What to Wear? What to Wear?

What is acceptable funeral wear? Not mourning colors (talked about here in Paint It Black, re: what to wear when my mother died) This was on my mind yesterday morning as I considered committing hygiene and, ya know, donning the outfit I’d be wearing to Dan’s memorial service.

Had I thought to do it, I could have googled the answer up. Turns out there's a For Dummies post; What to Do, Say, and Wear at Funerals, a wikiHow page and a column at Jezebel to help us etiquette challenged folk.

Looking through my closet and dresser, all my duds are either black or nearly fluorescent tie dye. Sure, I've some different colored T-shirts but I kinda thought it wouldn't be hip to wear my red T with the image of Shakespeare — legend underneath "this shit just writes itself" or my traffic cone orange Marley Davidson and this one, at left, was DEF out (sadly. Oni just got it for me and it even glows in the dark!)

Eventually, I found a compromise. A tasteful black and white tie dye tank, worn with a black sweater and, to mitigate all that darkness, I slipped on that colorful and stunning bracelet that Julie forced me to buy.

Hollywood and old etiquette tells us that black's the thing so, naturally, I want to go in the opposite direction. I'd TOTALLY wear my brightest, most blinding tie dye if I wasn't concerned about possibly, probably offending Dan's family and friends.

When I was in high school a girlfriend was struck by a car and killed. I wore a stunning all white '40s style suit to the funeral. To my adolescent, artsy, everything's-a-deep-deep-metaphor mind this was a beautiful statement about Terri, life and death.

Also too, the Chinese wear white to funerals, right? OK maybe just the sons-in-law.

I never took my coat off. I was the only one there wearing white and figured I'd stand out like a bacon cake at a kosher wedding. I lacked the courage of my convictions — that and I was afraid of becoming even more of a target for the whack job, vile, miscreant, bully boys and girls than I already was.

Offending the family? Eh, that didn't occur to 16 year old me. Doh!

heading home

It's a hard line to walk. I can fly my freak flag, wave the old alt mysticism, honor the dearly departed in the way I feel best illustrates who they were and the connection we shared or I can respect the sensibilities of the majority of other mourners.

Turns out, I needn’t have been concerned. The crowd at Dan’s do (and boyhowdy, the joint was jammed. It was seriously SRO) were more colorful and stylistically wide ranging than I’d expected. There were a number of folks in white. I saw a woman in a bright coral jacket, one in a dark purple tie dyed sheath, another in a bright kelly green patterned wrap around and more.

Awesomeness.

By the by, the musical selections were brill. There was a dude on guitar who sang Johnny Cash's Why Me Lord, Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah and Woody Guthrie's So Long It's Been Good to Know Yuh.

More awesomeness.

Saying Goodbye to Dan

Jodi Fisher's portrait of Dainty Dan

Later today I’m going to my friend Dan’s memorial service. He died last Wednesday, September 17th.

To say that we were friends seems a mite presumptuous. When we worked for the same printing company, lo these 15-20 years ago, we were aware of each other’s existence but I doubt we exchanged more than a coupla words outside of the orientation classes I ran.

No, we connected on Facebook. I saw that we had a whole mess of mutual friends so I took a chance and sent a “friend request.” Happily, thankfully, wonderfully, he accepted.

It was here that I learned he’d been diagnosed with multiple myeloma. I also discovered his tremendous élan, his humor in the face of a horror show prognosis. Though neurofibromatosis type 2, my case anyway, isn’t quite as dire as multiple myeloma, it’s def up there in the pantheon of Things-That-Really-Truly-Wickedly-Suck-Giant-Mothra-Wang. (oh wait, I think Mothra's a girl. Alright, Godzilla wang then)

Dan felt like a fellow traveler. He inspired me. I didn’t feel so alone with my whack take on the family curse I’m rockin’.

He spoke, on Facebook, of a spinal tap he had which reminded me of my own tap. It was a Pedro Almodóvar by way of Guillermo del Toro experience. Hilarious, surreal and, yes, scary as hell for my 23 year old self. This was before MRIs were invented (yes, I AM that old, thenkyew). Diagnosing Nf2 was a much more complicated endeavor involving test upon test, procedure after procedure. My future's trajectory was riding on the results of this poke and pull.

