A Grief Observed

Danna Young is a 30-year-old widow. She may also be the most sincere blogger in Philadelphia.

by Natalie Hope McDonald

The frankness of Danna Young's first blog entry might baffle anyone accustomed to snarky online rants about a band, movie or political guffaw. But when Danna started "185 Craniopharyngiomas Walk Into a Bar" in April of this year (185craniopharyngiomas.blogspot.com) she had no way of knowing how extensive the chronicle would become, or that she would end up sharing intimate details about her husband's roller coaster illness with all the patience of a dedicated scientist and the healthy skepticism of a seasoned journalist.

SURVIVORS: At home in Westmont, N.J., with 20-month-old son Baxter, Danna Young says her husband's battle drew the attention of strangers. Photo By: Natalie Hope McDonald

"It wasn't what I envisioned," admits Danna, "but I think what makes the blog important — it enabled me to go about my life." These days, the former Queen Village resident's world revolves around her 20-month-old son Baxter. They both now live in quiet Westmont, N.J., where on the day Danna decides to talk about her blog — the first time publicly since her husband's July death — Jehovah's Witnesses knock on the door. The visitors leave a pamphlet:

"Knowing the truth about what happens after we die frees us from fears that the dead can harm us or that our dead relatives and friends are suffering." Ezekiel 18:4

The truth about Danna and Mike Young, long before he became the subject of his wife's painstaking blog, was that they were a happy, healthy couple. He was a fixture on Philadelphia's comedy and improv circuit. A founding member of sketch comedy group Bad Hair and owner of ComedySportz, an improv group at the Adrienne Theater, Young lived a fairly public life. But it wasn't until he was diagnosed with a brain tumor that his personal life would suddenly end up in a virtual spotlight.

"Craniopharyngioma is a less common disease that we treat," says David Andrews, professor of neurological surgery at Thomas Jefferson University Hospital, and one of Mike's doctors. "We've cured a lot of patients, but his grew back quickly." The changing nature of Mike's illness made it difficult for Danna to keep friends and family updated. That's when Susan Murphy, the couple's friend and owner of Old City-based Viv Pickle, a maker of designer handbags, set up the blog as a practical and therapeutic outlet.

"We were sitting in the family waiting room at Jefferson," Murphy recalls. "We had been there for a couple of hours. The doctor came in. My immediate thought was, 'Oh, fuck, think of all the people she has to tell.'" And this was only the first surgery. Mike would undergo a dozen more.

Saturday, April 15: What a badass freaking scar. It's a big S zig-zagging from just above his ear up along the hairline, back and then up towards the forehead across to the other side of the forehead. With kick ass stitches. It's hardcore.

"Mike actually sent out the first e-mail," says Danna, who has three working computers in her house, where she does most blogging these days. He never contributed to the blog, but he initially explained he had a treatable brain tumor. By the time Mike was admitted to the hospital as an inpatient, Danna had already begun what would be a long, detailed chronicle of their experience with the disease. Though many of the blog entries from this time period are sober, Danna also used levity. She painted a vibrant portrait of her husband, not just as a patient, but as a jokester.

Thursday, April 13: On the way to roll Mike down to the O.R. today at 2 p.m., his nurse and I were talking about Mike's I.C.P. (Intracranial Pressure). Mike overheard us saying "I.C.P." and rapped: "You down with I.C.P.? Yeah you know me!" I asked, "Mike, what does I.C.P. stand for?" Mike replied, "International Clown Posse."

"Mike was a great performer. He was my teacher," says David Dritsas, 33, executive director of ComedySportz and founding member of Bad Hair. "But when things turned for the worst, that's when people started worrying and asking questions. The blog became part of your routine. Near the end, we were checking it almost twice, three times a day."

It wasn't just for people who knew the couple. Strangers wrote offering support and advice from all over the world. "It's amazing because a lot of the notes I get are not, 'Oh my God, I have so much pity for you,' but, 'You've changed my life,'" says Danna. One total stranger offered frequent flier miles so a faraway relative could come to town.

