A Changed Form

It’s difficult to know what to do or say or even think on a day like today; how does one mark a milestone that they wish didn’t have to be?

Today marks three years since my dad went on ahead.  Three years – that seems so unbelievable.  There has been so much pain, and mourning, and missing him in that time.  There has been a lot of change, too, some for the better and some, well, probably not so much. 

Here's what I am working on at this point: living - and thinking - so as not to allow cancer or sadness or grief to rob me or my family of anything more.  Because what I have learned in this past year is that it's so important to see the good in the moments, even when the grief makes things look blurry. What I have been working on since I sat in this same place a year ago is finding ways to make sure I don't miss the good, the happy, the important moments, even as much as I miss my dad.

It would be so easy to fall into the habit of viewing things as a misfortune, an unfairness, or even a disaster; one thing I've learned for sure since my dad died is that getting a foothold on perspective doesn't always come naturally - it often takes work and effort.  For me, at this point, there are times when the grief is still really thick, but I can tell that it has changed form. I think so often that Dad would be shocked and probably even more disappointed than touched that there are those of us who are still so much in mourning; I know he would want those of us he loved and cared for to be happy. That thought pushes me to try to do better, to be better, to do my best, just as my dad pushed me to do so when he was physically on this earth.

And so, through effort and dedication, I continue to be transformed as time marches on, and so does my grief. Instead of leading me as it has, the grief mostly seems to accompany me these days, still present but in a changed form.  I find myself sometimes having to reach to feel him around me lately, which brings about a new type of fear and a new form of heartbreak.  I am able to say that I am happy and grateful in the midst of it all, though, even though when the tears and anger come as they still sometimes do, I miss Life for him - and I miss him more than I ever thought possible.

A Push Towards Perspective

I recently came across something written by a woman that I found to be simultaneously heartbreaking and inspiring.  This article, which ran in Vogue magazine entitled "The Long Road Back: How to Keep Going After the Unimaginable Happens," is the story of tragedy - but it is even more about love and strength and coping.

I found some of the words of the author, whose name is Madonna Badger, to be particularly moving.  When she recounts the two things that happened that she found helpful as she was going through the boxes in the warehouse, it makes me think back to the students with whom I worked in the months after my dad died.  Like Badger, through my work, I saw two things occur that nudged me in the right direction in the early depths of my grief: I too had to stay "in the present moment," and I saw for the first time that, although there was often ample opportunity for the grief that was upon others around me to incapacitate them, the people who made certain choices in the midst of hardship were able to survive without losing more of themselves than they had been forced to through the adversity. That, I guess, was my push towards perspective.

Brave and Important

I mentioned in the last entry that one of the things I've been doing to help me through my own grief is reading books and blogs of others who are also struggling with the difficult work of grief.

Here's a link to a blog that I started reading about the time my nephew was born last spring; in fact, I got the idea for making the video of photos from my sister's pregnancy and from the birth of my nephew from this site.  The story of the family that's detailed in the blog is sad but so touching and inspiring:

                                 Chasing Rainbows

I started reading the "Darcy Claire" part first - but it will make more sense if you click on each of the children's names across the top of the home page in order from left to right (that's their birth order), Gavin then Brian then Darcy Claire. When you get to the Darcy Claire part, have some tissues ready and be sure to watch the video (the link is at the bottom of the entry when you click on her name).

When you've read that, find the Blog Archive list on the right-hand side and click on "2013" and then "April" - that's what was happening in real-time just after I started following the blog, and it's very dramatic.  Start reading at the entry from April 2013 entitled "A Piece of Pop" and follow it from there - you won't believe what happens as the story continues to unfold.  

Be sure to read the entry called "Without Ever Uttering A Word;" it's touching beyond description.  It makes me think of the many kids I've gotten to know through my job as an occupational therapist who aren't able to communicate verbally and who've made such an impression on me through the years.  And be sure to read the one entitled "The End;" it's potentially the most powerful blog entry I've ever read.

