Ramona correspondent
When 2009 dawned, I knew that I was going to take the first three months of the year in “retreat.” That was a goal of mine since I moved here in 2000 — to live my life in sync with the seasons. In California, it was easy to “override” the seasons — there was basically sunshine, and I worked in a big office building with huge glass walls, which insulated me from all of nature’s impact.
As a result, I also learned to override my body’s own natural need to have an ebb and flow. So when I moved to Kansas, I longed to be in rhythm with nature — to rest, like the soil in Winter, to bloom with new ideas in Spring, to work with energy as long as a Summer day, and in Fall to rejoice in the harvest of my endeavors.
I did not know why this urge was so great, but I felt compelled to retreat when winter came, and I had no energy to “stir up” a project or “forge ahead” on a new idea. When a friend tried to coax me to visit, or someone asked when the next tea would take place, or folks inquired why I was not at the weekly Jolly Mixer dance, or writing my newspaper column, I would say one thing: “I’m like the tulips, six inches underground, resting and waiting to push through in Spring.” I am now so grateful that I listened.
Barely had this time begun, when in January our Beloved Tooltime Tim learned that he had brain cancer — the most serious strain of cancer, which raced one toward the finish line. When Tim learned the diagnosis Jan. 12, Pat and I were up all night — our lives reorganized and re-prioritized on a visceral level.
The moment I heard the diagnosis I knew a “truth” — you know the kind I’m talking about. One of those moments, when you wake up, or you see something —not with your eyes, but with your heart. “Oh my,” my sister and I said to each other, “Tim was our guardian angel when we moved to Ramona, and we never even knew we’d need one. And now, the tables have turned, and we will be his guardian angels, when he never imagined he’d need one.”
When my birthday arrived three days after Tim’s diagnosis, I looked at the precious gift of life in a new way. I blessed the beautiful body that my soul inhabits, and began the journey of “restoring my soul.” Daily, I inquired within, asking my body to guide me in being fully alive, fully present, and truly grateful. Most of all, I listened to my truest heart’s desire, taking full responsibility for the life I create each and every day with each and every choice.
I began a journal, writing down at the close of the day, the “gifts” if you will, of being in Tim’s presence. I always will remember the jubilation I felt when Tim came home from his three-day stint in the hospital, and the medications brought back his appetite and he was sitting at the table with us, once more. In the midst of supper, he cracked a joke, and Pat and I just stopped, as though “freeze-framing” the moment, as if you would press “pause” while watching a video.
“How grand to hear you joke,” I said to Tim. We always think we’ll hear a loved one’s voice tomorrow. There will always be another day for a story, or a hug, a voicing of “I love you.” But I learned, in Tim’s presence, that every moment counts. Do not count on tomorrow to do what is important today.
I learned to celebrate taste buds, because Tim’s often would disappear and he would have no appetite for food. I started waking in the morning, putting my hands on the top of my head, and giving thanks for this amazing “brain-computer,” that flawlessly orchestrates every action and activity in my day —knowing just the right chemicals to dump into my stomach to digest the food I just ate, or the hundreds of mouth muscles that coordinate my speech, or the orchestration of tendons, bones, ligaments, involved in every step.
At the end of February, my sister asked me to move in with her and Tim for a while so I could help with Tim’s care and to be my sister’s backup. I took my place in the east wing of the house — the one Pat, and I designed (and Tim helped build) for our mother. We figured one of us would need to live with mom if her health deteriorated, but she died before that happened. We never imagined it would be Tim who would need the caretaking. In truth, I always imagined it would be Tim at our bedside when we left our bodies behind, and turned our faces to the Sun.
My sister was the best helpmate for which Tim could have hoped. We joke and call her an “old vet” because she knows so much, instinctually it seems, about bodies and how they work. Pat was an amazing advocate, at a time when Tim was so stunned that he did not know the questions to ask the doctors, let alone absorb the answers. Pat is strong, even in the face of things that would make most knees buckle. Together we watched Tim’s health, like sentinels on the walls of a city, and when Tim’s body showed signs of decline, we knew what those signs foretold.
