“It’s part of why the idea of souls makes sense to me. This place is just like a ropes course for souls. A learning center. It never changes and the collective body of humans can never sustain their progress too too much or else there is not enough to challenge the souls. Imagine all the people living life in peace ✌️ John Lennon – well that wouldn’t really work if you believe we need to be challenged to grow.” —Caitlin O’Hara
That summer–2014–Caitlin was newly listed for transplant and had settled in to wait. She couldn’t leave Boston because she had only a four-hour window if “the call” came.
Four hours to get herself to Pittsburgh.
So there were no more trips to Andy’s place on the Maine coast. No more Vineyard. Sometimes we went home to Ashland to swim in the pool, but always with packed bags and extra oxygen tanks, ready to scramble and pray that one of the few medical jets available to us would be able to come.
That summer, she especially missed Jess, who had, as long-planned, left a lucrative job in finance to try and make a meaningful life for herself in Kenya.
Kenya is a place that has called to Jess’s soul her whole life. I’ll let her tell the next part:
Jess: “The thousands of miles between us felt more expansive than ever and I was desperate to be in constant communication with her. I started sharing the stories of the kids that I was spending my time with at the Children’s Home that we had started.
Simba was one of them. In Swahili, Simba means lion. Although he had never celebrated a birthday, he was a self-proclaimed ten year old with dewy brown eyes. I connected the two as pen pals and they sent handwritten letters back and forth to one another. They shared an affinity for tiny winged creatures and their correspondence often included an illustration or two.“
Recently, I searched through Caitlin’s phone for some photos I just knew had to be on it.
Jess: “On June 20th, 2014, Caitlin emailed me: ‘Can’t WAIT for Simba’s letter to arrive. Thinking about him and all your little kids a lot. And you smiling at them. It hurts my heart.'”
The next summer–2015–Jess visited Caitlin in Pittsburgh, where we had relocated, and where she was still waiting. Watching them together, I couldn’t help but muse on the physical contrast between them. Jess was training to do a marathon and literally glowed with health. Then autumn came.
Jess: “We were 31 and 32 when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. She knew more about medicine than most and she researched everything. I sent her all of my labs, my side effects, my questions. She was a well-curated vault of medical knowledge. She would have been an incredible doctor. I sent her screenshot after screenshot when a new drug was added to my regiment or I was deciding to taper off of something. She would talk me through each concern.
We talked about everything but when we were both sick, our conversations took on a new level of depth. We talked about death and about reincarnation; we talked about our purpose and spiritual inferiority.
On the evening of her 33rd birthday, we talked for hours and hours. I had just had another surgery and was tethered to my bed. She feared that her purpose here on this earth was to teach lessons to others. “No. No,” I said because I needed her here with me.
The idea that she was here only to teach other’s things was too much to bear.”
Now it is nearly three years later. Jess has spent the past 33 months coping with cancer, unexpected healing issues (13 surgeries), and the unbearable loss of her closest friend. With her oncology team’s okay, she has gone back to Kenya as often as possible, where she has been in the process of procuring land and builders for a non-profit she has established: THE LEO PROJECT in honor of Caitlin O’Hara.
Caitlin had planned to do a lot of things post-transplant, like her CF friends who were and are living full lives after their successful surgeries. At the top of her list was visiting Kenya with Jess. Meeting Simba. Instead, she seems to have been right—-that she was here, at least in part, to teach lessons to others. I’ve heard from people around the globe who have been moved and changed by her story, and by her fire & wisdom.
Now, the Kenyan children that Jess loves so much are going to know Caitlin, too. Just in a different way than we all hoped.
“You think all this is important,
but all that really matters is loving people and being kind. —Caitlin O’Hara
A few months ago, Nick ran across a call for artists for an annual juried outdoor art exhibition at a nature preserve in Southborough, MA.
ART ON THE TRAILS opened last week.
A Message from Nick
These past months, I smiled outwardly whenever family and friends approached or contacted me–-I’m a lucky guy. Inwardly, I felt myself recoil more and more, as the hurt in my heart kept getting deeper and deeper.
Not sure why I entertained doing an art installation in Southborough, up the road from Fay School and St. Mark’s, where Caitlin went to school.
I kept trying to make this a happy installation. At first, I was thinking of something like a happy, smiling heart. But each day, working on this at our shop with my guys, I found myself in my office in tears.
