Father's Day 2013

This one's not the first Father's Day I've spent with my dad, but it's hitting me hard anyway.  There is so much stress and turmoil going on in my life these days related to my job that I don't feel like I am in "top shape" when it comes to being prepared to cope with the grief that still so often catches me by surprise, either with its timing or its intensity or both.

I looked through some old pictures today and found so many of my dad doing things he loved to do, whether it was sitting in a lawn chair in the sun reading the paper, running, sitting on the beach, or spending time with his family.  In all of them, he looks happy and healthy and as if he is perfectly content, and for that I am so grateful, except for a song that keep playing in my head:

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN TO THAT SONG ...

Today I found myself thinking about how on the day after my dad had died, I stood in the shower in the guest bathroom of my parents' house, crying and crying, feeling so much like my heart was breaking that I thought I needed to hold my hand over my chest to keep it together.  Never had I imagined - or even thought to imagine - that a day like that day was coming, or like the days like the ones I figured were still to come.  I had no idea how I was going to get through even that first day without my dad there physically with me, much less through the rest of my life.  I felt like I was falling down a well in slow motion, and I knew that at some point I would seriously need to reconsider my world view and, in essence, myself.

So many times, I've thought back to the last night that my dad was in the hospital and to the way that he insisted on having all the lights turned out and for Jennifer and me to be on either side of him as he tried and tried to sleep.  I remember how he reached out in the darkness to grab my hand and Jennifer's without even looking, and, recognizing the trust, the love, and the vulnerability in that move, I quietly started to cry there beside him in the dark; I was so grateful that he was so sure that we were right there with him.    

What I wouldn't give for just one more day with him.  I wouldn't even care what we did together; I just have so much to tell him and to talk to him about.  It's like I'm the one now reaching out into the dark to grab a hand to hold, and I'm so grateful that I have people who love me (and tolerate me) enough to serve that purpose, but it's still something that's so much tougher that I could have ever imagined.

Happy Father's Day to the man who was the perfect father for me.
I miss you and love you more than I can adequately express.

Road Trips

 My parents took my sisters and me on lots of road trips when we were growing up.  Both sets of our grandparents and the rest of our extended family lived in states other than where we lived, and it seemed like we piled into the station wagon and hit the road fairly often.

Like lots of families during that time period, we traveled on a pretty low budget.  We packed a cooler and a bag with things like colored pencils and paper and a deck of cards, and we were good to go.

We took lots of camping trips, did a good bit of sightseeing and touring, went to Disneyworld and several water parks, and made it to the beach on several occasions.  All of that blurs together as Good Time Family Fun in my Memory Bank.  There were, however, a few specific events during my childhood involving family road trips that I remember as standing out the most, things we did while traveling as a family that I think about again and again, memories that always bring a smile to my face.  I’m not even sure of the exact timeline of these.  All three happened as part of the travel my family was doing - they were side-shows, far removed from the main event; they were spontaneous; and they were unforgettable.

We lived in Albert Lea, Minnesota, when I was in kindergarten.  I loved that house for lots of reasons; I learned to ride a bike without training wheels in the front yard there, my younger sister came home from the hospital as a newborn to that house, and it had a cool laundry chute that went from the second floor to the laundry room in the basement.

One day, our parents were packing the car before we embarked on another road trip, and my sisters and I were in the den gathering up a few books and toys to take with us.  The TV show that was on came to an end, and the next thing that came on was a movie: “The Wizard of Oz.”  I had never seen it before, and I was mesmerized from the start by the tornado scene, the characters, the way it went from black-and-white to color, and the music.

About 30 minutes into the show, my parents completed their last-minute preparations for the trip.  I’m sure they were ahead of schedule for the time they had planned to depart on the trip; my dad hated to be late and went to great effort to make sure our family was on time wherever we went.  He came into the den and started his battle cry of “Load up!  Time to go!” but then saw us sitting on the floor, as he termed it, “glued to the TV.”  When he realized what we were watching, he and Mom sat on the couch behind us, and we watched the rest of the movie together, with Dad singing along to every song in the movie: from “We’re Off to See the Wizard” to “The Merry Old Land of Oz” and “If I Were King of the Forest.”  The movie and the music were great, and I’ll never forget how time seemed to stand still as my family sat there in the den that day, entranced, entertained, and together.

