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.

Courage

"Courage is rightly esteemed the first of human qualities ... because it is the quality which guarantees all others." ~Sir Winston Churchill

When I was a freshman in college, I took a class during which we learned how to rappel.  The culmination of the instruction of that part of the class was that each student had an opportunity to descend by rope from the top of a tower that stood three stories high. 

At the beginning of the semester, in my 18 year-old mind, that endeavor didn't seem to me like it was going to be too tough.  I wasn't scared of heights, and I was in pretty good physical condition.  I listened carefully to the instructor talk about the technique and the safety information, and I watched videos of others rappelling.  When the day of the descent finally arrived, I confidently climbed up to the top of the tower, hooked in to the roping gear, and backed up to the edge.  And then I looked down - and that's when the fear hit me.

I tried in vain to talk myself into stepping off the ledge for several minutes.  The instructor, who had positioned another instructor at the top, shouted words of encouragement to me from down below.  My legs just wouldn't move.  Finally, the guy at the top said, "The longer you stand there, the harder it's going to get to take that first step.  On my count of three, you're going to step off.  One, two, ..."  I took a deep breath, and I did it.  The warmth of the sun on my face, the feeling of gliding so freely, and the big burst of adrenaline all hit me at once, and I loved it.  It was, in the true sense of the word, awesome.  

But the best part of the descent was at the bottom, and it came from the words spoken by the instructor, words that I have thought about many times since that day:  "And that," he said as he turned from watching me to address the rest of the class,  "is a perfect example of the difference between courage and bravery.  Bravery is something a person can be born with, but courage is something we have to dig deep to find.  It's natural and often even smart to be afraid, but, as long as you are prepared, you can't let that stop you from forging ahead - and that's courage."

Before that day, I had never considered that there was a difference at all between courage and bravery; I actually thought they were synonyms.  Upon further consideration, though, I began to see that there is a distinction between those two words.  Bravery is the ability to confront pain or danger when one is not afraid.  Courage, on the other hand, is the ability to take on a difficult situation or pain in spite of the presence of fear.  Courage requires using a thought process in order to overcome a natural emotion; it is the willful choice to forge ahead regardless of the possible consequences.  A courageous person understands the risks of the task but is driven to participate anyway for a greater purpose.  

From my perspective, there are a couple of different types of courage:  Physical Courage, which often involves overcoming fear of the risk of pain or death to do things - like rappelling, getting up to try again after falling off a bike, running into a burning building to rescue someone, climbing a mountain, or undergoing a medical procedure.  Here's a video that gives a great example of physical courage (it's 17 minutes long but well worth taking the time to view it!):

And then there is Mental Courage, which may involve doing something that poses a risk of something negative socially happening, like embarrassment or rejection.  This includes things like standing up to a bully, giving a speech to a crowd, disregarding peer pressure, and being a leader.  It also encompasses ethics and doing the right thing, even when that puts one at risk for consequences such as disapproval of others.  It's pushing past a fear of rejection to put oneself "out there" by being true to one's own beliefs and essentially to oneself.  And that is how courage is linked to the most bonding of human traits: vulnerability.  A person who has the courage to accept that he isn't perfect but the depth to love himself and to see himself as worthy anyway not only ends up being a happier person but also gains a different kind of strength than cannot be gained in any other way.  And, in accepting himself as an imperfect being, he shows others that variances - and vulnerability - are the essence of the beauty of life.  

What I have taken away from that is the understanding that courage has to do with perspective and with the way we adapt to the challenges and to the circumstances of our lives.  

Without a doubt, what my dad had a great amount of physical courage, and I think that was likely something about him that a lot of people noticed and admired.  What I have found to be even more impressive about him, though, and what I hope to go out having had is the courage to be imperfect, the compassion to be kind to oneself and to others, the conviction to stand up for myself and for people and things that are important to me, and, last but not least, the courage and the confidence to show vulnerability, which, really, is the thing that connects us as human beings. Vulnerability, like the imperfections seen in granite, is what makes people unique, memorable, and beautiful. 