I finally gave in as all the pain of these last 18 months came flooding in. The confusion, the names of friends dealing with their own hurting hearts. The Giblins, Walter, Tony, Jessie B, Kimmie, Jess. The hurt on Maryanne’s face. The loss of Henry.
I finally realized that it is okay to say that my heart is hurting.
As painful as the construction process was, it was worth it that Wednesday at 2pm as I placed the final piece in place––a great relief and opening of my heart, I guess, as I smiled and thought “Caitlin likes this” and I was so looking forward to Maryanne seeing it. As I walked away, two hawks soared above–-Caitlin happy because her dad is.
ART ON THE TRAILS will exhibit through September 23rd
The show includes 18 installations spread out over a 15-acre parcel of preserved open space. The installation behind Nick’s is a big black and white cat. !
To visit, refer to this map and parking directions.
“All that really matters is loving people and being kind.” –Caitlin O’Hara
There are so many, and they have happened pretty much every day, this past year. Here are a couple of crazy ones.
When I announced, in September, that I would be writing my story in a more contained form, the universe seemed to lead me to Dani Shapiro, the author of many moving pieces of memoir and fiction. In November, I made plans to attend one of her small, women-only writing retreats.
There would be six other women in the group. As I was reading the other writers’ pages, before I left home, I wondered why the name of one woman, Julie Himes, was so familiar. Then I realized she was the author of the book sitting right beside me—-my book club’s pick for December. I emailed her to say hello and to remark upon the coincidence.
She wrote back with some equal amazement. In my pages, I had mentioned Vertex Pharmaceutical’s Kalydeco, the gene-correcting cystic fibrosis drug that might have changed Caitlin’s life, if she’d had access to it before her lung damage occurred. In addition to being a writer, the multi-talented Julie is also a research physician and a medical director at Vertex.
On the last night of that November retreat, Julie and the others were talking with great enthusiasm about Sirenland, an annual writer’s conference that Dani, Dani’s husband Michael Maren, and Hannah Tinti have been running in Positano, Italy for the past dozen years.
Long story short: I ended up attending Sirenland last month.
At Sirenland there are three small workshops, with ten writers in each one. I was part of Dani’s memoir workshop. Before I left home, I received the bound pages containing my group’s ten manuscripts. They were in alphabetical order.
I began to read the manuscripts, one per day. A few days before the conference, I was in London when I reached the end of the manuscript. W. David Weill. The name seemed familiar. I began to read. And stopped. I started talking to myself. What?? What is this??? Are you kidding me???
I called up to my friend who was traveling with me. You are not going to believe this.
David is a pulmonologist and was the medical director of the lung transplant and adult cystic fibrosis programs at Stanford University for years. His manuscript consisted of the first pages of a memoir he is writing about his complicated relationship with organ transplant.
I also realized why I recognized his name. I emailed the mother of Mallory Smith, the young woman from LA who also had to be transplanted in Pittsburgh, and who passed so tragically last November. Nick and I had just had dinner with Diane and her husband at their California home. I wrote, Is David Weill the Stanford lung doc friend you mentioned?
And I told her and she said, Oh my God, Mallory did an edit of his book.
So yes, there was that.
Sirenland was an exceptional experience. And David is an exceptional person and I hope that his memoir will find many fascinated readers. He is now consulting, and working to address, as he puts it on his website, an important deficiency in transplant care: the lack of comprehensive quality information about transplant program performance. From his site: In the United States, there are hundreds of transplant programs performing thousands of solid organ transplants per year. Based on my own experiencing directing programs and evaluating them for public and private entities, I have seen that the quality of the programs varies considerably. This variability is usually not apparent to patients. The mission: Develop a scientifically reliable way to evaluate transplant program quality by using a variety of metrics that will be proposed and tested by experts in each of the four solid organ transplants (heart, liver, kidney, and lung). In order to achieve this mission, I have set up a non-profit entity called the Coalition for Transplant Program Evaluation (CTPE).
As I neared the end of my week in Italy, I thought of all the trips that Caitlin and I had planned for “after transplant.” The last overseas trip she took was to Ireland for her 30th birthday. She traveled with Andrew and they visited her beloved family in Wexford–her grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins. It was a complicated trip, as that was the summer she began to catch one virus after another. By Christmas, she was on oxygen full-time and would never travel again.