Danna hasn't tracked the number of hits her blog has received, but she has logged the number of times her profile — two clicks from the main page — has been viewed. "Currently, 2,140 have viewed my personal profile. Hundreds of comments have also been posted by friends and strangers alike," she says. "There is one woman whose grandson has a craniopharyngioma who has been in touch with us from the beginning." Another reader is a speech pathologist at Thomas Jefferson. "She told me she and her husband had been following our story for months — every day," says Danna. "When the nursing staff was notified that Mike was being rushed back to the hospital, she called her husband: 'You'll never guess who is being admitted today.' To which her husband replied, 'Mike is. I know. Danna posted about an hour ago.'"

Saturday, April 29: Today Mike had a really good day. No — no short-term memory still. Yes, still hallucinating and talking nonsense from time to time. But he was alert, had a great appetite (even requesting cheese fries in the afternoon), up in the chair from 12-2 p.m., joking around, tapping his feet to music, and enjoying the warm and friendly company of the many loving friends who visited him today. Sodium's normal (137), temperature is normal (though poor Mike was shivering most of the day).

THE BEST MEDICINE: On Sunday, friends and family will honor Mike's memory. And they'll laugh, just like the funny guy would've wanted. : danna young

"I was interacting with Michael with no short-term memory intact," says Danna. "He had no ability to process or store whatever thing was being talked about. The hope was that his memory would return." When Danna mentions Mike, Baxter takes notice and asks for "Da Da." The pattern is something Danna deals with every day, whether it's with a familiar cashier at Walgreen's asking her son where his daddy is, or confronting the fact that many of her own close family members haven't yet figured out how to console her. Some of her closest relatives have not read the blog.

"I think for some people," says Danna, "the intensity of the day-to-day at the hospital was just too much, emotionally speaking, to handle. Several men I know who are the major breadwinners in the family refuse to read it. I think the idea of being the head of the household and losing control, autonomy and dignity is too much for some men to contemplate."

Others developed an acute knowledge of what was happening. "When the nurse would come in and talk about sodium levels, they would know what that meant compared to the day before," Danna says.

Sunday, May 7: Cleaning him up, he seemed like an old man to me. Shivering, pale, almost blue in his hands (from IV bruises) — and his muscles have disappeared. His calves are so tiny now. I was overwhelmed by a feeling of hatred for this tumor. I hate it. Stupid f*cking tumor.

There was one thing Danna did fear: what would happen if Michael recovered. "If he got better, I wondered what he would feel that everyone had the intimate details of his tumor."

Initially, Danna wanted the blog to be a basic record. But her candor transformed it into a vivid, somewhat shocking reference point for her son.

As Danna dissects the intricacies of her writing, it becomes clear she's lived and relived this grief on two levels: in real life as it happened and through her documentary-style blogging after the fact. "I feel like I'm totally detached," she says. "Sometimes I feel the need to write. Other days, I don't want to blog. If you asked me three days ago, I don't know if I could have responded at all." In Mike's obituary, she made it a point to not discuss either the blog or her husband's illness, opting instead to focus on his life.

Sunday, July 9: Mike's not looking great. I ran into Dr. Evans in the lobby on my way upstairs. I said hello and he seemed pretty low-key with me. "I know," he said, "he looks pretty punk today, huh?" Ummm... "Shit. He does?" I said. Evans instantly realized that he spilled the beans because I hadn't been up to see him yet.

There were times when Danna wasn't able to log important events with the immediacy she wanted so friends like Murphy would write on her behalf. "She would write her updates on a scrap of paper," says Murphy, "and I would take her laptop next door and update it for her. Even when she didn't have time to write, she always wanted me to open the page of comments. She took a lot of comfort in what other people posted."

