for my own good. Yeah, I admit, often I am, but we still have lived posh lives, even by Western, late 21st century standards. And what my “friends” always fail to mention is that I’ve done a very good job growing our assets and taking the long view.

Which means now, we can pay for 24 hour care for The Good Wife without losing sleep. Which is a real blessing and one of the clearest indicators that my rational side has more than compensated for my irrational quirks.

For SW, here’s a lil’, lil’, on the quirk front. Yesterday, I traded in the Elonmobile for a new rig. I concede, I have a car prob, specifically, churning through them. The new rig comes in eight colors. I ended up with only my fifth or sixth fave color because it was the best deal I could find in Western Washington. By about $3k. I consciously told myself, configure the rig in whatever way will increase the odds of keeping it longer than my sad (sick) average. So I got the top trim, points for that. But deduct the same points for settling for a bottom-half color.

Also, SW, I spent way too many hours watching reviews, thinking about alternatives, and alternatives to alternatives, and then ultimately, interacting with dealerships.

Now, my “friends” are ripping me for being an ICE ICE Baby again. Mr. Fossil Fuel. A retrograde. To my many critics, take a number. Two of my fave “new car” texts today were, “He is milquetoast and has completely given up.” And “Your car matches UCLA’s performance” which was just mean.

Shifting gears, pun intended, I aspire to be more like my mom and wife, meaning way more generous. I took a baby step two weeks ago when I gave Olga a $3,000 (the money saved on the dud color?) bonus for being such an amazing help with Lynn over the last year. Because she lives check-to-check, it was like I had given her $30,000. As tough a Russian-Ukrainian woman as you’ll ever meet, at least on the surface, she broke down in tears.

So, forgive me if I cut myself some slack. Savings to soften the devastating blow of MSA. Savings to help the hijas and lighten others’ burdens. Savings to enable Olga to breath a little easier for a few months.

Just not enough savings for a bitchin’ colored rig.

On Dying

Posted on August 14, 2025 by Ron Byrnes

Great title, Ron. What’s the opposite of clickbait?

The rollercoaster that is living with and caring for someone with Multiple Systems Atrophy careened down to the bottom of the track Tuesday late afternoon/early evening. Lynn’s body shut down. And I couldn’t understand a word she was saying. This was late into a long two-day stretch without our normal a.m. help. So I wasn’t in a good place, and Lynn, of course, was in a much worser one.

Then the 5p meds and my amazing dinner kicked in and she bounced back enough to ask, “What would you do?” And so, I told her.

“I’d probably give up. It’s hard to know for sure, but yeah, I might throw in the towel and let nature run its course. You’re way tougher than me. Which is kinda ironic isn’t it, since I often said you were too damn delicate? Yeah, in the end, you turned out to be way tougher than me. Maybe I have some Erwin Byrnes in me.”

Then I told her that a not inconsequential subset of people on the MSA listserv choose death with dignity or they voluntarily stop eating and drinking. Because they want to assert some modicum of control over the downward spiral.

In the past, after reflecting on her mom’s decision to stop eating and drinking in her final two weeks, she’s said she’d do the same someday. That time is not now, but her will to live isn’t what it appears on the surface when she flashes her golden smile. Her will to live is gradually flagging. Hence her question, “What would you do?”

Last night J asked her if she enjoyed visiting with her college roommates online and she surprised J by saying, “Not really.” Having eavesdropped on the conversation, I intuitively knew why. Because she will not be giving a toast at either of her daughters’ weddings. And she will not be traveling anywhere. The roommate’s normal catching up was a painful reminder of things lost and how her world keeps getting smaller and smaller. Of course, they didn’t intend for that, and they didn’t realize it because of . . . the golden smile.

Lynn’s question, “What would you do?” prompted me to think even more deeply about her daily life. Yes, I am a complete mess right now, but I’m going to get better. And I’m going to renew my passport next year, and I’m going to catch up with you hopefully, and add lots of events to my calendar that I’ll look forward to. I am bullish on the future.