Changes

Since the moment my dad went on ahead, I've noticed a pattern of paradoxes that has emerged: as he took his last breath, I was simultaneously glad he wasn't suffering anymore but so sad for so many other reasons. I was grateful to have had him in my life for as long as I did, but I felt (and still feel) angry, resentful, and desolate about the fact that I didn't have more time with him.  And after spending time helping to care for him around the clock during the ten weeks he was sick, with his passing I suddenly felt restless and fidgety - but at the same time I felt wearier than I had ever felt in my life, with the dull ache of grief settling into my bones from the first day I had to spend without him.  

Over the course of the past 22 months since my dad died, I've gotten better at some things and worse at others. The dichotomies of these changes in me have been very unexpected, unfamiliar, and sometimes even unexplainable; all of them, however, came as a result of the impact of loss and have caused me to have to reorganize my thinking and my patterns of actions in many ways.

When my dad got sick and throughout the duration of his illness, I felt like I had been forced to take off my rose-colored glasses; from that point on, I couldn't avoid thinking that Karma was essentially bullshit and that there's no such thing as justice.  That was nothing, though, compared to the thoughts that came after his death; at that point, those same glasses were shattered, in pieces, smashed on the ground.  I know now that there's not much - if any - control to be had over bad things happening to anyone, including me, at any time.  I guess I always thought that real insurance (and assurance) came from the kind of cause-and-effect relationship that I believed in before my dad got sick: if you live a good life, both in terms of being kind and giving and in taking good care of yourself, then you will live for a long time.  How can one NOT see the logic behind that?  But, as I came to see, that is absolutely not true.  

The realization of such randomness has effected two contrasting feelings in me - a sense of fearlessness, because, really, carefulness doesn't matter, and also a sense of terror, because, really, carefulness doesn't matter.  I don't know if that even makes sense - but I do know that the fluctuation between those two things can be exhausting and confusing, and I haven't yet been able to figure out how to reason away either of them.  I can see myself walking on a tightrope suspended high over the ground - and I can picture myself cowering in the corner.  Both with blaring vulnerability, and not at all the way I want to be.

Since my dad's diagnosis, I've done a lot of reading about cancer.  Every time I read something or hear something about risk factors and early warning signs, I feel a knot in my gut.  I want to yell a warning of my own to people who may also be reading the same information: Nothing is for sure.  No one is safe.  You can try to live clean, you can do all the right things, you can deprive yourself, you can avoid risks, you can live on a deserted island with no radiation, no cell phones, no microwaves, and you can eat whatever kind of diet you think is best, but YOU ARE STILL NOT SAFE.  And so there is the anger - and the fear that fuels it.  For like C.S. Lewis wrote, "No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear." 

And it does; it really does.  Fear brings out so many things that I just don't believe were present in me before this tragedy - fear that there is something lurking, fear that I have no control over anything, fear that I am messing something up along the way that cannot be taken back, fear that time may be limited for me or for someone else I love, fear that I may go off into the deep end, fear that I am too indentured in grief and loss to do what I am supposed to be doing, physically and philosophically.    

One thing that continues to shock me about grief is how draining it is, both physically and emotionally, even this far out.  It's such an assault to the system on so many levels.  But, with as tired as I feel most of the time now, here's another irony: I often can't sleep.  Many nights a memory involving my dad plays over and over in my mind.  Sometimes that thought is a happy one; other times it isn't.  Regardless, though, and even when I'm not thinking about him, the insomnia seems to have set up camp on a permanent basis, further adding to my weariness.  That tiredness affects my health, as expected, and also, I'm sure, my attention span and my short-term memory, which haven't been at their best either for quite some time. 

The way things are now, I have to work to see the magic in things much of the time.  It's still there; at least I am aware of that - it's just that I have to remind myself of it, and I know I am at risk for not seeing it as I used to do so easily.