Some of the things that have struck me in particular as I've read the entries (and from watching the Darcy video) are how touching it is how Kate (the mom) never seems to mind having her picture taken, even in the midst of tragedy, how she repeatedly says she feels "privileged" even in the midst of what must have felt like excruciatingly hard waiting, and how she seems to need to do something to try to help herself through her grief, even as the tragedy unfolds. Some of the stuff she writes about how hard it is to function at all in a state of grief reminds me of how I felt like I was that first year after my dad went on ahead, struggling just to get supper on the table or to pay a bill or help my kids with homework.  I admire Kate's writing because, while she's hopeful and that fact shines through almost everything she writes, she doesn't sugarcoat some of the ugly of grief, and I think that's brave and important.

So Far Still To Go

One day last week I was driving home after a stressful day at work, and I started thinking about how I wish that I could call my dad.  There is so much going on in my life that I feel like I need to share with him, and the fact that I can't call him and ask his advice about some of it is still so hard to bear.  I could hardly finish the drive home through my tears.

I talk a lot about perspective, but I still have so far to go on this road.  I wish that I could feel that my time with my dad was enough; not feeling that way makes me feel like I'm not grateful or appreciative of the time I had with him or that I had him for a dad at all.  

Sometimes I still can't believe that what happened happened - and I can't believe that he's gone.  Damn I miss him so much.

"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, deep contrition, and of unspeakable love." ~Washington Irving

How It Feels

I didn't go into politics - or even business, for that matter - for a reason; one that, if you know me, you probably already know: I do not have a poker face.  I am not at all good at, as they say on Saturday Night Live, strategery.  I don't like office gossip or sneakiness or favorite-playing.  The way I prefer things to be in my work place is when, as my dad used to say, it is what it is - because what else would it be??

Unfortunately for me and for a whole lot of other people who live and/or work in the same school district I do, though, we have been involuntarily drawn into a situation over the past couple of years that has come to involve a lot of the undesirable aforementioned things.

As a result of the citizens of the city voting to give up their school district and the resulting imposed adoption of that system by the county school system, people in my area are talking about budgets and politics and outsourcing and other things that have regrettably become a very large part of the equation in public education.  One thing I haven't heard much talk about in meetings or in the media, though, is how it feels to have been swept into this maelstrom.

This has been the most difficult, most stressful year of my nineteen-year long career with the county school district.  I am proud of the efforts of many of my coworkers as we've entered into what can only accurately be described as a battle.  At times, I've felt sure that I want to do everything in my power to stay with the district, to continue the work I've started, and to try to control what I can in hopes of protecting my coworkers and friends - and ultimately, the students.  But, at other times, increasingly as the actual date of the change approaches, I feel as if I am in danger of going down with the ship.  Like a lot of my coworkers, my health and my personal life - and my overall happiness - have suffered a lot during this past school year because of the impending "merger" - a term, by the way, that really gets to a lot of us on the receiving end of the punches.  To merge means to join forces, to unite, or to team up, and to me that implies that an action is taking place between two roughly equal bodies, a situation which, in my opinion, this is not.  Always a fan of running metaphors, I liken what's going on here to a runner that has dropped out of a race who later asks an accomplished runner if he can train with the better runner.  One of them needs improvement; one doesn't.  One needs help; the other was fine on his own - and, in fact, is likely to be slowed down if the less skilled runner joins him on training runs, even though the faster runner may still be willing to take on the job of coaching the slower one.  It isn't a merger; it's more of an adoption.

In the district of people who did not get a vote in this decision, our leaders and our administrators are scared for their own jobs, for their livelihood actually, and it feels like there's an "every-man-for-himself" mentality that I have never before felt in this job.  Watching the process unfold in slow motion over the course of this school year has felt a bit like Chinese water torture, and in many ways I am glad to see the year come to a close, although I feel a distinct sadness at the same time that my job and this school system - both things that I have loved and have put my heart into since I was 25 years old - will certainly never be the same after end of this school year.  