What does Lynn have to look forward to? Or maybe, more immediately, what brings her joy? Me, especially when I’m okay enough to joke around. The labradude appearing suddenly under the wheelchair. Picking dead leaves off the tomato plants. SchittsCreek with the hijas. Saturday lunch with the gfriends. Always, Saturday lunch.

For me, I don’t know if that would be enough. If I was her, I’d feel almost entirely like a spectator of others’ lives, not an active participant. I’m not sure I’d feel enough purpose to keep fighting through all of the adversity. To be so damn dependent upon everyone for everything. Again, she’s starting to wonder if it’s enough too.

Whether to passively live as long as possible or more actively speed up the dying process a little or a lot is a deeply personal question upon which reasonable people disagree.

One thing I know for sure however, is that everyone who is dying slowly, should get to decide for themselves what to do, if anything, without any outside pressure. That’s why I keep telling Lynn my probable throwing in of the towel doesn’t matter. That she gets to decide how to live out her ninth inning. Which is one important factor in the move to an adult family home. She will be cared for by pros, not a shattered, amateur, impostor of a caregiver.

In saying I’d prob let nature run its course, I also shared my way of thinking about death which took shape following my dad’s sudden death when I was 33. At first, I was mad at the world that I’d never get to find out where our newly evolving friendship was headed. That he didn’t get to hold Jeanette. That so much promise was cut unfairly short. Then, somehow, I consciously pivoted to celebrating our nascent friendship and all the positive memories I had of him growing up.

My intentional approach is “choose to celebrate” all the positive memories instead of being eternally upset that the movie cut off before the ideal end.

I told Lynn not everyone lives 64 years. And not many people have as fulfilling a 40 years (38 married) as we’ve enjoyed. I told her that, eventually, I will be okay, largely because of all the positive memories we made. She seemed receptive to my quirky thinking, but I can’t be entirely sure. Equally possible, she thought, “How did I get stuck with a bonafide whacko?”

I just don’t think we can do both simultaneously, we have to choose one or the other. I choose to celebrate. Is it a panacea for softening the blow of loss? Does it speed up the grieving process? No and probably not. Is it better than the alternative? Of being mad at the world? Of staying mad at it? Most definitely.

The Ultimate Litmus Test

Posted on August 13, 2025 by Ron Byrnes

At the end of life, how does one know whether they’ve lived a good life or not? More personally, how will you know if you have? How will I?

Many of us live as if professional reputation, material wealth, and social status are the key ingredients, but watching The Good Wife get closer to the end provides an altogether different litmus test.

Which is this. Have you been a good enough friend, to enough people, long enough, that they’re there for you at the end? Or has a certain self-centeredness and peripatetic life left you mostly alone?

You’ll only know which of these is the case if you die slowly. Some of us will go quickly like a friend of mine who fell over dead on his bike in Italy last summer. Although he didn’t have time for the “close friend” litmus test, his memorial service provided positive clues to a life well lived.

Based on the “close friend” test, Lynn has lived an exceptional life. Unfortunately though, she’s unable to take solace in that knowledge. Because like many of us, she’s incredibly hard on herself. My unprovable hypothesis is that the built-in feeling of inadequacy began at birth with Lynn wondering, “Why didn’t my mom want me?” Almost certainly, it didn’t help when 45 years later she contacted her birth mom only to learn she still didn’t want any kind of relationship.

Consider the last 48 hours. Yesterday, Lynn participated in a zoom call with her four dear college roommates. “Participated” meaning listened intently and smiled throughout. Today, an hour before Pastor Carol was coming by with communion, Susan texted to see if she could pop in. I said she could join Lynn and Carol, Carol happens to be Susan’s pastor, and the three of them visited for over an hour. I could go on and on. Lynn’s support network has blown my mind. She is being loved and supported by so many people none of whom are the least bit phased by her worsening symptoms like her loss of voice.

Some bring art, some bring pictures, a lot bring food. In the end, they just want to be next to her. And to see her smile. When we’re without her smile there is going to be a painful void in a lot of people’s lives, not just A’s, J’s, and mine.

I intend on honoring Lynn’s eventual legacy by prioritizing friendships even more.

Pressing Pause

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