But Tim always amazed us. He often would sleep for hours, barely stirring, not talking. And then his phone would ring, or someone would stop by, and Tim would rise up, like a big balloon filling with air, and he’d say “Hi” and converse as though he’d “whip this thing” in no time. Then, as soon as folks would leave, he would slump back down, as though all the energy had been sucked from him. He was a “caretaker” to the end, trying to protect those he cared about, shielding them from the rigors of his illness.
Tim’s siblings came to dinner just a couple of weeks before his death. He still was able to sit at the table and eat with them. Pat prepared a favorite family meal — liver and onions. “It was so much fun to listen to them all tell stories,” said Pat. “They share a part of Tim’s life that I’ll never know.”
Tim’s sister and brother-in-law, Sandra and A.J. Svoboda, also live in Ramona, so they were close by to help in a myriad of ways. Sandra and Bryanna would stop by in the evening and tell Tim of the “happenings” of the day. Tim delighted in hearing about his niece and nephew’s adventures. A.J.’s strength was especially needed when Tim needed to be lifted, and his infectious laughter brought sunshine to the room.
His sister, Linda, brought childhood pictures that reminded us all that Tim was a “little rascal” from start to finish. His brother, Scott, came March 7, and spent hours telling stories with A.J. and friends, of youthful exploits. Early on, Tim’s sister, Patty, brought stocking caps to keep his head warm, when Tim shaved his head following radiation treatments. If Pat and I needed to run an errand, Tim’s brother, Kevin, came to be Tim’s guardian angel.
The town was so wonderful to offer assistance. Tim’s disease shocked everyone, because he was only 48 — the same age as his father, who died of stomach cancer when Tim was just an infant.
Tim’s buddy, Billy Alcorn, even shaved his head “in solidarity,” which was humorous because Billy’s haircut was pretty much like Tim’s all along! Billy and his wife brought Ensure to Tim, because he could tolerate the vitamin drink that was laced with chocolate. Don Matkins lugged a bed into the bedroom so Pat could sleep nearby, and give Tim his space.
Neighbor, Frances Hanschu offered a homemade angel food cake, which Tim’s family enjoyed when they came to see Tim the last weekend of his life. “I feel so helpless,” Frances said, “but I want to do something!”
Jim Thompson and his brood of happy kids came to the house holding a big plate that contained a huge steak and three “factory eggs.” “No man can refuse a t-bone steak,” joked Jim. And while Tim had no appetite for meat at this point in his life, the gift was wonderful. Tim’s brothers and sisters, who were having a barbecue that very day at Sandra and A.J.’s, enjoyed Jim’s token of affection.
There is a little joke about Jim’s kids mentioning the “factory eggs,” since Pat raises chickens, she has boxes of eggs in the fridge. A while back Pat offered eggs to Jim’s kids, and they were hesitant to take the eggs home. “We only eat factory eggs,” said one. Pat tried to explain that all eggs come from chickens, and that hers were definitely more tasty and healthy than the ones from the “factory,” but they were not convinced. They were concerned that if they cracked the egg, a chicken would be found within, and they were not taking any chances.
One of my most precious memories of the past few weeks came when I moved to the house to be with Pat and Tim. In the morning, I would listen to see if they were awake, and one morning I walked to the bedroom door, and climbed into the big, king-sized bed with them, and we told stories and shared memories. One morning Tim said, “I’ll bet this is the cleanest you’ve ever seen me, for the longest time, ever!” Yep, this man who we lovingly called “pig pen” after the Peanut’s cartoon had no dirt under his nails these days. But we would have rejoiced to see dirt, rather than confinement in a bed!
I often relayed messages to Tim from people near and far who were concerned about him. “You know that television ad for Verizon cell phones, where there’s a crowd of folks all supporting the Verizon customer?” I asked Tim one morning. He nodded. “Well, that’s what it would be like if everybody who’s thinking of you, praying for you, concerned for you, were gathered here at the house. They’d fill the house and when you’d look out these windows, you’d see a crowd of people filling the yard.”