A few years after that, my family had moved to another state, and we were in the car again on a road trip.  I don’t remember where we started or where we ended up, but I do remember the best part of that trip:  Dad was driving along the highway while the rest of us looked out the window.  I don’t know who saw the little carnival in the hillside first, but I do remember the moment when all of had it seen it.  My sisters and I oohed and aahed at the Ferris wheel and the other rides we saw.  It looked like fun, but we were On the Road and On a Schedule.  Probably no one in the world was more surprised than we were at that exact moment in time when, without a word, Dad pulled onto the two-lane road at the foot of the hillside and started driving towards the carnival.  I remember thinking I was dreaming.  He pulled into the gravel parking lot, parked the car, and said, “Who’s up for some rides?”  Better than Christmas!

 When I was a pre-teen and even into my high school years, my family celebrated New Year’s Eve by staying overnight in a Holidome about 100 miles from where we lived.  My sisters and I each got to invite a friend, and, once we got to there, our parents pretty much unleashed us in the open space inside the hotel.  We ran in the halls, jumped on the beds, rode up and down the elevators, went into the sauna room, ordered room service, watched music videos on MTV (which we weren’t allowed to have at home), and swam in the indoor pool.  Just enough freedom, lots of fun, excellent people-watching (one year we watched a woman swim laps in the pool for hours in a shower cap) – it was perfect.

I’m not sure if there is a specific lesson from or a point to looking back at memories like these, other than just remembering and thinking about how much fun we had together as a family.  Maybe there’s a little bit of a “Take time to smell the roses” lesson in there, and that we certainly did.  We definitely appreciated each opportunity, each day, and each other along the way, and for that, as well as the memories that time will not allow us to forget, I will be forever grateful.

I remember riding in the backseat of the car with my sisters, barreling

down the highway on family trips, listening to Dad sing this song.

Family Connections

Family is defined in the dictionary as “a group of people related to one another by blood or marriage;” “a person or people related to one and so to be treated with a special loyalty or intimacy;” or “a group of objects united by a significant shared characteristic.”

From my current perspective, though, a more accurate description of the institution of family is a hybrid of these:  to me, family is a group of people who are connected by circumstances, cause, and choices.   The people that make up a family may or may not be related by blood or marriage, and they often play a vital role in dealing with serious illness and grief.

During the time that Dad was sick and in the months since he went on ahead, I have seen the makeup of our family change.  Actions and lack thereof have resulted in the forfeiture of the inclusion of some people whom I fully believed would have supported us in our time of need, some of whom I would have even bet the farm on because I thought they were included in the group I defined at the time as my family.  I stand corrected, though, in some cases, as well as disappointed, hurt, angry, and full of even more grief for the loss of those relationships as I thought they were.

The surprise, the transference, the thing that allows me to keep my faith in mankind, though, has been the outpouring of love and kindness from many of our friends who have become family to me.  Those who have suffered a loss and know the devastation, even those to whom we weren’t “close” in the past, as well as those who don’t know a loss like this first-hand but have made every effort just to be there and to listen - all of them have been such a comfort to us, and that is something I will never forget.  

I will forever value the lifeguards who guided and supported us, who kept us afloat, when we were thrown into the deep end when Dad was first diagnosed, as we treaded water while he was sick and in the throes of grief, and as we struggle to try to make it back to shore without being pulled under by the current.

As part of his training program for the upcoming Ironman triathlon, Dad trained with a swim team at a facility near my parents’ house.  The majority of the people on the team were years younger than he was; some were even half his age.  Like he so often did, he made an impression on these people just by being himself - genuine, dedicated, positive, and kind.  Before he got sick, Dad had mentioned to me a few times that he really liked being on this team, and he talked about how cool he thought it was that Ashley, the coach, was a gold medalist on the U.S. swim team in the 1996 Summer Olympics, which, coincidentally, Mom and Dad had gone to as spectators.  

