Worrying

For as many things as I like to think that I got from my dad, whether by nature or by nurture, we had one core difference: I am a worrier and, simply put, he wasn’t.

I, like others with tendencies similar to mine, call it planning, organizing, taking care of the details.  I consider it a necessary part of life and, truth be told, I do it pretty often; his philosophy was that whether or not one worries is a personal choice.  He and I had many conversations about this topic over the years, including several during the weeks that he was sick, and he told me many times that from his perspective there were alternatives to worrying, like “just doing it,” or “going with the flow.”  He was a great list-maker, often leaving sticky notes and legal pad pages of reminders for himself around the house, on his desk at work, and even in his car.  That, he said, was a way to get worry off his mind.

That stuff doesn't work for me, though.  I don't feel like it's my choice to worry or not to worry, and making lists (as I do as often as my dad did) lessens the worry but doesn't turn it off. 

This is what a supreme worrier I am: I often read books while thinking about trying not to leave a mark on the book that will affect its condition.  I try my best not to get smudges or water marks or creases on the pages as I read.  My dad, in contrast, concentrated on thoroughly enjoying a book as he read through its pages.  What a joy I have found it to be to look back through the books he read and to see the marks he left behind, the crumpled pages, the sticky notes, the underlined and notated passages, and the dog-eared corners.  What pleasure it brings me to look at those things and to know that my eyes are where his once were and that he so completely basked in the moment when he was there, on that page in that book.  It’s like seeing the scrawled “I was here” written somewhere, and it makes me smile and warms my heart.  It also sometimes makes me think again about the benefits of worrying less, or, as my dad would say, choosing to do something besides worrying. 

Maybe that’s why the anxiety that Dad experienced during his illness, especially during the last two weeks of his life, still haunts me so much.  It was so uncharacteristic of him to be worried, and the rest of my family and I felt so powerless in our ability to quiet his fears and quell his distress.  More than anything during his last days on this earth, I wanted to take away that worry, which I knew would ease his pain. I think back to his last night in the hospital and to the next two nights after that when I took a turn sitting up with him as he struggled to sleep and as we worked to get control of the panic and the pain, and my heart hurts to remember the worry etched in his face.  Sometimes the medicine would help, but more often it was the presence of someone he trusted completely that seemed to help ease his mind.

I remember sitting beside his hospital bed in the semi-darkness of my parents’ den after he’d come home and listening to him worry aloud about things that he could not control.  I tried telling him not to worry, I tried to let him know that we only needed to focus on the really important things, and I tried to convince him that others of us would take care of the things that seemed to be on his mental to-do list, but that just seemed to agitate him more.  Finally, I waited for him to pause to take a breath, and I said, “It’s going to be okay, Dad; I hope you can choose not to worry so much,” and he turned toward the sound of my voice in the darkness as if those words were my arms going around him.  A minute later, the talking stopped and his breathing slowed into the rhythmic pattern of sleep.  I stood up to cover him with an extra blanket and then tucked in beside him, half on the couch and half on his bed, with my head on his shoulder, thinking that maybe I could absorb the burden of the rest of his worries during the remainder of the night.

Preparedness

I have a confession to make, one that may surprise people who really know me, especially those who are aware of my love of having things organized and my love for preparedness and for planning.

I am not fully prepared for death or catastrophic accident.  

I don't mean emotionally, or spiritually, ... those are entirely different conversations ... what I am referring to now, though, is legally.

Here's what I think legal preparedness looks like:

*Researching and discussing various life and death and related financial issues so that legal paperwork including a will and a living will have been prepared to detail health care decisions, transfer financial assets, and to put thoughts and arrangements into writing. 

*Having had this paperwork reviewed and finalized by an attorney who also provides advice on issues such as creating a trust and custody of minor children.

*Having organized all of the above as well as information on assets (bank account numbers, documentation of property ownership, etc.), insurance policies, and contact information for key people and having informed several key people that such an in-case-of-emergency file exists and where it can be located. 

One of the many things I learned first-hand from going through the experiences that came as a result of my dad's illness and death is the need for legal preparedness.  While my dad wasn't young, per se, he wasn't nearly old enough to think that there was an urgent need for him to be fully prepared from a legal standpoint for his death or for an illness so devastating that he would be left unable to finish preparing.  He, like all of us, thought that there was still time left to do things like that.

There are other things in life that are different versions of preparedness, things you hear that you should do "just in case" but that you put off for one reason or another.  Sometimes that turns out ok, like if you don't buy the extended warranty on a new refrigerator and either it doesn't break or it does and the repair costs aren't too bad, but here's the truth about end-of-life legal decisions and planning: at some point, it will matter if you haven't gotten your affairs in order.  Unlike other things that can technically be put off forever, this is one thing that will cause great problems if it's left undone.

There are odd terms for doing this kind of thing, really: getting your affairs in order,  making final arrangements, pre-planning (isn't all planning "pre-planning"?).  But it is perhaps one of the most important tasks you can accomplish as an adult, if not for your sake (in case you go on ahead right away instead of hanging in the balance for awhile like my dad did), then for that of those you will leave behind.

