March 29, 2026 Hello friends:
This morning marks six weeks since Genie's death, which means I have spent six weeks wandering in the land of intense grief--not a particularly hospitable place, I can report. The other night I had a dream where I was on a golf course and balls were whizzing by my head in several directions, forcing me to shelter behind a tree. Directly ahead of me--blocking my path to safety--were three large puddles. On the other side of them sat a bluebird. My wise friend Jody suggested these were puddles of tears, and I essentially have to slosh through them to get to the bird's promised happiness. So when my eyes well up, I just let go, symbolically taking another soggy step forward.
I'm reading the book "Understanding Your Grief" by Alan Wolfelt, and among his many insights is the importance of "honoring the presence" of your loved one even while acknowledging their absence. It occurs to me that, at least at this early stage, the best way for me to do that is to share with you, the people who loved her, a few stories that illustrate Genie's remarkable essence, which continues to move me and shape me.
She faced more than her share of adversity over her 73 years. Genie was raised by an emotionally abusive mother, and a father who couldn't or wouldn't intervene. No doubt conditioned by that experience, she fell in love with an emotionally and physically abusive man, to whom she was briefly married. Deeply hurt by the people closest to her, she entered a clinical depression that plagued her through her 20s. She enjoyed working in the entertainment industry, but felt she never found her calling, in part because she was not quite good enough to pursue her real passion of being either a professional pianist or singer.
Fortunately, she and I found each other in our early 30s, and we had some wonderful times together. (I'm sure I disappointed her in a million ways, but I'll save the self-flogging for another day.) Then, in her 40s, the MS symptoms started showing up. Long walks on the beach became shorter, and then stopped altogether. For a while, she was able to walk with a walker; later, she needed a scooter even to get around the house. Certain bodily functions became less predictable, further restricting her activities. I watched as her world gradually shrunk.
But here's the amazing part: She never complained. She faced each new setback as a problem to be solved. I have a garage full of mobility equipment--new devices she'd turn to when the old ones no longer sufficed. If I had been in her position, I would have cursed the powers-that-be about the unfairness of it all. Her more stoic attitude was, essentially, "If I have to put a commode next to my chair, I'll put a commode next to my chair." She once remarked that if she had to be handicapped, she was glad it happened in the era of the Amazon Kindle. As long as she could read books, watch movies and check the news on her lap, she was fine.
That sort of resilience deeply impressed me our entire time together. When we moved to the Santa Barbara area in 1994, she tried all sorts of jobs before going back to school and becoming a psychotherapist and coach. Did you know she was a personal assistant for a time to Marianne Williamson? (Not a person who practiced what she preached, as you will not be shocked to learn.) I had it easy--a job I loved in a place I loved. She had the latter, but had to work like hell to find the former.
She was equally courageous towards the end, insisting she leave this earth on her own terms. After a simple appendectomy intensified her MS, leading to many weeks in rehab learning how to walk again, she was adamant that she was not getting any more operations. When signs emerged that she had breast cancer, she held firm. She had shown countless times that she could gracefully deal with adversity, but this was one step she was not willing to take. I didn't find this easy to accept, but she had earned the right to say "enough."
If all that isn't impressive enough, she was a master of Mad Libs, and did a peerless impression of Margaret Hamilton's Wicked Witch of the West. It was a highlight of our Halloweens.
For all of her challenges, Genie never lost her sense of humor or childlike ability to find joy in small things. I think that's what I'll miss most of all.
Thanks for reading.
Tom
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