Sometimes all I want to do is to be by myself, to regroup or to cry or at times just to keep from spreading my sadness any more than I have to.  At other times, though, I can hardly stand to be alone; I recognize that I need to be around people, especially those who care about me and - even better - those who know what's going on with me and those who try to understand.  

I am, I think, much better at being supportive to others in difficult situations and more empathetic or, in some cases, sympathetic towards others these days.  Don't get me wrong: I cared when I heard about people going through hard times before my dad got sick; I just didn't GET IT on the level that I do now.  I now realize that it's a blessing to me to be in a position to help someone else who needs support, and I think I'm more in tune with what to say or do in certain situations because of my own experiences over the past couple of years. 

At the same time,though,  I am less tolerant of what I have come to see as drivel and drama.  I have a hard time nodding in complacent agreement when I hear someone say they just had the worst day of their lives – really?  Did you hear that someone you love has a death sentence coming down the pipe?  Did you watch a loved one die?  Did you bury a family member today?  Then your day wasn’t all that bad.  OR – when people say “I almost died!” when they’re talking in superlatives like “I was so shocked” or “It was so hot” – really?  From listening to complaining to watching someone make a big deal out of what is essentially nothing, I guess I am just more intolerant of certain things these days, which admittedly isn't fair of me, considering I certainly need more than my fair share of tolerance and understanding from those around me much of the time.  

I read several blogs written by fellow grievers, each with their own set of circumstances, story, and timeline, and each with lessons for me along the way. One thing I am more aware of now is that constant talk about sadness and anger and unfairness aren't necessarily the most pleasant to read, and more to the point aren't the most productive.  I think we as a society see something that is broken, and we try to fix it; when we are sick, we do what it takes to get well.  And I think as such our tendency is to want to hurry up and heal or to get over our grief as quickly as we can, but I'm not sure that's the right thing to do.  Most people who are actively grieving seem to be doing it in private for the most part, and maybe that's not the right idea either. 

And so then there's the guilt, and the shame, and the secrecy of the sadness of it all, which is a point of sadness within itself.  I realize this may seem a bit sensationalized, or repetitive, or self-centered, as if I think I am the only person who has ever suffered a loss.  I don't mean for it to be like that - I guess I am just searching for some kind of answers, and, oddly I know, I also realize that those answers really don't exist.  There is no pattern to grief; there is no to-do list that will ease the pain of the loss.  It truly is what it is, because, as Dad would say, what else would it be?

Some of the changes I think are positive though ... I am much more observant of the Silver Linings in my life; I don't go a day without recognizing how lucky I am, even on my worst days of grieving.

I take more pictures.

I appreciate the positive in my life - and the people, even more than I did before.

I write more - because it helps me to sort out my feelings, and because one of the things that hurts the most about having lost my dad is realizing that some of his stories are gone, too, and I want to try to save as many of those as I can.

Grand Canyon Memories

This is a guest post written by my mom, whom I asked to tell the story of when she and my dad went to the Grand Canyon several years ago on vacation ... 

One year, for our vacation, we decided to go to see the Southern Rim of the Grand Canyon. Wanting to absorb the full thrills of the National Park, Bill was really looking forward to running some of the trails along the rim.  After spending the night in the historic lodge at the top of the canyon, we planned to ride mules down the trail to spend the night at The Phantom Lodge at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and then to ride back up the trail the next day, a Bucket List item for me. 

Along the mule ride down, we had to wear hats that were secured so that they wouldn’t blow off and scare the mules or litter the park and loose clothes that would protect us from the sun but later be warm enough as the temperature would become much cooler as we approached the bottom of the canyon.  I was concerned about what to wear and the steepness of the trails, and so, for my security and peace of mind, early on the morning of our ride Bill ran the trail for about three or four miles down and then back just to check things out.  He came back with a report for me. (Side note: He often did this while we were on vacation or in a new place in order to locate playgrounds for the kids or interesting things for us to see and do.)  The trail was about three feet wide and gravel and the weather was great – about 75.  I was thrilled!