Everybody knows that educators in this country generally don't make a lot of money.  They don't win Oscars or Pulitzer Prizes or get big raises or promotions or even get much recognition by their bosses or their "customers," unless, of course, a scandal of some sort is featured in the media.  The rewards we get come quietly and often only if we are looking hard for them, but most of us are lucky (and diligent) enough to see them, and we are glad to have this as our chosen career.  We realize that there is no other profession that would allow us to have such a part in shaping the minds of children in this way and to impact their future on such a personal level.  Teaching is about so much more than teaching - and I don't mean politics and jerrymandering and elbow-rubbing; it's about the power of relationships.  It's about the connection that can be made between one person and another person or between a person and a lesson, a link that can only be developed when the learner knows that the teacher cares about him or her.  When a mutual respect has formed between the teacher and the student, that's when the best kind of learning occurs.

But in an environment when educators are scared for their jobs, when school staff members know that they and/or their coworkers and friends may end up on the chopping block at any moment, when program cuts aren't a "maybe" but a "when," it's hard to be positive every day.  It's hard to focus on the lessons that need to be taught - and on the children who are the most important part of the equation.  From either side of the argument about what's fair or who deserves what from the limited funding available in the district now, one thing is for sure: teaching and learning have been hindered, and that doesn't feel good to any of us.

This is mostly a blog about grief and perspective, but I guess it's also about enduring and overcoming life's challenges, and I guess that's what has to be done in this situation as well.

How to Help

One of my nieces is known in our family for her love of candy.  We laugh when we think back to the year when she was two and whenever anyone asked her what she wanted for Christmas she simply said, "Candy."  No amount of prompting or urging could convince her to expand her Wish List that year; over and over, she insisted in her well-articulated, tiny voice that all she wanted was candy.  She was as clear as I'd ever seen a person be about what she thought would make her happy that holiday season, and she savored every bit of candy that she got as a gift.

I saw a little girl eating a big sucker today and thought about my niece and her quest for candy, which, thankfully for her parents' dental bills, has tapered off over the past decade or so.  I thought about just how incredibly happy a kid can be with something as simple as a single piece of candy.  Hell, I thought, sometimes a piece of candy makes me happy, too, especially if it comes in the form of a gift from someone.  

I like to give gifts to people, and I put a good bit of effort into trying to think of a gift that is special for each recipient.  One of the things that I think is the most fun to give is a gift for a new baby.  A thought that strikes me, though, every time I am giving a baby gift is that it's kind of ironic that giving such a gift to the new parents generates work for them, based on social obligations: after they receive the gift, they expect and/or are generally expected to write a thank-you note, which, as anyone who has ever been a new parent knows, is one of the many things for which they really don't have time at that stage of their lives.

Many times when I've been wrapping the baby gift I've considered including a note with the gift to tell the new parents that they are off the hook for writing a follow-up thank-you note, which perhaps they would appreciate as kind of a "cherry on top" type of bonus to the actual gift.  That way, receiving the gift does not create an additional duty for the probably already overworked parents.  

When someone has cancer or another serious illness, people are often eager to do something to help out.  Having been on both the receiving end of that equation as well as the "What can I do to help?" end, there are a few things that I have learned about supporting individuals in need, the most important of which is probably this:  Don't just ask the person or the family if they need anything; ask them what they need.  

