What's in a Name?

I read an article recently about how stressful some people think it is to choose a name for their child: 

"The New Baby Name Anxiety"

Like a lot of things, though, I think the way a person feels about that process really comes down to perspective.

Personally, I considered it an honor to be in a position, along with my husband, to choose a name for both of my children. When I was pregnant with my first child, I read somewhere that it can put a person in a "position of power" to have a name that follows this rule: the last syllable of the first name should start with the same sound as the first syllable of the last name.  That sounds complicated, but it really isn't; an example of this is Stephanie Nelson - the last syllable of "Stephanie" starts with an "n" sound, and so does the first syllable of the last name.  

Obviously, if someone uses a nickname and/or if a woman marries and takes her husband's surname, that pattern may not hold as intended.  I named both of my children with that guideline in mind, anyway, though.  Of course, whether or not that rule is true is really just conjecture anyway.  Who really knows what's in a name??  

Whether or not name selection seems overwhelming can depend on how the parents-to-be view things.  While I think there are definitely some names out there that are a little "out there," it's possible that some people put too much thought into what names are too trendy or popular.  When my sister Jennifer was in the second grade, there were three other girls also named "Jennifer" in her homeroom, which was obviously confusing for everyone involved.  The teacher told the Jennifers to work out what each of them would be called so that there wouldn't be any mix-ups, and one of them right away called dibs on "Jennifer."  Another said she liked to be called "Jenn" and the third one quickly chimed in that she could go by "Jenny," which left my sister as the lone non-nicknamed student.  It was a Friday, and the teacher sent her home to think about it for the weekend, as if it was a homework assignment ... or a punishment.  

My sister didn't seem to mind, though; she announced to my family that she needed a nickname and it couldn't "Jenn" or "Jenny."

"How about 'JB,' for your initials?" Dad suggested.  "OK," she agreed, and that was that.  

Except for some reason I felt the need to have some input into the situation.  Later that weekend, the newly coined "JB" and I were floating around in a swimming pool, just the two of us, and I told her that I wasn't going to call her by that nickname.  "I'll either call you 'J' or 'B,' whichever you prefer," I told her.  "I'll take 'J,'" she said, and thus her family nickname was born.

When my sister Nancy and her husband were trying to choose a name for their baby during her pregnancy, lots of different name combinations were considered.  They did not find out the gender of the baby while Nancy was pregnant, which afforded us an opportunity to chime in on ideas for names of both genders.  In no uncertain terms, there were lots of cooks in the kitchen for that project.  The girl name was easier, because Nancy had had a favorite girl name since childhood.  But the boy name was open to all kinds of possibilities.  By the baby's due date, the parents-to-be had narrowed it down to three boy name possibilities, and then, two days later when Nancy went into labor, they announced that they had shortened the "in case of boy" list to two.  A few hours later, with all of us there and with the baby's arrival getting very close, they were still discussing which boy name they preferred.  Finally, less than an hour before the baby was in Nancy's arms for the first time, she and David came up with a plan: when the baby was born, if it was a boy, they would wait to see with which hand he reached out first - if left, the name would be one of the two choices, and if right, the name would be the other.  Fast-forward to "it's a boy!" and the moment of decision - and it was the right-hand reach that won out, with the newest addition to our family essentially choosing his own name, Crosby.

Bittersweet

Following is a guest post written by my sister Nancy:

Bittersweet...

I've often heard that word but have never felt that I had an appropriate time in my life to use it, until 6 weeks ago. 

Giving birth on March 24, 2013, to my firstborn was hands down both the most amazing and the scariest thing I have ever experienced.  I had envisioned the moment of his birth in my head many times over the previous 9 months and it always played out perfectly, except for one crucial part ... my dad wasn't present.

The day I found out I was pregnant, even with as much excitement as I felt, I remember thinking to myself, "This sucks - it's so unfair that my dad won't be here or ever know his 7th grandchild."  I tried not to let myself dwell too much on that fact over the months ahead, but always in the back of my thoughts I felt very bitter.

On the day of my son's birth, I tried to keep it together so as not to make the special day sad, even though Dad wasn't there, but to make sure it was memorable.  I grasped tightly to one of my dad's handkerchiefs (or "hankies," as he called them) during my entire labor process.  I kept hearing my oldest sister saying to me "Remember this, remember this!" and I wanted to focus on especially that.  My whole life I strived to make my dad proud of me and he always told me that he was, and I know without a doubt that he was with all of us in that delivery room that day at the exact moment of my child's birth and that he was so proud of me, my mom, and my sisters knowing that life really does go on - just not always the way we envisioned that it would.  There was complete joy and happiness, and there were big smiles again in our lives and yet another legacy to carry on the family name. 

The nurses allowed Nancy to wear her Brain Cancer Awareness bracelet during the entire labor and delivery process.

I look forward to having Crosby's aunts, uncles, cousins, and Gran-Gran telling detailed stories in honor of his Gramps so that my son will know my dad.  I've decided that I'm not going to waste precious time being mad or even bitter that Dad wasn't physically there for that big moment in my life; instead I will embrace the fact of all the people I love most on this earth were by my side. 

Bittersweet...

Memories on April Fool's Day

Twenty years ago today, my then-fiance and I went to the County Courthouse during our lunch break and got our marriage license.  We had intentionally planned to get our license that day: I've always loved April Fool's Day - even if I don't have a good idea or an opportunity to pull a prank on someone, I love the idea that I COULD - and also it was the only day that we could coordinate our schedules to make it downtown during business hours before our wedding date less than three weeks later.  

It's a good thing we did it that day, because, as it turned out, on April 2, the next day, my grandmother died.  

