Uncle Doug

Douglas MacArthur Henning 1942-2014
(photo by Tom Henning)

2014 closed with sad news for my family:

Shortly after Christmas, my uncle, Douglas MacArthur Henning -- my father's younger brother, whose lung cancer had been in remission for nearly a decade -- had fallen ill and requested hospice care.

His fiancée Gina reached out to family and friends as the year's final week began, and we discussed traveling to Florida. But by mid-morning on Tuesday, December 30th ... Doug had passed quietly in his sleep.

The memorial was arranged for the following Wednesday, January 7, 2015, and my father flew down for the day to share his memories of his brother.

Here is the text of my father James' eulogy, celebrating his brother's kind heart, endearing idiosyncrasies, and mischievous sense of humor.

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I’m glad I was able to come down for this service.

Believe me, it's an honor to be here.

My wife and I were sorry to see Doug and his family move down here to Florida. We still miss the get-togethers we enjoyed when he, his wife Ann, and their family lived in Queens, and we have many happy memories of those days.

But, I know he enjoyed it down here. He was glad to be away from the cold -- he got frostbitten fingers while changing a tire once. And he loved playing golf, which he played as long as he was able to.

He also liked gardening.

That, of course, he was able to do both here and up north. In Queens, he even did gardening work professionally on weekends. For that, he had a small, open two-wheel trailer he hitched behind his car to carry his gardening tools and other equipment.

Douglas was a generous and kind man, and it was in this trailer that he and a friend transported a piano to Brooklyn for us:

Our sister Barbara, who lived in Brentwood, Long Island at the time, had a piano she wasn't using; it was stored in her garage just taking up space, and she offered it to us.

Our daughter Liz was taking piano lessons at the time, so we happily agreed to take it.

Doug, expecting nothing in return, offered to move the piano for us.

Doug at his sister's birthday party, 2012
(photo by Tom Henning)

Douglas owned a Cadillac at the time. And it was the Cadillac that towed the gardening trailer around.

So I’d like you to imagine the sight as they approached our house on the day of the piano move: a Cadillac pulling this little trailer, festooned with rakes, hoes, and shovels and a piano in the middle.

My wife and I live in an apartment house, so getting the piano up to us was quite a project: Down the back ramp, around some tight corners, and then into and out of the elevator, and finally into our apartment. And he never expected to receive anything for all this work. He and his friend didn't even stay to relax and have some food and drink, but were quickly on their way elsewhere after finishing the move. I never found out what arrangements he might have made with the friend who had helped him, but I’m sure he paid him something.

This was indeed a kind and generous thing to do, and was typical of the man.

Doug was also a very funny guy:

He could keep you laughing for hours, and his jokes and clowning were never nasty, as so much of today’s humor is.

His jokes were often in bad taste, and often not politically correct, but never nasty or mean-spirited.

In particular, I have a story of his which I’d like to tell that is neither in bad taste nor not politically correct:

Once, while waiting to have some x-rays done, Doug, with shirt off, was sitting on the imaging table in his doctor’s x-ray room waiting for the x-ray tech to finish preparing the equipment for taking the x-rays.

The tech apparently noticed the New York Yankees logo Doug had tattooed on his back by his right shoulder and said “Oh, I see you’re a Yankees fan!”. “No”, said Doug, “I’m a Red Sox fan. The guy who did the tattoo, he’s a Yankees fan!”.

Brothers, James and Douglas Henning
(photo by Tom Henning)

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Love to you, Uncle Doug! 

Dave

Valentine's Day has always had strange connotations for me.

It is my only sister's birthday (and my birthday is Halloween... yes, really...). And for much of my early life I had a troubled relationship with her, so the day had been largely about trying to make her happy and pretty much failing ... and then eating too much chocolate in the wake of it.

And then I met Dave.

Dave Nolan saved Valentine's Day for me ... by happening to have a birthday on that very day. Today.

When I first met him 27 years ago, I could not have guessed this birthday connection, or that he would become a brother to me -- the dear sibling I had never had.

In 1986, although I had no background in media, I spoke to the right people at WNYC and finagled an internship for one of their radio shows, "Kids America."

I arrived at the studio shortly before showtime where Dave, the show's engineer grinned broadly through a shaggy goatee and welcomed me warmly. He told me the basics about the show and gave me his vote of confidence when I met with the producer; I started the next day.

That summer was probably the happiest I've ever been on any job -- from making copies and running errands to helping choose the show's playlist to greeting guests, one of whom was LeVar Burton (!!!!), to learning how to mix sound and edit tape (the old fashioned way, with a reel-to-reel) -- I was in heaven!