Tuesday, July 11: Hi everyone. Danna isn't here right now... but we've been talking and wanted to share a quick thought with you all... as you may know, things are a little unsettling right this second... Mike's condition is changing a lot and there aren't a lot of answers that Danna can give to all the questions that everyone has right now... so we thought we'd suggest that everyone take a collective deep breath and give her some space on that front. Hope you don't mind our being direct... but it would likely help her in coping with things? [posted by Murphy for Danna]

"I was so sick of Michael being sick," says Danna. But throughout the experience, she's been rigorous about schedules, like dropping Baxter off to daycare and creating a few hours in which she can respond to readers' comments and plan the celebration of her husband's life. She opted not to have a memorial service or a funeral; since Mike spent the better part of his adult life onstage, that's where the most appropriate send-off would be. This Sunday at World Café Live, many of Mike's friends and colleagues will perform skits he wrote and performed in himself, the proceeds benefiting Jefferson. For Danna, next to the blog, planning the event has been necessary therapy.

Tuesday, July 18: Right now Mike's physical body is so so sick. I can't even stay in the room for long because it's so disturbing. It's not Mike in there. It's not. He is toxic and critically ill and he looks just that way. Don't read the rest of this paragraph if you'd prefer to stay in the dark... His eyes are swollen out and yellow with blood on the rims and he can't close his lids. They tried to tape them shut, but it didn't work. His body is puffed out so much that he looks like a distorted wax person. He has been seizing and biting his tongue and due to the coagulation problems it's not clotting so he's bleeding around his mouth. The DIC is causing purple blotches all over his body. It is utterly horrifying. I am actually discouraging people from visiting because it's a horrible sight and is not the Michael we know. I go into his room to put on music, touch his hand and have him hear my voice, but I try not to look at him too long. For the most part, I stand outside the room and peer in through the glass.

The intimate details posted, however specific to craniopharyngioma, are universal to anyone who's ever been caretaker to a terminally ill person. In some ways, the blog is a road map of what to expect, and how to cope with grief in the 21st century. People used to write letters or make phone calls to loved ones on Sunday evening. For Danna, a doctoral student in political communications at the Annenberg School, the blog's public nature has not escaped her.

"Beyond the emotional stuff, and beyond the details of what was happening, the info about what it's like to deal with hospitals and administration — how to care for someone in a hospital — that's incredible," says Dritsas. "It started out as something very practical and turned into something more. ... It went beyond keeping in touch to a public exposé."

Tuesday, July 18: I'm sorry to post this here, but there's no way to make phone calls to everyone we love. Mike's pressure started to drop about 4 a.m. ... His blood pressure is now about 65/38. It is slowly (very slowly) dropping. There's no more that they can do at this point. He's on full oxygen and max pressors. He's dying. [posted by Murphy for Danna]

Admittedly, there's a voyeuristic side to the blog. "Online, you don't get the same depth of personal contact," Danna concedes. "This is the unfathomable. It's watching someone go through something that is unfathomable and see them not jump out of the window. It's a frightening thing, yes. But then someone will see me and say, 'Wow, Danna went grocery shopping today and she went to the park with Baxter.' I'm still here. I'm still living my life."

Tuesday, July 18: Mike died today at 11:20 am.

The blog has not stopped with Mike's death, but it has changed its course. It has become a confessional vehicle, a postmodern testament of grief in the digital age.

"Mike used to tell me, 'I tend not to worry about things beyond my control,'" says Danna. But even when the disease seemed the most out of control, her blog digested the news systematically. The explanations about shunts, lobes and sodium levels are delivered with as much care as one of Mike's punch lines.

Anyone reading it sees how nonlinear grief really is. The stages stagger between old photos of better times, anecdotes about Baxter, comments from friends, and thoughts on what it's like to take a bath and listen to consoling music — like a favorite Iron & Wine album. In other words, the blog's become, well, a lot like other blogs now.

"There's a lot of value in the blog that can be learned about relationships, community, love, coping with illness," says Murphy. "If people can grow from reading about her experience, that will have made all the difference."

(n_mcdonald@citypaper.net)