I was assigned a mule named Ida who was short and sturdy.  Bill’s mount was a gigantic gal by the name of Madonna.  He was placed near the end of the mule train.  Everyone was given canteens to hang on our saddle horns and a small switch that the cowboy leader called a “motivator”.  We used both of these items quite a lot. 

We began our adventure on the gravel trail just as Bill had predicted, but after the first few miles the path became very narrow with lots of stones.  The mules were very sure-footed, but the stones often didn’t provide much traction for them.  We had been told to never lean in the saddle and Bill found this impossible.  As he suffered from a fear of heights, he kept leaning into the mountain, away from the opening to the drop off into the canyon. His mule was much taller than any of the others, and it must have made it more difficult for him to trust her as he was sitting up so high.  We had to stop and cinch up his saddle a few times.  Eventually, the trail led many times to a switchback turn, which caused the mule to project its head out over the canyon in order to turn its body.  For an instant, it felt to the rider almost like hanging in space while the mule repositioned itself to go another direction.  Can you imagine how much Bill disliked that maneuver? Sometimes even I closed my eyes on that part of the ride. 

After five and a half hours of awesome views of the Grand Canyon and the crossing of the Colorado River, we arrived at The Phantom Ranch.  We had a delicious steak dinner and slept in a cabin that fortunately had blankets on the beds as it was indeed very chilly. The next morning, the mules were ready early to leave for the ascent, but, as we were packing up our stuff, Bill told me that he just didn’t enjoy the ride down and would rather run back.  I told our cowboy leader that Bill wouldn’t be joining us, and so his mule was tied to mine. The rest of the group gawked as Bill ran by while they were mounting up. 

We stopped a few times along the ride to rest the horses, but not for long.  Bill said that he stopped for water once, but we didn’t see him until we got to the top.  He had already showered, changed clothes, and was waiting for me, Ida, and Madonna beside the mule corral.     

The Chemo Room: What's Going On With THAT?

Here's something I've been wondering about lately ...

Why are cancer patients forced to get their treatment in a crowded room?  I don't know of any other diagnosis that results in patients being forced to sit in a room together while each of them, one by one, gets stuck with a needle and then filled with toxins, all while they sit there in a circle, like they are hanging out around a campfire getting ready to sing Kumbaya and roast marshmallows.

Is it an attempt to mask the fact that each person is really fighting alone, no matter how much we love them and no matter how much we support them and want (need) them to get better, no matter how much we wish we could take away their pain or how hard we would fight to take their place?  

Is it supposed to be like a Cancer Club, with their cushy recliners and (if you're really "lucky,") flat screen TV's?  Because it's really not. Or at least it wasn't when I was in there with my dad.  For us, it was an environment of extreme stress, pain, and fear, tempered with just a little bit of hope and the belief that what was happening would be worth it.  But it didn't take having other Cancer patients in the room with us for that to be true. In the first chemo room we were in, the one at Duke, there were curtains between the recliners.  (Prior to then I'd read that only the newbies use them, but I didn't care - I pulled ours closed anyway so Dad would have some semblance of privacy.)  I'd heard that after the first few visits in the Chemo Room most patients prefer to keep the curtains open and chat with each other.  That sounds great.  And maybe for some people it is.  But I didn't see it, and I really can't imagine it seeming like anything other than an invasion privacy.  

For what I think were purely logistical reasons, our second visit to the Chemo Room was far worse than the first one. Neither one, of course, was a walk in the park for Dad, and, as you know if you've read our Behind The Scene Story, neither one ended up being worthwhile.  Both times, though, I remember feeling the breach of confidentiality and the urgent need for privacy and peace and comfort for Dad, all of which were not to be found in that type of a setting for him.

Is it an attempt on the part of the medical staff to keep people from showing their emotions?  We all know that peer pressure can be a very powerful thing.  I know there are lots of times in my life when I was hurt or scared and I wanted to cry but didn't because other people were around.  That just doesn't seem very nice, though, does it - using someone's pride against them, humiliating them into shutting down their fear, their pain, their anxiety, when they're battling for their lives?