Yes, public radio can be exciting.

Dave was my teacher, pal, my chief defender when I accidentally turned the station off the air for a full minute.

"Look," he grinned, patting my shoulder while I collapsed in uncontrollable tears, "Your problem is not that you don't know what you're doing -- it's that you know just enough to really be dangerous!! That's a good thing!" I laughed a little. "Believe me," he said, "this is one of those experiences you'll love talking about when you're older."

The summer ended and I returned to my real life as a socially awkward and isolated teen.

But my friendship with Dave continued and deepened. Through high school and college, he remained someone I could turn to for anything. He introduced me to my first live music show ... and my first hit of pot. :-) He worked the booth at the legendary Wetlands where he made a point of recording everyone who made it to that stage "because you never know who's going to hit it big!"

In the late 90s he met the love of his life, Joy, married her and had a beautiful child.

And although his family responsibilities trimmed his social time with me to only a few days a year -- dinners now and then, or birthdays, or just hanging out for a drink and shooting pool at the bar down the block -- time with him had a nourishing fullness that helped me understand what friendship was.

Nearly three years ago, Dave left us.

On his way to pick up his daughter from school, he suffered a heart attack on the subway.

I had meant to write about him shortly after, but couldn't find the words. It has taken this long to process his loss. But sometimes, kiddo, that's just how it goes.

That's what he would have said.

Love to you, Dave, wherever you are. Till we meet again.

Dino

The New Year should be greeted with thoughts of hope and joyful expectations for the year to come.

But 2013 has met us -- I and my colleagues in New York's World Dance & Music community -- with the sudden tragic loss of one of our most enduring, beloved members.

On Sunday, January 13, Dino Bakakos, owner of the legendary Lafayette Grill & Bar which sadly had closed its doors just the year before, fell to a brain aneurysm.

For nearly three decades, Dino and his surviving brother Billy created nothing short of a Mecca for the most vibrant and talented musicians and dancers in the city. From their Tango nights to Friday night bellydance to ubiquitous Greek music to countless haflas and showcases, my mind is a torrent of raucous memories, infused with delightful raki or ouzo, which Dino would generously pour for me once I'd changed out of my costume.

"Yeah -- it's Dino -- like the dinosaur!" With this broad-smiled greeting he shook my hand and asked if I'd be dancing that evening in Ranya's Performance Prep Showcase. That was my "official" introduction to Dino in late 2006, but in fact I had met and spoken to him many, many times for over a year without knowing his name or that he was the owner of the venue that was quickly becoming my home in dance.

His rambunctious swagger had told me he was a manager or someone in charge; plus he treated me so warmly, as though he knew me, so I was embarrassed to admit I did not know his name ... until Ranya's hafla.

Making reservations for my family, I gave him my name and he said, "Yeah .. yeah, I know you! ... You know who I am, right?" And I fessed up. "I--  I'm sorry, I don't know your name..." He laughed broadly and told me .... and then offered me a glass of ouzo.

Over the years, he watched me develop as a dancer. In early 2008, after I had danced and emceed a showcase, he said, "Yeah.. you know, I think you're gonna be ready for Friday night pretty soon!" He turned to Magdalena, the dancer/photographer who booked the Grill's professional dance spot on Friday nights, "What do you think?" She agreed, and gave me an encouraging smile.

This was a minor miracle to me. I had started bellydancing to heal from surgery and three herniated discs. I was not young and for two years did not even believe it was possible for me to dance professionally. Who would hire me, after all??

Well, that night I learned: Dino would. And this was a guy who knew bellydance.

I redoubled my efforts, practiced technique, choreographies, learned different styles, props, went mad with my finger cymbals.

And several months later it happened: My first professional gig as a bellydancer at Lafayette Grill!

The room was packed and the band was fabulous as ever (though the speakers were cranked too high for my finger cymbals to be heard -- lesson learned: Get bigger zills!!). And when I was done, Dino congratulated me with a glass of raki and hug. "You were really good!" he beamed, "Beautiful dancer!"

And for the next four years I found myself on that stage frequently, either dancing professionally or as part of a showcase, benefit, or hafla, sometimes emceeing, and sometimes just cutting loose with everyone else on the dance floor into the wee hours of the morning.

Then in early 2012 the bad news came:

The Grill's landlord wanted to sell the building, so he raised the rent astronomically, forcing Dino to close up shop. He and his brother went back to their native Greece shortly afterwards where they rested and recuperated on their father's property.