Admitting that help is needed can be really hard, and so it's best not to wait for them to ask for assistance.  Assume that they need help - and ask what kind they need.  In some cases, it may even be a good idea to think of specific things to offer, like doing their laundry or their grocery shopping, providing meals, babysitting, pet sitting, etc.  One friend of mine paid for a house cleaning service to go to the home of someone she knew while that person was in the hospital; another one sent her husband over to that house to cut the grass - one less thing for that family to worry about.  There are lots of things that can be done to take stress off the family and to allow them more time to do whatever needs to be done to care for the person who is ill - or just to spend time together instead of running errands or cooking.  If the person who is sick and/or the family say they don't need anything, I recommend respecting their wishes but checking back often to see if that changes.  Sometimes people are too proud to ask or they can't think of anything at that time - but situations can change in an instant and the need for help can arise overnight.  Sometimes it's good to establish contact with a member of the extended family - or a close friend or neighbor - and let them know you are willing to help.  One of my parents' neighbors saw me pulling out of the driveway of their house early one morning when my dad was sick and flagged me down to exchange cell phone numbers with me.  Later, after Dad had been taken to the hospital by ambulance in the early hours one morning, that neighbor texted me to say she had heard the sirens and would be happy to walk my mom's dogs or whatever else we needed.  

Another thing that can be good to do is just to let the person or the family know that they are being thought of, especially if whatever you do to convey that message comes with no strings attached, like the "No Thank-you Note Policy" for the baby gift.  There are many different ways to go about doing this, ranging from texting or mailing a note to that effect (adding "no response required" if appropriate) to sending an anonymous gift or card.  

Or here's another idea (and this brings the topic back around to ... CANDY!):  Sugarwish!

As their banner says, the webiste www.sugarwish.com offers an easy way to send a "sweet" thought by allowing the customer to purchase a gift card (actually an e-card) that will be sent to a recipient who then uses that to select their favorite candies from the choices on the website.  Once they've made their selection, the candy is shipped to their house.  And here's the potential bonus: it can be done anonymously, which will eliminate the thank-you note obligation on the part of the recipient.

SWEET!

When my dad was sick, I came across a website with a program similar to the concept behind Sugarwish; the idea, shared by cancer patient Jerry Kline in his blog, was that a pager (also known as a beeper) could be purchased and given to the person who is sick, with the phone number given out to any interested parties so that anytime someone prays for or thinks about the sick person they can call the number of the pager and enter "777" or their zip code followed by the "#" key to indicate their intent to that person, without requiring any response on his/her part.  I found the concept of the Prayer Pager to be brilliant; it allows people to send a message to let the person who is sick know they are being thought of, at any time of the day or night.  The pager can be turned off if the person wishes not to be disturbed during a certain time, and a page does not obligate the person to do anything in return.    


After reading what Jerry had to say about the program, I contacted the program administrator and asked if I could sign up for my dad.  Unfortunately, though, the program had run out of funding and was no longer being offered.

Since then, though, I have come across a website that offers something similar to the program Jerry used; it's called Pager Prayer.

I guess the point of all this is that there are things that can be done to help an individual who is sick and/or his or her family and that sometimes even the little things can be helpful and meaningful in such a situation.

The Hitchhiker, Part 1: The Gift of the Story

As I have learned since my dad went on ahead, one of the greatest gifts that can be given to someone in grief is talking to him or her about their loved one: telling a story that involves the person who has died, sharing something you remember about that person, or talking about a quality that person had or a deed he did that you appreciated can be a priceless treasure.  It doesn't have to be a significant account; sometimes something funny or unique that person did is just what the person who is grieving needs to hear.

Not long after my dad died, my mom, my husband, and I went to the Mid-South Grain Association meeting in New Orleans, or simply "Mid-South," as my dad called it in general conversation.  Dad was in charge of organizing the convention there every February, and we went after he died to represent him in a way.  My mom kept up with the administrative duties that she had assisted Dad with for many years, but, as I came to find out, it was as helpful for us to be there amongst many people who had known Dad for years - some for decades - as it was for them to have Mom filling in at the registration desk.

The highlight of the trip for me was listening to one of my dad's long-time friends and previous coworker talk about some of Dad's antics from "back in the day."  Some of the tales I had heard before, mostly from Dad himself, but others I had never heard, and I felt comforted by all of them; it felt almost as if I was getting a piece of my dad back for just a little while.