Is it a cold hard dose of reality (like HEY YOU!  YOU REALLY DO HAVE REAL CANCER, and soon you'll be pale, bald, and sick-looking just like the other people in here!)?  OR, to shame them into not crying when they have to be stuck for the IV, when the chemo burns their veins, when terror hits them in the gut harder than any boxer ever could.  

I guess the most likely reason, though, and one that's in some way actually even sadder than those reason, is that it's a way to save money.  

Just one more thing about stupid Cancer that I don't understand.

Not Knowing, Part 1

One of the things that my dad worried about the most when he was sick and even before then was his mom, who had been living alone in a small town in southern Alabama until the age of 87, when she suffered a stroke.

Kind of like my dad, she lost her independence in the blink of an eye, never to regain it, even though we had hopes that she would, at least to some extent.  Kind of like my dad, she was in very good shape physically and mentally, until her illness struck.  But unlike my dad, in addition to her physical skills, her cognitive abilities also were severely affected as a result of the stroke, and she did not have anyone in her area to take the kind of care of her that was required after that or the resources to have it provided in her home.  And so, as her hospital stay after the stroke was coming to an end, a skilled nursing facility was strongly recommended by the medical staff, and my parents decided to move her to one that was close to their house, one state over from hers.  

The downside was that the move disoriented her more and that, since it wasn't feasible for her friends from her hometown to visit her several hours from her hometown, she ended up being pretty isolated there, at least from people who had been involved in her life as it was before she got sick.  The upside was that my parents were able to check in on her several times a week and to make sure she was getting good care, and the rest of us were able to see her too whenever we were in town.  After the initial landslide loss of function, her memory and her physical status continued to deteriorate, a little at a time.  Eventually she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease and she wasn't even consistent in recognizing those of us she had known for all of our lives, but she always recognized her son, my dad.  

Grandmom's first Christmas in the nursing home

Dad and I discussed many times over the years how tough it was to see Grandmom be so changed, so dependent.  She had always been a bold woman who strived to do things for herself and to do her part in making the world a better place.  All her life, she had lived on a fixed income; she did not have fancy things or take fancy trips, but she was grateful and generous and happy all the same.  Before she got sick, at the beginning of every year, she wrote out a detailed budget for herself for the upcoming year and mailed it to my dad.  The few times I happened to see what she'd written, I was flabbergasted at how specific it was and at my grandmother's frugality, and I was amazed that despite the limits of her finances she still committed to tithing to her church year after year.  She was not what one would call a Southern belle; rather, she was much more of an activist and a liberal-thinker for her time who valued individual rights and freedom for all.  

QUITE THE DAREDEVIL IN YEARS PAST:  With her younger brother Freddie, in Daytona Beach, FL ...

... and riding the bull at Gilley's

When Grandmom first got to the nursing home, she needed supervision around the clock and help with some things, but there were some things about her personality that were still the same.  She had always been a competitive person, and we saw shades of that come out in things she did there too; once when we visited her she told us she was the fastest person on a walker in the whole place.  Another time she proudly informed us that she had won the Bingo game there the day before, and she showed us a ladybug broach that she'd won for proof.  She was always so grateful for visitors, even as she became unclear on exactly who we all were, and she especially lit up whenever she saw my dad.

About a month before Dad was diagnosed with cancer, he and my mom sat down with Grandmom's doctor to discuss her steadily declining condition.  She had become completely dependent on others for everything, including feeding herself, and had been having some trouble with swallowing that seemed to indicate that she had had one or more mini-strokes that were hastening her decline.  Because of the swallowing difficulties, she was at risk for pneumonia and she was also having bouts of depression and anxiety, even though she did not seem to be aware of where she was or what was going on around her most of the time.  The physician recommended that my dad, who held Grandmom's medical power of attorney, enroll his mother in hospice care, which meant that she would continue to be cared for in the nursing home but that she would also be monitored by medical staff from a hospice agency who were specifically trained in end-of-life comfort care.  Wanting the best possible care for his mom, Dad signed the papers with a heavy heart; he'd committed to providing for and to looking after his mom years ago and felt in his heart that this was the best choice for her, as did we.