In late 2012, I sent him a note saying how much we missed him and the Grill and wishing him well. He wrote back:

Carol, hi! It has been some time since we lost our lease. We will always remember vividly the great shows and one-of-a-kind atmosphere of Lafayette Grill. I'm in Sparta Greece taking care my father's land. The internet here has a lot of problems, I'm surrounded by olive trees. I will be back soon, how can I forget you? You have been a great performer with a genius personality. Billy also sends you his greetings.

Kind, thoughtful, and flattering to the last...

Shortly afterwards, he and Billy returned to New York and began scouting new venues to re-open the Grill.

A few weeks ago, a friend ran into him near Union Square, near the site of the most hopeful prospect. He was stressed, but coming back to his old self and looking forward to many more nights of dance and music.

That dream can still happen, I believe.

Even at his wake, several dancers and musicians began to discuss throwing a party or benefit in his honor. Maybe we can make it an annual celebration? Perhaps we can join forces with Billy and put together a fund or tribute in his name to support the music and dance that was so dear to Dino's heart...

The possibilities are as endless as the love and generosity he inspired.

When we lose a loved one it is common to think about endings and new beginnings, to stay hopeful in the face of pain. And I believe in that.

Each of us has our own journey which will begin and end in its own time and in its own way.

We have each other for so little time in this life, connections come and go whether by death, distance, or disagreements.

What more can we ask of ourselves and each other than to treasure the connection when it comes (even the painful ones may best be regarded as "learning experiences" ☺ ), and mourn its loss when it goes?

And when it goes... to let it go, and treasure, maintain, and honor what was best in it, and to continue to live, to share, and of course, to love.

Processing...

Processing is hard...

Chewing, churning and digesting all that life throws at us is icky, gooey, invasive and often painful.

First my beloved kitty deteriorated over the course of a cancerous month, and finally died in my arms. I had resolved early on that I would not let her die in a vet's office, if she had suffered too much I would have brought someone home to give her the injection, no matter the cost.

In the end, I was glad that wasn't necessary, but am still haunted by her final moments, the traumatic yelp when her heart stopped. Still I second-guess how successful I was at calming her....

But I shouldn't. It's over; let it go.

Or so I kept telling myself.

Then a few weeks later, a great soulmate friend who had been a big brother to me for nearly 25 years, Dave Nolan, a giant in the NY audio archive/underground music scene, died at 48 of a massive coronary heading downtown on the subway, en route to pick up his daughter from afterschool.



My mind, brain, psyche were chewing (read: bawling my face off) furiously on these events (leaving little room for much else) when a few days later, I learned some scumsucker snagged my Amex card and was running up charges.

And then my hard drive, loaded with pictures of Chloe and other friends and family (feline, human and otherwise) and travels from Egypt to California, went kaput.

Nervous about the sliver of disk space remaining, I'd started uninstalling programs, rebooting each time to make sure the stuff was gone (or, rather, reallocated to be "free"), and suddenly, it refused to start up past the DOS screen.

More frantic about the drive than the Amex, I decided to deal with the card first -- and was surprisingly calm on the phone, and they agreed to waive the suspect charges (they haven't yet, by the way).

Things didn't go so well with the laptop.

So with great sighs of despair, I brought the ailing disc to our crack Desktop team who, at first, told me that the entire drive may be irretrievable because of the PGP software we use. (Eek.)

But the laptop specialist assured me that, with my password and the correct PGP version -- even running off another machine -- the data could be retrievable.

Four days later, data is still pawing its way up to a network server, and every once in a while I swing by the desk where it's hooked up like a wafer-thin heart, and lean in close to hear it purr -- a concerned mom looking after her baby -- and ask if there's anything I can do. (There isn't.)

But the Desktop guys indulge me, partly because they like me and partly because I've leaped to their rescue a good share of times. I never forget a kindness, and apparently neither do they. :-) (I will have to get them something nice when this is all over .... something chocolate??? Hmmmm..)

Anyway. My new backup drive arrived this evening, my salvation of silicon.

In all the misery and madness of these past few months, grappling with loss and feeling my own mortality, and the elusiveness of anything I become attached to... well, it's given me a great big honking headache.

There are so many different ways to process experiences like these.

My Buddhists friends say "attachment leads to suffering" -- but it also leads to joy, when the attachment is fulfilled.

My pragmatist friends tell me "that's life, kiddo" (actually, that's probably what Dave would have said ...)

And my narcissistic friends tell me to get over it.

Well, they aren't really my friends.

But I'm not a "get over it" kind of person.

Things get inside of me, because I let them, because I can't seem to keep them out.

And I've come to appreciate that -- even though it can hurt more -- my life is better, my experience is richer, for that porousness.