Like a lot of people, Dad was a work hard/play hard kind of guy.   But the thing that I think made him unique in that area - at least from what I have gathered from seeing him interact with people professionally and from listening to what others have said about him in a business context over the years - is that he was often able to make the work environment fun for himself and for others.  For starters, he never hesitated to laugh at himself, and his interest in everyone around him was genuine.  Never did he miss an opportunity to say hello to or to compliment or express interest in someone else; the way he assumed that pretty much everybody had good intentions somehow seemed to result in that becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.  He delighted in clowning around when time and the situation allowed; I don't know that he learned about the benefits of fostering a positive work environment in a formal setting, but he certainly applied the principles all the same and always seemed very popular with his employees because of it.

"Cotton Row" on Front Street in Memphis, Tennessee

Here's the story that my dad's friend told us from back in the early 70's, when my dad worked at a company with an office that was located in downtown Memphis:

One Friday, some of Dad's clients had come to Memphis from out of state, and he was in charge of entertaining them that night.  My mom had driven with my sisters and me to her parents' in Nashville for the weekend, and Dad was planning to drive to meet us there late that night after he had taken the customers out on the town.  He worked until closing time and then met them at a restaurant down the street from his office.  As the story goes, the dinner turned into more of a party than Dad had expected, and when it was over he returned to the office since he had parked nearby.  Evidently, he was trying to ward off the headache he thought he'd be getting the next morning and so he walked over to his desk to get to his bottle of aspirin.  Unfortunately, though, the floors were in the process of being redone, and Dad left footprints on the adhesive backing that had been laid down in preparation for the tile that was going to be installed the next day.  Apparently there was much laughter the next morning and later some friendly ribbing about the fact that everyone could tell who the culprit had been since the tracks lead straight to his desk, where several aspirin tablets were spilled on the desk, and then back to the exit door.  

As Dad himself later told the story to his friends and coworkers, after he'd gotten into his car and then started driving on the interstate headed towards Nashville, he realized that he'd had too much to drink to be driving.  As luck would have it, soon after that he saw a hitchhiker on the side of the road. Necessity being the mother of invention (and of innovation), Dad pulled over and rolled down the passenger-side window to ask the guy if he could drive and where he was trying to go.  "Sure, I can drive," the guy said, and then he added, "I'm hoping to get to Nashville tonight."

"Well, get in, then," Dad told him, probably smiling from ear to ear and thinking he had struck gold. "I'll be asleep in the back; wake me up when we get there!"

I doubt he told my mom about the details of that trip for quite some time after it happened, and it wasn't until after his death that my sisters and I heard the story.  I could picture it happening though, and hearing the tale was a much-appreciated gift, one that I will always treasure.  And it wasn't Dad's last interaction with a hitchhiker either, ...

To be continued ... 

World Autism Awareness Day

There are many people who played a role in my career choice many years ago, and I regularly think about the fact that I am so lucky to have found a profession that is fulfilling, challenging, and rewarding on a daily basis.

Once I decided on and then entered the Occupational Therapy program at Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri, though, there were still several different career paths within the field of O.T. that I could choose, based on various demographics of the patients with whom I would be working in the future - from very young to very old, by diagnostic grouping like "hand therapy" or "neuro rehab," and/or in different treatment settings such as an inpatient hospital or a school system.  In fact, the diversity of the options within my chosen field was one of the main things that drew me into Occupational Therapy initially.

During my final year as an O.T. student, I landed a part-time job working for my favorite professor, the woman who taught the pediatric-focused courses in our program.  Some of the work I did was data input, mainly typing the treatment notes that she had recorded on a mini-tape recorder and entering appointments into her schedule on a brand-new Mac Classic computer that seemed so high-tech and cool to me at the time.  I liked that work; it allowed me to learn a lot about computers and my teacher's clinical practice from the sidelines.  A second part of my job was to go to the medical library and research topics about which my instructor needed more information; through this, I learned to love research and to how to be organized in my approach to finding out what scientific studies and data said about a particular subject.