I decided to take advantage of the fact that I was already “across the pond.” I had a ticket home from London but was able to change my departure date. I asked Nick to join me in England, to see, in honor of Caitlin, some places she longed to visit: Salisbury Cathedral, Stonehenge, Bath. He came and we saw those magnificent sites and he was also able to visit with old, close friends and also some Welsh cousins he had not seen for thirty (!) years.
We ended our week in London at the hotel where I twice stayed with Caitlin, most recently in 2012. I showed Nick around the enchanting public spaces and pointed out areas that held particularly vivid memories, like how one afternoon, in the lobby, I realized that the man sitting beside me on the sofa was Cuba Gooding, Jr and he was really sweet and funny and offered me a cake from his tiered tray, then basically shouted BOO! when I reached for one.
I showed him where Caitlin got into the taxi with her big suitcase full of oxygen and medical equipment that took her to the Chunnel train that brought her to Paris and the apartment where she so bravely spent a few long-dreamed-of weeks alone.
After we unpacked, we went down to the hotel’s spa. Nick went to the men’s changing area and I went to the women’s. We arranged to meet on the thermal floor.
Once inside the women’s area, the sights and spa smells were so immediately familiar. How could six years have passed? Caitlin was almost there, a shimmering memory in robe and slippers. I allowed myself a moment, thinking, The last time I was here, Caitlin was alive and my book was about to come out, and Cuba Gooding, Jr gave me a piece of cake. Life was pretty good.
Then I went down to the thermal floor to look for Nick. It’s kind of dark there and I couldn’t see him, but suddenly he came out of a door, followed by a man. Look who I found! he said, and it was Cuba, wrapping me in a big hug, saying he was so sorry for the loss of Caitlin, and then he was gone, and my head was spinning a bit. Still is.
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Oh, I do not like crying. I do not like that my eyes are raw from the constant salt in them. I also don’t like bearing sad news, but I must share that this week brought some new grief. We lost our beloved Henry to acute renal failure.
Henry had been on a special diet for kidney disease, first spotted last August. But he was doing really well for his age.
About two weeks ago, he stopped eating anything but the little bits of protein that were allowed in his food. It got to the point, this past week, where I let him eat a little more protein, because he was an old dog and — what else can you do?
Also, this past week, we had a couple of nor’easters here in MA. We never lose power because our house is on the police and fire grid here in town. But 12 hours into no heat or electricity on Thursday, we decided to spend the night in Caitlin’s apartment in Boston.
Once there, Henry started to deteriorate by the hour. I told a friend that the process felt like a gathering snowball. At 2am, I was up for good with him, cleaning him, wrapping him in a soft fleece blanket. I was able to hold him in the crook of my arm, sitting in Caitlin’s “spot” on her sofa, all through the night. And that felt very fitting, and peaceful.
Nick and I both got to hold and comfort him at the end. He knew he was beloved.
He brought so much joy to our life and to Caitlin’s. I’ve spent the last hour going through thousands of photographs and I’m reminded of all the incredibly happy years we’ve had, and that is a good thing.
Here is a photo of the last time Caitlin and Henry were together. She was not yet in the ICU. I had just helped her take a shower, and we’d brought Henry in for a visit.
It was a happy day.
He adored her.
Her last post on Instagram, her 333rd, was on Election Day, 2016 — a funny photo of Henry.
And for a bit of her great sense of humor, here is a link to the separate Instagram account she set up for Henry. She knew she was late to the game, regarding funny animal accounts, but she had a lot of fun with it. Click: That Pup Henry
Henry O’Hara. February 2, 2004 – March 9, 2018
I haven’t been blogging because I am focused on writing “the Caitlin book,” but we are on our family’s beloved island of St. John right now, and it seems a good time to say hello.
In 2014 (4 years ago, how can that be??), we had a big trip to St. John planned. I had rented our favorite villa. It sat on a hilltop looking down over the Caneel Bay resort peninsula. These photos really do not do credit to the view.
Andrew and Katie and Alvaro would be joining us. We had “boat day,” our favorite day of vacation, all booked with our captain, John Brandi.
On Christmas Day, as Katie and I talked in our hyped-up, excited way about the trip plans, I remember reading Caitlin’s face. She knew, as she would later tell me, that things had changed irrevocably for her, that there was no way she was going to be able to go. I remained in desperate denial for a couple of weeks but at one point, I said to Katie, “She’s either going to get better, like she always has, or we are entering a whole new place with this disease.”