During the time just before and after Dad’s surgery, he told me to contact Ashley to let her know why he wouldn’t be at swim practice that week.  He said he didn’t want her to think he was “slacking off” at the end of his Ironman training schedule.  After she found out what was going on, she offered to help with anything we needed, and, from that point on, she became one of Dad’s cheerleaders and a support on the sidelines to the rest of us.  She organized a schedule of meals to be provided by members of the swim team on an every-other-day basis.  She sent cards and checked in regularly to find out about Dad’s progress.  She did research to find out which Physical Therapists did aquatic therapy when I mentioned to her that he really wanted to get back into the pool as soon as possible after he finished his inpatient rehab stay.  And, when Dad was on the decline that sent him to the hospital the second and final time, she stopped by the house for a visit and ended up helping my sister get Dad up after he had fallen.  Dad admired Ashley as an athlete and as a person, and it was obvious that the feeling was mutual.  Before his diagnosis, Dad was the only one in our family who knew her, but, through her efforts and her kindness, we all came to think of her as a great support and a friend.  She and the other swim team members cared so much for Dad and were so compassionate that they continued to bring meals to the house for many weeks after Dad died, feeding both our bodies and our spirits with their kindness.

Something that was therapeutic for me during Dad’s illness was writing updates for his Care Page.  Word spread quickly about his illness, and within a couple of weeks, we had 375 “visitors” checking the Care Page for updates.  Over the 75 days of Dad’s illness, those online supporters viewed his Care Page more than 6,000 times and left over 1,000 messages for Dad and for us.  We read many of the posts and comments to Dad, and we have read and re-read them many, many times since and have found comfort in the concern, the sentiments, and the messages over the past ten months.

I saw an editorial recently in which the author said he thought it was “crass” to announce or to discuss serious illness or death through social media like Facebook.  I couldn’t disagree more!  I don’t know what I would have done without the connections and support I have gotten through Facebook over the past months.  Many people shared stories of their own losses with me and had great advice about how to get through the day, the weeks, the months of grief.  Others just checked in here and there and let me know they cared about how I was doing.  A few told me about how they loved Dad and let me know that they missed him and would always remember him, too.  Some posted thought-provoking and inspiring quotes, photos, and statements that have influenced my perspective.  And still others provided me with welcome distractions and laughs, all of which have played a valuable part in pulling me through the murkiness.

As much as I will always carry with me the pain of the loss and the suffering during this time in my life, I will forever remember and treasure the friendships and the generosity, consideration, and affection of those in what I consider to be my newly formed family.

We don't accomplish anything in this world alone ... and whatever happens is the result of the whole tapestry of one's life and all the weavings of individual threads from one to another that creates something.  ~ Sandra Day O'Connor

As a Result

As a result of what my family has been through since my dad was diagnosed with cancer on October 23, I’ve learned that in the face of tragedy people will surprise you.

I’ve been surprised by some of the things not done or not said by certain people while my dad was sick and while my family has been grieving, but I’ve also been surprised by things that were done and said by others.  It’s been the latter that has kept the former from causing even more pain and grief.

As a result of some of these relationships, many of which have changed as much as I have over the past months, I struggle with the question of whether the actions or lack thereof are due to ignorance (not knowing what to say or do), insensitivity (not realizing how badly their support was needed), or indifference (not giving a Hoot, or at least being more interested in other things like having fun than in supporting me or my family), and I also struggle with the question of whether or not it even matters what the cause of lack of support from these people is.

Sometimes a bridge has been burned so badly that it is beyond repair, and what's really surprising about that is that in some cases I don't even have it in me anymore to care that I can't cross the River.

After a few months, it seemed like almost everyone I know assumed my time for grieving had expired and that I was back to living a normal life.  They didn’t see my tears as I lay my head on my pillow at night or hear my one-sided conversations with Dad as I drove to and from work each day.  How could I go back to “normal”?  I don’t even know what that is anymore.

As a result of what happened to Dad, I’ve seen up close that bad things can happen to anyone at anytime.  As a result of this blanket of grief, I have hurt physically and emotionally worse than if someone had stabbed or burned me.  I want something that I cannot get back, ever. 

I’ve learned to speak the language of Tears.  I’ve learned that Shock is a shelter but that it’s not one I want to stand under for too long; it keeps me from feeling my dad’s spirit and makes me do crazy things that don’t help me or anyone else. 

In much the same way it is a surprise to find your car with a flat tire, it has surprised me that some people with whom I’ve discussed so many things in the past have yet to say much or even anything at all to me about my dad’s death or how I have changed because of it. 

As a result of what I've observed, I've learned that no matter how badly your heart is broken, the world doesn't stop for grief.

I've learned that our background and circumstances may have influenced who we are, but we are responsible for who we become.

I’ve realized that I need to figure out how to watch the film from a few rows back so that I can see the whole screen before me.

I’ve learned that grief is a journey, not a destination, and that the only way to get through it is to focus on what’s in the headlights on the road directly ahead.