Solemnity would be the thing — right? Eh, that’s just not how me and my vida loca rolls. This Is Spinal Tap — go read if you haven’t already.

Comedy leavens the horrors of this world.

To paraphrase Emma Goldman, If I can't laugh, I don't want to be part of my own nasty-ass disease. (sorry Emma)

Dan West was a comrade warrior in the con brio, con risate struggle against our respective afflictions. And now he’s gone.

Life’s short — dance while you can. Dammit!

Here’s the beautiful obit Dan’s employers, Harvard Business Publishing, sent out to his co-workers:

To the HBP Family
From: David Wan & Adi Ignatius

We lost a great friend and colleague yesterday: Dan West, a senior production specialist in the HBR Group.

Dan was an amazing man. He was brilliant, talented, funny, charismatic, and always did things his own way. He was a founding member of one of our nicest traditions: the lunch crew that regularly takes up a big table in the 1st-floor cafeteria. The group routinely plays cribbage during their break, and Dan created a special board for the games, replete with a variation of the Harvard shield. He was the founder, after all, of what he called the "Harvard Gun & Cribbage Club."

Dan had a zest for life. He was a regular, for example, at Hell Night at the East Coast Grill, where the restaurant would serve unconscionably spicy dishes to fearless eaters like Dan. (If you tried to order the pasta made with "ghost chili," the waiter would actually try to dissuade you from doing so, which was only a greater temptation to diners like Dan.) He was a serious music fan with eclectic tastes, and his favorite band was Mission of Burma, a brainy and loud post-punk indie band from Boston.
Dan was only 50 when he died, having been battered at an unfairly young age by a string of health problems. He endured a rough couple of years, but fought tenaciously throughout. Dan was refreshingly and disarmingly frank about his illness and the possibility of his dying. But he handled it all with a clarity and dignity that has inspired us all. In everything he did, he acted like it mattered.

His motto was to do things right, or not at all.

Dan is survived by a loving and caring wife, Kelly Myers West, who was with him at the hospice when he died last night. And he is remembered fondly by a long list of devoted friends and family members, including so many colleagues here at HBP.

We don't have any information yet on funeral plans, but we'll pass them on as soon as we do. Until then, crank up some Mission of Burma and think about Dan West.

Hurrah for us still sitting here!

For Dan, Kevin and Sean. For all of us

We try to keep Time linear
By numbering our years,
By celebrating annually
On our rickety web of biers.

“Hurrah for us still sitting here!”
And so we all partake
We give ourselves one more slice —
Paper thin! — of birthday cake.
~ The Amazing Bob

Why am I so damn lucky?

Yeah, yeah sure — I’ve got the nasty-ass, putz-faced, abominable and otherwise vile Nf2. I’m deaf now and have horrifically wonky balance (etc., etc.) BUT I’m alive. Kevin, Sean and Dan are not.

I’m living, breathing, practically effervescing with sparkling buoyancy...and shit.

How is it that I’m so damn lucky?

Dunno but I’ll take it.

I’ve been feeling all kvetch-y since my latest trike roll? Warum? Apart from the road rash and aches, I feel like a dimwitted moran for forgetting to brake on that hill. Sheesh! I went in for knee physical therapy yesterday and the very nice lady told me that I need to be checked by my doc and submit an “OK to rock ‘n’ roll” before I can resume rehab action.

Sigh. Yesterday I was feeling all “Ah, I shouldn’t have even mentioned the roll! I should’ve just gone through with the PT. NOW, I’ll have this stupid unnecessary delay!”

Impatience? Yeah — that’s my middle name.

This morning I’m thinking the lovely PT lady was right. While laying on the floor with Rocco (who’s now coming up INTO the kitchen for brekkie — PROGRESS!!!) I felt a pain, a twinge in my ribs and one in my left cheekbone. Christ, have I cracked a rib and more? Such annoyance.

I don’t have time for aches and pains!

What’s the lesson I need to take from Thursday’s ill fated ride? If I’m going to trike after I’ve gotten unhappy news (in this case — Dan’s death) then I best stick to straight paths. No hills. When my mind’s all preoccupied I seem to forget about that silly yet oh-so-useful invention known as brakes.