There was one more part of my job, though, and it was the part that I thought was the best: going with my instructor to clinical visits.  I primarily served as a hauler/transporter/equipment cleaner at the treatment sites, but, rather than feeling like a grunt who was limited to schlepping and scrubbing, I felt like I was a sponge, soaking up knowledge and inspiration from all around me.  Two of the children in particular who were being treated by my teacher that year ended up influencing my decision to set a goal of practicing in the field of pediatrics as an O.T.; after getting to know each of them, I was certain that my future was in working with the younger population.  

One of these kids was a boy named Johnny who had cerebral palsy that affected all four of his limbs, his trunk, and his speech.  A couple of month after I'd met him, my instructor had me sit with him while she left the room to take a phone call.  I had to focus and listen closely to make out what he was saying as he chatted away about his love of the Cardinals, St. Louis's major league baseball team.  After a couple of minutes of that, he abruptly changed the subject by asking, "What does it mean to be handicapped?"  His question took me off-guard; I spent several seconds trying to think of the best way to respond.  He beat me to the punch, though, blurting out the answer to his own question before I could say anything: "Oh, I know: it means you have to work harder to do things,"  and then he went back to talking about baseball.  I thought his answer was perfect, and I knew at the time that I would never forget this exceptional child or his profound words.

The second child was a girl named Casey who was at a different facility than Johnny.  Casey was a six year-old girl who had been diagnosed with autism.  She was verbal but had many social and other challenges that affected her ability to interact with the world in what is considered to be a "typical" manner.  Casey wasn't as touchy-feely as Johnny was; in fact, she didn't like to be touched at all, but I still found her to be very lovable and sweet.  She had some "quirks" - some habits and patterns of behavior that I found to be both interesting and endearing during the year that I knew her; one of these idiosyncrasies was that she coped with stress by pretending that she was interacting with a cat that she kept in her pocket.  Cleverly, I thought, she used this as a way to divert attention to something other than herself whenever she felt like she was being put on the spot; instead of answering a question or completing a task that she didn't feel like doing, she often emulated taking the cat out of her pocket and petting and talking to it.  

I was fascinated by this tactic; I thought the fact that she had devised such a creative strategy for gerrymandering was brilliant in many ways.  Some of the people who worked with Casey scolded her for talking about or to her pretend cat; I, in my squeaky-clean lab coat and with my very limited knowledge base and experience in the clinical world, tried to find out more about her and her world by playing with her and by asking her about the imaginary creature.  In turn, she often made better eye contact with me, and she talked and talked about things that were on her mind, all while pantomiming holding and/or petting the make-believe cat.  

Not long after my job working with Casey ended, I decided to get a kitten, and, as I looked through the want ads in the newspaper, I knew already that I wanted to name this cat Casey, after the child that first drew me into the world of autism, a condition about which I was sure I wanted to learn much, much more.  I ended up getting a male cat instead of the female I had envisioned, but I still went with the name Casey for the first pet I had as an adult, the cat that was with me as I graduated from college, found my first job, moved into my first apartment, met and later married my now-husband, and had both of my children.  

Like Johnny and his words of wisdom, I will never forget the girl named Casey, the child who drew me into one of the main fields of interest in my profession.  Today, on World Autism Awareness Day, and on many other days, I will think of her and the cat in her pocket and hope that she is somewhere doing something she enjoys.

Measuring the Course

As far back as I can remember, one of my dad's routines after he got home from a long run was to immediately jump into the car to drive the route he had run to measure the exact distance of the course.  (This was WAY before GPS systems existed.) Most people would probably choose to sit down to rest as soon as they could after a strenuous workout, but Dad was the kind of person who couldn't stand to let grass grow under his feet.  He taught us to have honor and priorities, to set goals, to set our mind to doing things and then to follow through. WAY before Nike said it, he used to say “Just Do It” whenever he heard someone make an excuse for not doing something they should have been doing; I remember so many tough runs when he would tell me to tuck in behind him so that he could block the wind for me after he'd said “Put your head down and let's just do it.”