A year and a half later, I wrote:
We are still waiting. There is that hope that a year from now everything will be normal again, or better than normal. St. John seems like the paradise it’s always been, even more so now that it is out of reach.
Everyone knows how much we love St. John. The highlight of our trips are always our days on the water, zipping around the BVIs. Over the past decade, we always went with our favorite captain—the vivacious, enthusiastic, safe, and professional Captain John Brandi. John and his wife Sue had long dreamed of retiring to St. John, and when they moved down from Marblehead in 2005, they launched Palm Tree Boat Charters. Canceling “boat day” was without a doubt the most depressing part of canceling our annual trip two winters ago, when Caitlin first got sick. And then late last year, a startling post appeared on our Facebook feeds: a sudden announcement, by John, that “due to health issues,” he was selling his beloved boat.
It turned out that back pain that had been niggling at him all year was actually cancer; the world lost him last week. The outpouring of sorrow on St. John has been both wonderful to see and terribly heartbreaking. Everyone loved him, and of course, everyone’s memories of him are wrapped in their own memories of happy, happy days. As I’ve cried for him, I know I’ve also been crying for myself. Some days are just well and truly over, and there’s nothing to be done about that, except to say “onward,” and make these new days the best they can be.
Godspeed, Captain Brandi.
Last winter, Nick and I could not yet bear the thought of visiting St. John, but this past summer, we decided we would go in January. In early September, I began looking for a small villa for the two of us. I planned that we would spend part of the vacation in a villa and part at Caneel Bay. I’d only begun my research when the hurricane warnings started. Then Irma hit. And a week later, Maria. Two Cat 5 hurricanes that tore through these islands, sucking away every bit of vegetation.
That house I loved? Roof ripped off, the insides destroyed:
A couple of restaurants we’d been visiting since the 1990s? Flattened. Gone. Caneel Bay was closed, with no opening date in sight.
With such a huge recovery effort, there seemed no possibility of us going, so we didn’t plan to. But recently, friends who live here urged us to visit. “We are getting back on our feet. The beaches are still beautiful, restaurants are now open, there are places to stay! We need tourists/visitors/customers!”
So we are here. Our longtime island friends Delbert & Delrise are hosting us in their beautiful 8-unit vacation-rental condominium building on Turner Bay, Seashore Allure. I’m listening to the tranquilizing crash of the ocean as I write this.
Every single meal we’ve eaten has been extraordinarily good. Maybe because the chef/owners are actually cooking every night…. I don’t know. But La Tapa, Extra Virgin, The Longboard, The Terrace, Greengos, Cruz Bay Landing…all are consistently fantastic.
Our friends Ruth and Ron, who own the great little shop St. John Spice are back in business, resilient, like the rest of the locals who love this island. We had dinner with the lovely Karen, who gifted us with a beautiful piece of heart-shaped coral for the mausoleum. Her Treetops B&B sustained very little damage and is welcoming vacationers again.
Every morning, Nick and I have hiked the Lind Point trail into Honeymoon Beach and had it all to ourselves for at least an hour. It’s like being back in the 1990s, when we first started coming here, when Caitlin was little and we fell in love with this place.
Nick has been taking pictures of the beautiful island stonework as he prepares to build the mausoleum come spring. He returned from a walk near the island cemetery one morning, enthusiastic about a beautiful tomb he’d seen. The stone is the classic St. John stone and brick combination, and he pointed out the beautiful blue glass heart.
Being here has been strange, sad, surreal, lovely. It’s weird to see photos of us smiling, when two minutes earlier we were all choked up. But that’s how it goes. It’s also been really good. Just this morning, we talked about how last March, we were at a hotel in Vero Beach, Florida, and it seemed like we were surrounded by happy families with kids and grand-kids, and it was all a reminder of what we no longer had. Here, as in California last month, we are reminded that we are not the only ones who’ve borne hardships, and that honestly does make you feel better… sad to say.
We rather bravely decided to do our own quiet little “boat day,” with Cleve, the sweetest guy and a really good captain. Local Flavor is his boat. We got a water’s edge view of so much of the damage. Gorgeous Caneel Bay looks like a place abandoned after an apocalypse.
Word is it will likely won’t reopen until 2021.
