Christmas Letter 2007
Dear Friends,
It is my custom at this time of year to celebrate with my friends by giving them the gift of self—to share with you some of what the last year has brought me. Most of you know the big event of my year, and if I did not let you know when it happened, I am sorry. I did my best under the worst conditions imaginable.
This year started out pretty normal. Linda was happy at her new job and doing very well. She was supposed to visit her family in Texas for New Year’s Day, but bad weather postponed the trip until mid-February. For her birthday, I took her to the Boreas Bed and Breakfast in Long Beach, Washington. When she woke on her first day as a forty-six-year-old, she told me she was surprised—that she had never believed she would live to be forty-five, and now that was behind her.
In March, I had a major setback in my recovery from my neurological problems. For several weeks I had to use a cane because my left side was so weak I needed help balancing. I also lost much of the improvement I had made with facial control. Some of that has not returned, though I’ve made progress in other areas. I don’t know if I’ve regained control or just learned to work around problem areas—but I can now sing. It isn’t good, but I can do it.
On April 16th, our beloved Linda passed away. For most of our married life, Linda had been fighting a disease she was so ashamed of that she would not let me tell you about it in these letters. I did mention once that she spent six weeks in the hospital in 2003 fighting it. I have agonized over whether to tell you, but I believe our friends deserve the truth. Linda died of a drug addiction. I will not go into the details here—they are far too painful.
I am working on a book about Linda’s life and our struggle.
A few days after Linda’s passing, I had my total body scan. They found no trace of cancer. The bloodwork did show extremely high thyroid antibodies, which makes it likely my neurological symptoms are caused by a rare condition called Hashimoto’s Encephalopathy. No one really knows how to treat it, but my doctors hope that as my stress levels go down, the condition may simply go away.
In May, I took Linda back to the Boreas for one last night. On a sunny morning, I deposited her ashes on the beach and let the tide take her out—just as she wished. As her ashes washed away, many people saw that they formed into a heart. In the photos, I also see the shape of a Madonna. I loved her so much. I hope she has found peace and is finally with her mother, who died when Linda was three.
Much of the rest of the year has been about rebuilding my life. It took five carloads, but I finally took all of Linda’s clothes to Goodwill. I now have a strange monument to her in one of our (my) closets—two hundred eighty-one empty hangers.
I’ve been back to the Boreas twice since. The first time I found campers sitting on the very spot where I released her ashes—young kids having a beach party. I think Linda would have liked that. The second time, just before Thanksgiving, I worked on my book about Linda, mental illness, and addiction. If anyone would like to volunteer to read or proof it, I would truly appreciate the help.
I’ve also been trying to reconnect with myself. I’ve lost almost forty pounds, gotten back to writing, I’m reading more, and my house is nearly clean. But I still miss her every day, and all night long.
Most of my free time is spent writing—not just about Linda, but many things. I hope to publish more in the coming year, if not through traditional means, then at least on my homepage: https://mrodell.blogspot.com/
I recently finished a poem about the first girl I ever loved—it’s posted there now.
I hope next year will be a much better one. I don’t know if I’ll survive it if it’s not—but all my life I have been a Phoenix, and I will rise again from these ashes.
Please take Linda’s passing as a reminder to treasure those who are important to you, and to tell them you love them—often.
And so, as Tiny Tim said: “God bless us, every one.”
Love,
Odell
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