People talk about their Bucket List items, things they want accomplish before they die.  But what about what they NEED to get done?  I didn't realize the complexity of what needs to be prepared before I was one of the people needing access to that information for my dad, and I hadn't really considered the implications that could ensue if that type of information wasn't organized and at-the-ready.  It's difficult enough, I'm sure, to pull those documents out and to go through them to see what needs to be done when a death has occurred suddenly and/or unexpectedly.  What we didn't know before, what we couldn't have know until we had experienced it ourselves, was just how tough it was to put all of that together while we were caring for my dad and trying to cope with our own grief during the ten weeks he was so sick.  Not only did we need access to the information that would normally be needed in case of a death, but we also needed to know about other things on Dad's behalf during his illness like long-term disability coverage, health care insurance benefits (Medicare and private insurance), and long-term care insurance.  It took a lot of time and effort from all of us to gather that information and to decipher what needed to be done to make any of it available for Dad's care.  It's something that I'm sure my dad wouldn't have left undone had he been aware of the implications of not being complete in organizing the necessary information.

Now that I've experienced the difficulty of it first-hand during his illness, I KNOW better.  Still, for a variety of reasons (excuses?), I am not prepared, but I have set a goal to get my things in order; I've started the process, and hopefully I can finish it in the next month or two.

It's a depressing and tedious and stressful thing to do; that's for sure.  Nobody likes thinking about the type of what-if's that are involved in this process, but I can only imagine what a gift it would be to have it all together, should a crisis occur.

Here are some resources, in case you aren't complete in your preparedness either:

A website with info about attorney Alexis Martin Neely's book "Wear Clean Underwear" - a great resource about legal planning, especially for parents (Here's a shout-out to my sister JB for finding this one!)

"Getting Your Affairs In Order," - a free Penn State reference guide

Online info from WebMD - "Putting Your Affairs In Order Before Death

If You Knew

If you knew that you probably wouldn't be here next week, next month, or next year, would you do things differently?  

Would you slow down and spend more time talking and just hanging out with the ones you love, would you rush around trying to pack in everything you could into the time you had left, or would you jet off to some remote location and sip cool drinks on a sunny beach somewhere?  Would you leave your work behind, choosing to treat each day as a vacation, or would you double-time it in an effort to finish what you'd started, in hopes of clearing your desk?  

I think sometimes people go through life just trying to get through the daily grind, setting a goal each day just to make it to 5:00 and hoping to build up enough vacation days to take some time off a few times a year. It's a easy pattern to get into, for sure.  That wasn't my dad at all, though.  He regularly set goals for lots of things.  He liked quotes that inspired action, like "A goal without a plan is just a wish" and "To accomplish great things, we must not only act, but also dream; not only plan, but also believe" and of course his favorite, "JUST DO IT!"  In essence, he was a roller-coaster guy, not a merry-go-round guy:

              "I like the roller coaster; you get more out of it!"

Through my dad, I learned while growing up to believe that anything was possible through hard work and perseverance.  And, for the most part, I feel like that held true in my life, up until the time he got sick.  

But I have to say that, had he known his days were numbered before that awful day two years ago this month when he was taken to the hospital by ambulance and the trial of our lives began, I don't believe he would have done many things differently.  

For all the questions and the if-then deliberations in my mind from over the last few months of Dad's life, there is one thing of which I am absolutely certain: if life is measured by adventure, my dad had a full one. 

Throughout his life, my dad identified things in himself that he wanted to change and then he made those changes.  In fact, thinking back to one of those things from when I was a teenager makes me smile even today:

About the time I turned 15, my dad told me that he had read somewhere that research had shown that a teenaged girl whose father told her at least once a day that he loved her was much more likely to graduate in the top of her class and to be happy long-term in life.  He said he knew that my sisters and I knew that he loved us but that he wasn't sure of exactly how often he told us out loud that he did, and so, just in case (another favorite expression of his), he was going to set a goal to say it to us every day at least until the time we graduated from high school.  ("I'll still say it to you after that, but you'll be away at college so it may not be quite as often," he said to further explain his plan.)  He didn't go into detail as to how he was going to be sure that he remembered to say it, but I knew him well enough to know that he would have some sort of system.  And sure enough, the next time I got into his car, I saw what it was:  he had placed a sticky note on the dashboard of his car, and on it he had written "Tell the girls I love them." Apparently the system worked, because, as far as I can remember, he told us that every day until we left home and every time he talked to us after that.

The last email I ever got from my dad was about planning for new adventures as he looked ahead to what he was going to do after he had completed the Ironman triathlon in which he was scheduled to compete but didn't get to.  Here's what he wrote in his typical stream-of-consciousness type of email:

From: Bill Bullard <bbullard@hurleyandassociates.com]]]]>

Sent: Wed, September 29, 2010 2:38:15 PM

Subject: Iron man

This will probably jinks it, but my foot is much better. I have 4 training wks to go---   Plan is to do three long runs (app3 hrs), 3 long bikes (80-100 miles and three long swims of about 2 miles each. In between stuff doesn’t matter much, I am told. If I can do these I should be fine, although walking will be part of the Plan which it is for most anyone not really competing. Nice to do around 14 hrs but just to finish is okay. Need to find a tattoo place in Calif to get Ironman logo on my calf. Lee gets one next yrr

Love ur crazy//Dad

told mom this would be the only one. Got to think of a new adventure—but no heights or extreme cold.

Thinking about the way that my dad lived his life, I see clearly that he didn't need a terminal prognosis to define his priorities or his goals.  He never sat it out, he always gave it his all, and he enjoyed every day of his life.  And if adversity is the test by which character is revealed, then I'm proud to say that my dad passed the test with flying colors.