If Dad could have “driven the course” at the end of his life, if he could have had the opportunity to examine what he had done and the choices that he had made along the way – I wonder to what he would’ve made adjustments.  Not much, I would venture to guess, and I think that’s pretty damn remarkable.  I'm not sure there are many people in this world who would be able to say the same.

Here's a question with some Food for Thought: What would your biggest regret be if today was your last day of life, and how can you attempt to right that regret?

Bronnie Ware is an Australian nurse who spent several years working in palliative care, caring for patients in the last few weeks or months of their lives. She recorded their dying epiphanies in a blog called Inspiration and Chai, and later she put her observations into a book called The Top Five Regrets of the Dying.  Ware writes of the clarity of vision that people often acquire towards the end of their lives and of how others can learn from their wisdom. "When questioned about any regrets they had or anything they would do differently," she says, "common themes surfaced again and again."

Here are the top five end-of-life regrets, according to Ware:

"I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me."  Looking back over the course of their lives (measuring the course), people often recognize that certain dreams they've had that have not been fulfilled, making this the most common regret of the dying.  And, as we learned when my dad got sick, by the time a person realizes that he needs to hurry to try to realize those remaining dreams, his health (and sometimes other obstacles) often restricts those goals from being attainable.

"I wish I didn't work so hard." Ware says that this was a regret shared by every male patient she cared for (and some of the women too).  What they wished they had done instead of staying late at the office so many times was to have gone to their children's ball games or school programs or to have spent more time with their spouse or other loved ones.  

"I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings."  Ware says that many people reported that they had suppressed their emotions in order to keep peace with others.  They regretted not having told someone that they were angry with them - or that they loved them.  Sometimes this is a regret that can be addressed in the final stages of life, but many times the years that have passed since the issue began make it impossible to right on down the road.

"I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends."  In the midst of our hectic daily lives, it's easy to lose track of people who have meant so much to you and whose impact you may not realize until it's too late.  Again, sometimes when the person who is dying expresses this regret, loved ones from the past can be contacted, but many times it isn't possible.  

"I wish that I had let myself be happier."   The realization that death is near can give a person new perspective on things, and one of the things that is commonly realized is that happiness is a choice.  The clarity that often comes at this stage of life helps people to see the good in their lives much more clearly than they did before.  Other things like material goods no longer seem important.  People do want to get their financial affairs in order if possible, but it is not money or status that hold true value for them as they near the finish line - it's love, both given and received.  

The Tears That Followed

When I was growing up, my parents used to tell me that even if you have to have a good reason to cry, at some point you need to stop crying and move on - or you risk running out of tears.  I'm not sure if I totally believed them or not, but regardless I have never been much of a crier, until my dad got sick.  Since the time of his diagnosis and even more so since he went on ahead, I have officially become a crier.  And today, I'm here to say that evidently what my parents told me decades ago about running out of tears isn't really true - the tears do not ever dry up.  

On the night my dad went on ahead, when they took his body away, there was a sense of utter bizarreness, almost of an unearthly quality.  It felt like everything was happening in the midst of a fog.  Afterwards, somehow - probably from sheer exhaustion, both physical and emotional - my mom, my sisters, and I all slept for a few hours that night before we had to get up and start planning for the funeral.  Once we had made it through that, we knew we had to make ourselves eat, even though none of us felt like eating, and so we stopped by a pizza place on the way home from the funeral home.  "This is so surreal," I kept thinking, and it really was.  My brother arrived from out of state not long after we got back to my parents' house after lunch, and, after awhile, we resolved to do something instead of sitting around the house crying or in a daze.  

Someone suggested we go to get our nails done at the nail place near where my parents lived, the same place where my mom usually went and where we had taken my dad just after he'd gotten out of rehab, on the day before we'd left to take him to Duke.  