A few weeks ago, Pat and I began a healing ritual where we would meet at 11 a.m., light candles in Pat’s Spirit Room, and speak these sacred words. “Aaron Timothy Steinborn, I love you. Aaron Timothy Steinborn, I respect you. Aaron Timothy Steinborn, I thank you.” As we did these personal prayers, all kinds of thoughts and memories came to mind. Although we were doing this with thought of Tim’s healing, we found the words brought healing to our own lives as well.
As memories floated to the surface, we would often express these to Tim later in the day. We had so much for which to thank him. Like the foundation at our guest house, where the contractor said it would cost $500,000 to fix it and that maybe the house should just be torn down, and Tim said, “Oh, heck, give me some blocks and cement and we’ll fix it.” We did, and the foundation is strong today.
Or the time we totally renovated the bathroom at Cousin’s Corner, 10 days before a family reunion, and Tim showed up with a Sawzall and cut the work in half. And when we needed some wiring moved, he said, “I can do that.” And when the toilet had to be relocated, he said, “I can do that, too!” And he did. He got it done just minutes before the family arrived.
There were times in the past eight weeks when Tim did not remember all that happened to him. When he would sit up or try to walk but the pressure from the tumors in his head caused him to lose consciousness. Luckily, he did not remember those episodes, which happened more frequently as the days went by. When Pat told him what happened during those spells, Tim asked one day, “Have I been difficult? Have I been mean? Have I been hard to deal with?”
“Oh my, no, love,” she replied. “There have been times you’ve been stubborn — but what’s new?” she said with a mischievous smile.
On Saturday night, March 8, Pat and I felt that a change was taking place, and although we did not talk about it, we both felt something very sacred was about to happen. As night approached, we sat on the bed, one on either side of Tim, and were vigilant, as his breathing began to change.
A dear friend in Florida, who is a hospice counselor, told me a lot about what happens in these moments. The one phrase that kept coming to mind was this: “Know, Jess, that you are on God’s doorstep, when Tim ascends. Be aware you are on sacred ground.”
As the hours ticked by, I often thought of Jesus in Gethsemane, when he turned to his disciples and said, “Can’t you just watch with me for an hour? Can’t you just stay awake for the night and bear witness to my agony?”
As the night wore on and morning dawned, we wondered how long his heart could keep beating so hard. If I closed my eyes, it sounded like a lone hiker, climbing for the peak.
At 7:30 in the morning, my cell phone rang — it was Tony Meyer’s “ring.” He had a special ring assigned to him in my cell phone, because I am his caretaker. He had not been feeling well, and was thinking of going to the doctor. I headed to Tony’s and left Pat at Tim’s side. I had not been gone long when my phone rang again, and I saw it was Pat. I knew what she would say. “Tim just died.”
My hospice friend had told me stories about how patients would “choose their moment,” when they depart. “They’ll sometimes wait until someone arrives,” she said, “or when children leave the room for a moment, because it makes it easier to let go, or when just the right person is there.”
At 8:15 a.m. March 9, Tim departed, with Pat at his side. She spent the night saying sweet things to him, singing him songs, and the two of us weaving prayers back and forth between us. Yes, indeed, we had been on God’s doorstep.
A memorial service will be held to celebrate Tim’s life at 2 p.m. Saturday, under a big tent that will be pitched on his land, 110 F Street in Ramona. He was a hard-working, generous, strong-willed man of the land, who was shocked, deep down, that he could not fight his way through this disease. Many are shocked by his departure, and those who knew him and loved him, are invited to come and share in a special service, designed to celebrate his life, and begin the healing of our hearts. (Wear your every day, work clothes — Tim never liked dressing up.)
We are serving chocolate cream pie after the service, because that was Tim’s favorite dessert. He did not eat many vegetables or fruits — in fact, he called chocolate a “fruit group.” Tim was a meat-and-potatoes man! If we had the energy, we would have planned a barbecue along with the pie, but pie will suffice. We bought a couple hundred fireballs so everybody can taste Tim’s favorite candy, and folks will be given little packets of seeds to throw in their yards, or along a country road, so see what blossoms, come summer.
Memorials will go toward a marble bench on Main Street Ramona in honor of Tooltime Tim. If there are additional funds, we plan to put up a new town bulletin board — a project Tim had promised to do for the city.