Coco

If I’m gonna trike the Hebrides (and I AM!) I NEED to be mindful or, at least, less mindless.

Got it, Donna?

Got it.

Rocco

Good.
So then, this morning I’m celebrating Rocco’s increased indoor comfort levels. He hung out up here for awhile after his morning meal AND Coco didn’t attack him either. YEA! I’m lifting my cuppa joe to Gaston who showed up for a meal. Yes, our loud boy, absent all summer, was back this morning and looked fine, fancy and just chockfull of healthfulness. And to Gus who will soon be an indoor boy at Jen and Oni’s.

By the by, Oni’s put his foot down. Gus is the second porch dweller of mine that they’ve adopted — Skitter was the first. He says “No more.” He was quite firm about that. Maybe.

Perhaps I’ll go for a wee ride later. Just an incline-free route. I promise.

“Hurrah for us still sitting here!”
And so we all partake
We give ourselves one more slice —
Paper thin! — of birthday cake.

Stayin' Alive AND Liking It

A guest post by the incalculably fab Dan West.

A few billion years ago, Dan West and I worked for the same company -- he in prepress in the central printing plant and me in Human Resources (I was the Training Czarina thenkyew very much!).

We knew each other then but weren’t friends. We are now thanks to the wonders of Facebook. I’ve found that we have much in common -- not just the big illin’ deal but also our ways of facing it.

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"I don't know how you can deal with everything that's going on."

"If it were me, I'd be curled in a ball in the corner."

"You have such a good attitude!"

These are all things that people have said to me since my diagnosis of Multiple Myeloma. What many of them don't realize is that my positive attitude is not a way to be a Pollyanna or to force myself to be happy, it's a way to make my life the best it can be. I am not a believer in the "positive attitude equals positive results" mantra—my cancer is incurable* and success is measured in the number of years you get before it inevitably brings you down—but I believe that a positive attitude leads to a positive life for myself and for those around me.

Here's a little game for you to play: imagine that there are two people in a room. One person has their arms wrapped around themselves and a scowl on their face. The other has a smile on their face as they reach out to embrace you. Who would you rather spend time with? My attitude is my way of embracing those around me, from my sarcastic coworkers to my compassionate health care workers to my steadfast friends to my loving wife and family.

I am an atheist, but I am happy to have people pray for me because I know they care about me. I suffer from depression (and there's nothing like a good cancer to validate your depression) but I fight against it for myself and for my relationship to others. I have always had self-esteem issues, but I think more of myself now because of the immense amount of support I receive from those around me. And I trace all of this back to my positive attitude.

It would have been easy to give up and there have been occasions when I have given up. As many of you know I am a long way from being perfect—though only temporarily :)

I created my five rules to live by:

1)   I will keep a positive attitude. 

The saying "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade" (assuming life also provides some water and sugar) applies here. What have I made from my cancer lemons? It may sound sappy, but I've made love lemonade. I have become closer to the love of my life. I have realized how many people care so deeply about me. I have walked in the beauty of an autumnal morning, soaking in the radiance of the changing leaves. I have learned to appreciate one good drink of bourbon as opposed to 17 Long Island iced teas. I have accepted help when offered instead of foolishly standing on my own.

I have grown as a person since being diagnosed with this cancer because I try to focus on the positives and I refuse to let the negatives rule my life.

2) I will always ask questions. 

3) I will follow directions. 

4) I will maintain my sense of humor. 

5) And I will care about others as much as they care about me.

And I encourage you to call me out if I fail to adhere to these rules. ;)

* There does exist the possibility of a cure from an allogeneic stem cell transplant, but it comes with its own set of serious risks and is not an option for many people.

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Staying upbeat isn’t some noble, saintly, innate mantle we rock, neither is it some New Age-y attempt to heal ourselves -- it’s straight up pragmatism. If we’re all self indulgently bummin’ all the time, how the fuck are we going to enjoy all there is in this wild life?

Yeah, my health and Dan’s are mega messed up but, hell, let’s have some fun! Dammit.

Life’s short -- dance while you can. Dammit!

Stayin' Alive -- The Bee Gees