"Was it only six weeks ago that we were here with Dad?" I thought, with tears in my eyes, as we walked into the nail place.  When the woman who worked there and who knew my parents looked up and saw us, she asked, "Where's your dad?"  I couldn't bring myself to say the words "he died," and so I just stood there until my sister Jennifer said, "He didn't make it."  The woman and the other staff members there were very nice; I was grateful that they just expressed their condolences and then moved on to other more casual topics instead of asking for details.

I don't remember much from over the course of the next few days, just bits and pieces and feeling lots of sadness and confusion.  I was grateful that my family was there together and that many of our extended family members and friends had come to the memorial service, but the shroud of despair was so pervasive that it was impossible not to retreat into bouts of stunned silence and driving tears, both at regular intervals.  

It was really tough to leave my parents' house that Sunday; I wasn't sure how I was going to get through walking back into my house, when the last time I was there things were so very different.  I was operating on auto-pilot, I'm sure.  I remember one of my friends from work texting me that Sunday night to express her condolences and to suggest that I take some time off work; no, I told her, it's better if I keep busy.  I couldn't stand the thought of sitting in a quiet house with nothing but my thoughts and my tears.  

Looking back now, I think it's odd that I didn't think I should take any time off from work.  The ten weeks preceeding my dad's death while he was sick and certainly his death itself were the most traumatic experience of my life, and I was exhausted, hurt, and in shock.  So much so that I thought going right back to work was a rational decision.  But, as it turned out, I ended up with two extra days off, and I didn't have to spend them alone, because it snowed enough to warrant two snow days off from school that Monday and Tuesday.  I felt like Dad had sent me a gift, so that I didn't have to go back to work right away and so that I was able to grieve in the comfort of my own home with my kids there with me.  

I have this photo saved on my
computer under "Snow From Dad."

After that, though, I tried to hit the ground running.  I guess I somehow thought it would be back to business as usual, even though nothing felt "normal" at all to me.  In reality, though, I was in a daze much of the time.  The emotional pain, and the physical pain that came along with it, were almost more than I could bear.  The physical effects - the body aches, the back pain, the crazy appetite, the insomnia - were a complete shock to me; I had never heard that those things are part of the grief process, and they all compounded the difficulty of trying to cope with the sadness and the other emotions. 

A far as I can remember, I functioned well enough at work, but it was at a much slower than usual capacity.  Some days it was all I could do to get dressed and drive to work, often while crying, to fake being ok for the duration of the work day, and then to make it back home.  It was as if I was just going through the motions from the time I got out of bed in the morning until the time when I could get back in it in the evening.  At home, for the first time in my life, I let others take care of things like dinner and laundry and paying bills.  I often couldn't sleep at night; I spent a lot of time wishing with all my might that my dad would at least come back to me in a dream, and I was unbelievably tired.  Tired from not sleeping, tired from the grief, tired from crying, and tired from trying to keep it together.  It was beyond my capability to make plans or even very many decisions; I felt like I couldn't think straight or keep track of things, and in some cases I just couldn't make myself care about a lot of things that were going on around me.

If I had to choose one word to describe myself during those first weeks or maybe even months after Dad went on ahead, it would be "depleted." As I had done while my dad was sick, I read about brain cancer; sometimes it made me feel better, but mostly it just made me angry and sad and so I started to read about grief instead.  Eventually, I found my way to a grief counselor, and my sessions with her helped a little in that she told me each time I saw her that what I was feeling was "normal" and in that attending those sessions eventually led me to writing.  Sometimes I still wasn't so sure, though, that I was doing anything right or that I was going to make it through any of the pain, but I just kept plugging away, getting through the days and the nights, one at a time, because that's all I knew to do.

Dr. Albert Schweitzer said that he found there was “a fellowship of those who bear the mark of pain,” and that “sensitivity to human suffering does not stand alone and rootless.” We have all stood over different graves and have had different beliefs as to the fate of our loved ones, but our tears remain a universal constant and need no translation.

Sorrow makes us all children again – destroys all differences of intellect. The wisest know nothing.”

~Ralph Waldo Emerson