We headed over to Jost van Dyke, where the damage was extensive. Here is a picture from ten years ago, when we had lunch at Foxy’s Taboo with Kitten and Katie and Kate’s parents, two of our oldest and dearest friends.
Foxy’s Taboo, now:
For those who know Jost: Sydney’s harbor is trashed. Disappeared houses in one spot, untouched houses right “next door.” People are living in tents.
On Great Harbor, the sandy Main Street looks so bright, so exposed. Very few trees left standing. The roof and windows of the pretty little church were blown out, but the congregation has erected a tent and set up chairs and a pulpit there.
Vendors are open, selling water and rum punch and painkillers and chicken roti and Johnny Cakes. Original Foxy’s is in good shape. And this survived there:
Foxy is some kind of Trump supporter (yikes/eek/#toomuchrum) and wearing a Trump hat and pin, but he’s still singing.
We ended boat day, as we always have, on White Bay. A photograph of the Soggy Dollar was one of the first photos I saw, post-Irma. STILL STANDING, they had posted.
We knew they were open but weren’t sure what to expect.
It’s rebuilt and a bit roomier for the workers and visitors, and it looks great! They’re planting 100+ palm trees all the way down the beach and into the other harbor.
Jess’s sister Carly’s friend Annie is a manager at the Soggy Dollar. Her parents own the place. After Caitlin’s service, Annie arranged an “organ donor awareness” day there, on New Year’s, 2017. They used a photo of Caitlin and Andrew, taken there in 2013.
While we were there, we suddenly remembered that Annie was probably on the property. Nick went to look for her.
Annie is one lovely person. So warm and kind. We learned that her family lost her beloved brother CJ six years ago.
Her parents live on St. John and we hoped we would run into them, and St. John, being such a small island…well, of course we ran into her dad and other brother a day or so later.
As talk progressed, we realized that the beautiful tomb that Nick had admired and photographed was CJ’s, the blue glass heart one of the favors at his island wedding. Another coincidence, one of many.
RIP, CJ O’Connell and Caitlin O’Hara.
“You think all this is important, but all that really matters is loving people and being kind.”
So it’s been a year since Caitlin’s transplant. A fact that’s as hard to believe as her absence.
This post from that day, if the lungs had come a month earlier, before the weeks on ECMO…. … too painful to think about, really.
I’m going to let Caitlin’s words take over, with thanks to Kate S, an old friend of hers who has most recently, graciously, shared her correspondence. The “Caitlin book” that I’m writing has a lot to do with this search for faith.
Emails with Kate
can i ask you something personal? If you don’t want to answer I understand. I have never been that religious but i have always had faith. i hope that makes sense to you. as i get older i struggle more and more with the reality side of my brain and the side that wants to hope and pray for the best, and have faith. i am always so interested in how people like you — really smart people that is — stay so solid in their beliefs and faith. i don’t know, i guess i am just curious about it. then sometimes things happen that make me feel like i am more connected, and that it is possible. i’ve been trying this thing where i “dialogue” with my illness. it was recommended by an astrologer who did my chart, and it is something i kind of do a lot anyway but in a different way. its like visualizing sessions of going through your body and imagining healing. but this takes it a step further with actual talking to your disease. anyway i was lying in bed this morning doing that for like half an hour. andrew was there, he was like half awake, we were just laying around. anyway i never said i was doing that. then when he got up and was walking into the living room he just said casually “i feel like god was in the room this morning.” It was so odd, that is not a normal thing for him to say (obviously). It was just kind of cool.
Email to Nick
So what I always loved about Early Christian art was that it was so …early. Really the beginnings of Christianity , and thinking about what that meant is neat for me. This was years before even the crusades, the first really violent time in the name of “Christ” (well except for Christ himself obviously ). So there was violence of course … In Rome and in the Byzantine empire. But Christianity hadn’t even reached a point yet where people were “fighting in the name of the Catholic Church” etc and things were still more modest.
You can see the change in how Christ is portrayed in the art in these small churches. He’s still a shepherd but he’s wearing roman robes and looks more regal. So it’s the beginnings of it…. But it’s unlikely that these religious people then were implementing awful atrocities on people
I think the area seems beautiful and peaceful. But also something I can’t really place, and don’t necessarily need to figure out. I just would like to go.
There is always going to be bad in the world. I think that is what makes being good so important.