So when an attachment is ripped away, it hurts like hell.

And the handy-dandy get-over-it aphorisms people like to toss at me (usually because they are uncomfortable with any expression of strong emotion) don't work.

Crying works.

Feeling the pain works.

There is a lot of wisdom in our psyches that our intellect doesn't comprehend at all, because the intellect can only articulate, and much of raw emotional experience can't be articulated. It can only be felt.

But when it's felt, it is doing work -- important work -- processing work.

So as long as I can function, get my daily work done, I will always prefer to step aside and let my psyche do its thing, and have faith that it will resolve on its own over time.

Feeling good is overrated.

Faith, Love & Dignity: My Beautiful Chloe's Final Days

My dear cat Chloe, barely nine years old, finally lost her 18-month battle with mammary cancer on Sunday, January 31, 2010 at approximately 9am EST.

She died at home, on her own terms, and in her loving mommy's arms.

Sadly, had she been spayed before her first heat, she would have been far less susceptible to the disease. So I thought a fitting tribute would be to enter her in the Humane Society's Spay Day Photo Contest.



Please honor her memory by making even a $5 donation to this worthy cause before 10 P.M. Eastern Standard Time on Thursday, March 4, 2010.

Every dollar donated is a vote for her, and I am hoping that, with enough votes, she will attract the interest of the contest's judges and be profiled in the HSUS's magazine All Animals, as her story -- as those who have read my earlier entry about her and watched the video know -- is one worth sharing.

And as one might expect of a creature who transformed both herself and those around her during her life, her death -- heartbreaking though it has been for me -- proved to be more remarkable still, as she maintained her composure and sociable, affectionate personality right up to the end.

"She has a lot of dignity," observed Dr. G as Chloe peered up calmly from her carrier during what would be her final visit on Saturday, January 30th.

I had made it clear that I did not want to pursue the "clinical option," but I also knew that the progression of this horrible disease might be more than she or I could bear. Research warned about seizures, rupturing tumors, stinking sores, incontinence, weakness and ultimate immobility.

Unthinkable.

As it was, I felt guilty about force-feeding her Mother's Milk twice a day, squirting it into her mouth from a large syringe.

She'd twist her head at the unpleasantness, but she'd allow it anyway. Then I'd brush her silky coat, and she'd purr.

But the positive effects were undeniable: In the three weeks since she'd stopped eating solid food she had lost less than one pound ... but was still, however, a tragically thin five pounds.

My sense was that she tolerated this for me, and that if left to nature, she would have allowed herself to wither weeks before.

She had not merely lost her appetite; she developed a vigorous aversion to food. When I put a dish in front of her and begged her to eat, she'd turn away offended, ultimately walking away in disgust when I didn't get the hint.

I began to wonder if the loss of appetite is nature's way of ensuring death before cancer's full ravages take effect....

But we weren't there yet, and I was clinging to hope that with the chemo and increased nutrition her body would fight the disease and maybe, just maybe, force it into remission.

At least this was my state of mind during her mid-month bounceback, described in my Monday, January 25h entry.

Ironically, she went downhill the very next day.

To keep fluid away from her lungs and heart, we had her on Lasix, a brand diuretic. I refilled the prescription that weekend with a generic and, although the dosage was lower, I fear the strength was greater.

Or perhaps she just had too much of the stuff in her system.

Very late Tuesday night I found her in the bathtub, meowing piteously. But she didn't try to lap the droplets. Instead she jumped (yes jumped!) out -- and leaped headlong onto the toilet!!

She'd pawed her way down from the seat nearly reaching the icky pool before I pulled her out.

I closed the lid and brought her the water bowl. She pawed around it, splashing the floor. It wasn't big enough?

I filled a large square basin for her on the bathroom floor.

She leaned into it, dipped in a paw, then pulled back and looked at me again.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" I pleaded, "What can I do for you??"

She turned longingly towards the toilet bowl.

Well, that was out of the question.

I closed the toilet lid and filled a Tupperware container; still too small ... or too square... or too plastic.

I rifled through the kitchen filling various unsatisfactory dishes and bowls.

And then I saw it: A wide, white glass pie dish.

I filled it with a quarter-inch of water and put it down in the bedroom. She stretched her entire bib over it and looked... content.

She dipped her paws and the side of her face into the pool. It wasn't just thirst: it was vanity!

During feeding, the Mother's Milk would ooze onto her sensitive cheeks and paws where it dried quickly like cement, matting her beautiful fur.