Worrying about her, her prognosis, and her comfort continued to weigh heavily on my dad in the days ahead; in fact, the last text message I ever got from him, which was just before he was diagnosed, was about his concerns for her.  He said he felt that she was declining so quickly that he didn't think she would survive even one month longer.  He said that he was worried about how "the girls" (meaning my children and my nieces, all of whom had visited Grandmom in the nursing home recently but had not seen her in her present condition) were taking the news of her decline; the whole situation was both difficult and sad for everyone involved.  Dad continued to visit his mom whenever he could, as did my mom; thinking about her was a part of their normal routine. 

Dad last visited him mom in the nursing home the day before he was rushed to the hospital and the mass in his head was discovered.  Suddenly, his own health was unstable and his life was at risk, weirdly and shockingly in some ways even more so than his 90 year-old mother.

In his typical way, though, he continued to worry about his responsibilities (his mom being one of the things topping his list) throughout the course of his illness, despite the fact that he was very sick himself.  During his first hospitalization and his stay at the rehab hospital, my sisters and I stood in for Dad, with at least one of us checking in on Grandmom every few days.  It was something we were glad to do; it felt like helping to take care of her was also helping to take care of him.

The first time we went to see her was the day after Dad's surgery.  My sister Jennifer and I went, while Mom and Nancy stayed at the hospital with Dad.  We were still reeling from having just been given the devastating diagnosis less than 24 hours before, and walking into Grandmom's room in the nursing home with a smile on our faces as if nothing was wrong was tough, to say the least. I couldn't shake the anguish that came from thinking about how much had changed in the six days it had been since Dad had last been there to visit his mom, but I felt in my heart that the news that Dad was so sick that he was unable to visit her would be more than Grandmom could (or should have to) handle at that point.  Neither of us is much of an actress, but, for Grandmom's sake and for Dad's, thankfully Jennifer and I pulled it off, and I was glad we were able to spare her the pain and fear that had taken root in the hearts of the rest of us who did know the truth.

After we told Grandmom goodbye in her room, we went to the nursing station down the hall to talk to the nurse who was taking care of her that day.  My mom had been doing Grandmom's laundry, collecting her dirty clothes weekly and then washing them and returning the clothes to her; however, given what we were faced with dealing with at that point, we decided to tell the staff that we wanted to have the laundry done at the facility until further notice.  "I'm Nellie's granddaughter," I said, "and I need to let you know that my dad is very sick and so neither he nor my mom will be able to visit her for awhile.  In fact, I need to give you my contact information and ask that you call me in case of emergency or if Grandmom needs anything."

Behind the desk, the nurse and several nursing assistants all stopped what they were doing and looked at me like I was speaking in tongues.  One of the CNA's leaned in and said, "Are you talking about that really nice bald-headed man that visits Miss Nellie all the time?"

"Yes, that's my dad," I told her.

"He's not sick," she asserted. "He was just up here to see her a few days ago, and he was smiling and joking around like he always does. He's the picture of good health!"

I could tell by the looks on the faces of everyone who was listening that they thought I was mistaken.  I understood their thought process; it was the same one that was going through my head repeatedly, fueling my shock and disbelief as well.  I gave them a brief run-down on what had happened: "He got sick while he was out running last Saturday and was taken to the hospital, where they found out he had a mass in his head.  Yesterday, he had surgery, and we found out that he has brain cancer."  There.  I said it, out loud, for the first time.  I felt sick to my stomach, until the voice in my head told me that it wasn't true, it couldn't be true.  

But it was.  In what would become a pattern from that moment forward, as soon as I delivered the awful news about my dad, I was put into a position of having to try to comfort the recipients of the news.  The second after the words left my mouth, I felt guilty about having had to deliver such a blow.  I've since learned that there is a term for something like this called  'vicarious traumatization,' which happens when a trauma specialist spends day after day being exposed to another's trauma.  But it was necessary that they knew, and the news was out.  "We do not want my grandmother to be told about my dad; please make a note in the chart and be sure everyone knows."  I stood there watching them try to keep their composure, until the nurse whom I had originally addressed stepped from around the desk and hugged me.  When she backed up, she had tears in her eyes, and she said, "I'm so sorry.  Please tell him and your mom that we will take extra good care of Miss Nellie."  I swallowed my own tears, thanked her, handed her a piece of paper with my contact information and instructions about having the laundry done for Grandmom on it, and backed away, before I lost it.  

Thinking back, I wonder if what I thought was true actually was:  did I insist that Grandmom not be told because it was better for her, or for us?  Was it too much for her to handle having to hear the news, or for me to have to tell her?  Was it taking the easy way out in avoiding having to deal with her emotions?  Was it protecting her or us?  I think it was for her sake, and for Dad's, but like a lot of things that went on during that time, I can't be sure.  Whether or not it was right to decide not to tell her that day and in the weeks that followed is something that I have questioned many times since then.  Regardless, though, with Grandmom's care squared away, Jennifer and I left the nursing home and headed back to the hospital.

In a life-is-weirder-than-fiction moment, later that day we discovered that Robbie, one of the nurses that was on Grandmom's hospice service, also worked at the hospital where Dad was.  She heard about Dad from the nurses at the nursing home and came to see Dad in the ICU.  (Maybe she was verifying the accuracy of what I'd said for the rest of the staff at Grandmom's facility.)  It seemed to confuse Dad at first when he saw her there, which I actually thought was a good sign, because it was kind of puzzling to have someone involved in Grandmom's care show up on the scene at the hospital where Dad was.  Robbie asked some questions about what had happened and about what was going on with Dad, and then she told us that she would check in on Grandmom more often than usual and would report back to my parents.  We were grateful to have the help; it eased our minds, especially Dad's, to know that Grandmom would be getting some extra attention and interaction.  

It's funny how what seems tragic can change in a single moment.  As things were, after the news of hospice care having become necessary for Grandmom, my family was grieving.  It seemed terrible to have had to watch her decline as she became more physically challenged and more disoriented.  And now, in the blink of an eye, the tragedy had changed, or maybe it had just widened; our perspective and possibly even our forbearance had been altered by Dad's sudden illness.  I think we just thought that was the one-two punch that we just had to get through, that if we could rally and shore up, things would get better.  We had to think that way; it was the only thing keeping us from falling apart.

To Be Continued ... Not Knowing, Part 2

Getting It Right

One thing that I always admired about my dad was that he never seemed to take the easy way out.  He never made excuses to avoid doing something or, as he termed it, to let himself off the hook.  He viewed anything that he wasn't naturally good at or that scared him (or both) as a challenge.


Of course, there are countless examples that I could give of this trait involving athletic pursuits.  But one obstacle that he had to work to overcome that didn't involve physical tenacity is something that may surprise some of the people who knew him, maybe some who even knew him well:  Dad had a fear of giving speeches.  At one point in time, having to talk in front of a group of people made him very nervous, and until sometime around the time that he took the job that would become his last, he sometimes let this fear get the better of him.  In fact, one of the details I remember most clearly about my wedding day is listening to my dad rehearse his "one line of the day," as he called it, over and over, and watching him stress out about potentially making a mistake when it was time for him to speak during the ceremony.  As usual, when he was nervous, he made jokes, and those of us around him during that time heard lots of entertaining renditions of what he jokingly hoped out loud he wouldn't say in error when the minister asked him his Big Question in front of everyone at the wedding, "Who gives this woman to be married?" 