I scrubbed her gently with a warm cloth, and brushed the tender spots as best I could. She rubbed her face and pawed at her cheeks, but it was impossible to remove and our efforts left a raw, balding patch on her left cheek.

I felt awful.

The next day I used my expensive olive oil makeup remover and managed to dissolve some of it -- but not enough for her.

She kept returning to the pie plate.

I found her Thursday evening laying with her head in the water.

"Chloe?!!" I gasped, fearing inadvertent kitty-suicide.

She whipped her head up quizzically, splashing my face.

OK, I deserved that.

I dried her off and put her on a heating pad, but it was too late: all the water sports had given her a dismal sniffle.

She sneezed several times and I left a desperate message for Dr. G.

He called me back at work the next day telling me he could fit us in on Saturday. "If we get her on an antibiotic quickly, maybe we can prevent the cold from turning into something worse."

Worse. Pneumonia. Death.

I thought of her face in the bowl, and then I remembered -- the bowl!!

I had forgotten to close the toilet bowl lid!

I called my parents for help. My father offered to check on her -- not a small favor as they live several miles away and don't have a car -- but they were just as concerned for their grandkitty as I was...

My dad called from my apartment. "Everything's fine; the lid is closed. She even got up to greet me when I went to pet her."

That was what amazed me the most:

As weak as she was, she continued to be as much herself as she could. She greeted me at the door when I came home; she cuddled with me in bed; she even came to the kitchen at feeding time, but still disdained all food.

I had even put a stepstool to help her climb the 2 1/2 feet up to my bed. But she refused to use it.

Even on her last nights, I could feel her jump onto the bed -- scrambling just a little with her weakened hind paws.

When guests visited -- which was frequent as they'd come to give her some love -- she joined them in the living room and purred and purred.

But during that last week, she'd lost her purr.

Each night, I'd fall asleep to the soft, raspy gurgle of her breath...

"It's OK, sweetheart," I said during that week, "You can go when you need to. I love you, and I'll miss you. But you can go."

And then I cried.

But I still hoped...

And even as I planned with Dr. G on Saturday to help her heal, I asked, "What do I do... if she .... goes ... at home on a Sunday... when your office is closed?"

He said I could wrap her in a towel, put the towel in a sealed plastic bag and she'd be OK until Monday.

Yeah. She'd be OK.

Sunday morning I woke up extra early. This was the weekend of the Bellydance Evolution workshops and show.

I'd bought a pass to all the workshops, and though I'd missed one the day before, I was determined to take the rest on Sunday.

But feeding was a long process. I was increasing the amount, so I had to feed her in three or four sessions with at least 10 minutes in between. Plus it took nearly a half-hour to mix the stuff and clean the syringe, bowls, towels, mixers, etc....

But we were going to do this, no matter how much time or effort it took. She could get better....

When I got up around 8:30am, she was under a chair in the living room, but came to the kitchen for feeding.

I sat with her at my breast and gave her the first dose. She whipped her head and writhed a bit, but finally slurped it down.

I fed Simon and Julietta, then returned to Chloe around 9am.

When I picked her up, she let out a more urgent meow which, in retrospect, might have meant something like, "Will you quit feeding me you crazy woman -- I'm trying to die over here!!"

"Come on, sweetheart," I urged, "We can do this." I nestled her in the towel and gave her the next dose, and then another and another....

Suddenly she let out a horrifying yeowl. Her body spasmed, clenched and limp at the same time.

"Oh god! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I laid her on a chair, kneeling in front, desperately holding her fragile body. Her fur stuck out, her eyes flattened into sightless brassy discs.

"Please come back!" I cried, shaking her gently. I eased her mouth open and rubbed her chest.

Her face and eyes softened. She looked at me with a shuddering breath.

I held her close and lay back with her on my chest, looking into her calm, dark and still beautiful eyes.

"It's OK, Chloe," I sobbed, running my fingers along her smooth coat, "I love you. I love you..."

She breathed a few more times and let go.

And I wept. A lot.

Finally I carried her into the bedroom and laid her out on a towel. I prayed, cried, meditated, whatever I needed ... for maybe a half-hour give or take... until I felt something resolve in myself.

Strangely, the other cats completely removed themselves during the ordeal... I didn't see them again for nearly an hour.

I thought maybe they were frightened by the initial histrionics, but they'd seen me lose it before. And things were quiet for a while after....

After some soul-searching, I decided to go to the dance workshops anyway.

I'd be among friends, doing what I love ... and what better way to grieve a death than to celebrate life?

When I packed my dance bag I went back to Chloe's body and, with a final loving pet of her soft black fur, said goodbye and gently wrapped the towel around her.

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