"What if I freeze up?" he asked me, "or what if I accidentally say something like 'Me and her momma' or 'Her momma and me' or 'Your momma'?"  We laughed because we knew that he knew the proper etiquette of what to say.  But the more he kidded around about what he hoped he didn't inadvertently say, the more nervous he got about getting right what he was actually supposed to say, and it seemed the greater the potential for him to make a mistake.  By the time he and I were in ready-position at the far end of the aisle as the music began and all the heads turned our way, he had worked himself up so much about it that neither of us were laughing.  When we got to the Big Moment (for him, and for the rest of us who knew about his nervousness), when he was asked The Question, his eyes went a little wider and I saw him take a deep breath before he responded, but he pulled it off with his typical style: he said, "Her mom and I do."  Not exactly the line from the Miss Manners Wedding Day Book, but just right anyway, if you ask me.

Just a few months later, he told me that he was thinking about branching out in his career but that there was one thing he really needed to work on before he could really consider make a change: he said he needed to get better at public speaking.  And so, like every challenge I'd ever seen him take on, he dove right in, and he practiced until he got it right.  


As part of getting comfortable speaking in front of a crowd, Dad joined a group of people who also wanted to improve that skill; I'm not sure if it was the Toastmasters International Club but at least it was something similar to it.  Periodically, people in the group were given topics about which they were supposed to write and then deliver speeches, to practice and to improve their comfort levels.  One of the assignments was for each person to talk about how they'd gotten their name, whether they were named after someone, if they had a nickname, or whatever information related to that topic they wanted to share.  


Dad said that one came to him easily; he gave me the written out copy of his speech when I was visiting at my parents' house during that time period, and I was enlightened and entertained by what he had written:


Some people dream of singing in a rock band, winning the Daytona 500, or being a great warrior in an epic battle.  Myself, I have always wanted to be an adventurer.  I am afraid of heights, but I read every book I can find about climbing Mt. Everest.  I have dreamed about biking across the country in 14 days and winning the 48 hour run across Death Valley.  Sailing across the ocean has appeal for me, but it doesn't make my final cut for that list because I'm afraid of sharks.


At this point in my life, I have not failed totally in my search for adventure.  There are a few running and biking tales I could share with you, but I will spare you the details.  There is one outdoor adventure I would like to tell you about, though.  It wasn't my greatest, but it might have been my most memorable.  It took place when I was eight years old, and this is what happened:


For some reason my parents chose to name me William but decided to call me Billy.  However, I've always hated to be called by that nickname.  I think it's because when I was a kid my friends said it sounded sissified.  On my 8th birthday, I decided I'd had enough, and I asked my mom to please start calling me Bill instead of Billy.  I told her that if she didn't I would run away and never come home.  We lived in a small house surrounded by woods, just on the edge of town.  It was a good place to run away and hide, which is exactly what I did on the afternoon of my birthday when it became clear that my nickname wasn't likely to get shortened into the version I wanted. I tucked into a place I found in the woods where I could see if someone was coming but where I couldn't be seen.  As I remember, I didn't go unprepared - I took my silver canteen and something to eat along with me.


I had already figured out how to go to the bathroom in the woods.  My friends and I were often out of washroom range when we were playing cowboys and Indians, and we'd learned to make do when nature called by using leaves or moss or whatever was available at the time.  Unfortunately, that day I made the mistake of using poison ivy leaves for you know what.  It didn't take long for the itching to begin, maybe an hour or two, and not too long after that, I decided that maybe it would be best for me to go home - besides, it was getting dark outside.


As my mom always told the story, I was soon race walking around the house, and I couldn't have sat down if my life had depended on it.  I wound up with such a blistering case that I was taken to the local doctor for some kind of shot.  The doctor also prescribed an ointment that made the itching feel better, at least temporarily.  The bad news is that my mom had to put it on.  God, was I embarrassed.  Not at all the birthday that I'd imagined.


My mom keeps things forever.  She has a log of my childhood illnesses, and on October 26, 1951, the entry in her notebook says, "Bill - poison ivy, lower trunk, really bad."  Amen to that!  At least she'd started just calling me Bill though.

Dad, giving a speech, after he overcame his fear of public speaking.  (Note the guy who can't keep his eyes open!)