My maternal grandmother was the grandparent to whom I was the closest at the time; I saw or tried to see some of myself in her - or I guess I should say I tried to see some of her in me.  Anyway, even though she had been sick for awhile as she struggled through a relapse of breast cancer, I was shocked by the news.  I was grateful that my grandmother had hung on long enough to meet my husband-to-be and to hear about my wedding plans - and most importantly to meet her youngest grandchild, whom she held in her arms not long before she went on ahead, but I was so saddened by the loss that I could hardly put one foot in front of the other.  It was the first death that I had experienced of someone to whom I was close, and I was at a loss of how to even try to cope.  

Needless to say, the next few days were a blur as we made our way to the city where she lived and gathered together as an extended family to pay our respects.  I remember that I didn't think I would be able to sit through the service in the church without bolting for the door because I was afraid my cries would be too loud.  I remember hardly being able to bear the pain of looking at my mom, at my two aunts - one of whom had a two year-old and a two-week-old baby - and most especially at my grandfather, whose sky-blue eyes held such endless sadness that there seemed to be no possibility of ever being able to comfort him.  I remember that I stood with one of my cousins and my fiance long after the rest of the people had gone back to their cars at the cemetery; the funeral director had dismissed us after they'd lowered the casket into the ground, but I just couldn't bring myself to walk away before I'd seen her body buried, one final thing I felt I could do, if not for her than in her honor.  We stood there by the headstones of the other graves around her plot, and I looked for four-leaf clovers while the dirt was placed over her beautiful silver casket, adorned with beautiful tiny daisies.  I remember that I was a little bit comforted by wearing one of my grandmother's sweaters to the funeral; it was the only thing I had of hers besides the opal ring she had given me - "October birthday girl to October birthday girl,"she'd said - when I celebrated my sixteenth birthday.  Years later, I pulled that sweater from the back of my closet and wore it to the funeral of a friend, and in the pocket I found the handkerchief that my dad had given to me at my grandmother's funeral, a reminder of both the tears I had shed and of the love my family shared as we tried to support each other through those rough days.  

I knew my grandmother well enough to know that she would absolutely have wanted "the show to go on," and so, just a couple of weeks after we laid her to rest, my dad walked me down the aisle and I said "I do" to my new husband in front of many of our family and friends, at sunset on the banks of the Mississippi River.  I wore the gerber daisy wrist corsage that was intended for my grandmother during the ceremony; I felt my her absence profoundly that day as I have many days since. 

Wearing the corsage meant for my grandmother

Today, when I think back on that April Fool's Day at the Courthouse, to the days afterwards leading up to the wedding, and to the wedding itself, so many emotions run through me.  I feel lucky, I feel loved, I feel happy for what I have learned and shared and survived.  Twenty years, wow.  Pretty incredible.

My grandfather, at my wedding, just two weeks after he'd lost his wife.
"I'm here for two," he said, and I knew just what he meant.

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.  

Before

There are certain things that went on during the time when my dad was sick that I don't remember, especially during the last couple of weeks of his life when we were all so stressed out, so worried, so confused, so sleep-deprived, and so terrified.  It's like my mind blocked out some of those things, or maybe all of my energy had to be poured into meeting Dad's needs instead of moving things over into my memory bank as he got sicker and sicker.

Sometimes something said in conversation about an event that occurred in those weeks alerts me to the fact that there is some weird amnesia-like spot that seems to have been blocked in my brain.  My kids and my husband and even my friends and coworkers have mentioned things they remember from during that time that I don't. Recently, my daughter was talking about wanting to go back to a restaurant near my parents' house; she said that we had been there while my dad was in the hospital.  I, however, have no remembrance of ever having gone there.  

Sometimes these days a memory from during that time comes back to me from out of nowhere, and other times there is something that triggers that recollection, causing me to flash back to something that happened that I didn't remember previously.  

That's what happened to me yesterday when I was driving in my car and I heard a song come on the radio that caused a memory to come flooding back:

On the Sunday after the memorial service we held in Dad's honor, my husband, my daughters, and I left my parents' house to drive back to our house.  When we stopped at an exit along the way and went into the gas station, there was a song called "If You Get There Before I Do" playing on the overhead speaker.  When I'd first heard it, well before Dad had gotten sick, I'd thought it was one of the saddest songs I'd ever heard, but that was nothing compared to how devastatingly sad I found it to be that day. When I recognized the song, I could hardly breathe.  I made my way outside into the freezing air as fast as I could so that I didn't hear the music anymore and just stood there with tears streaming down my face until my husband and my daughters came back outside.  Maybe they'd gotten used to the craziness that seemed to have become part of me in those days or maybe they didn't notice how upset I was; they didn't say anything about my hasty departure.  I think I mumbled something like, "I can't listen to that song; it's a really sad one," and then we piled back into the car and I put my sunglasses on to hide my tears as we continued down the highway.

Funerals

I went to the funeral service of a dear friend today, probably the fourth one I've been to since my dad went on ahead, a tough thing to do for several reasons, one of which is that it turns my focus back to when we buried my dad.

Before my dad went on ahead, I remember feeling completely at a loss of what to say or do when I went to a funeral.  "What can I possibly say that will make a difference at all?" I'd think, and, truth be told, there were a few occasions when a family member (whom I didn't know) of a friend of mine passed away and I didn't make an effort to go to the funeral.  I told myself that my friend wouldn't miss my presence there, that I would be just one more person in a sea of people paying their condolences that day, and that it wasn't a big deal if I just waited to check in with my friend later.  

But since then my perspective has changed, and I've started thinking differently.  I now know that it is important to make an effort to be there to support the people I care about who are grieving, even if it's hard and even if I am struggling still with my own grief.  For all of my rambling over the past year and a half about what I didn't appreciate people saying to me in my own grief, the truth is that I STILL don't know what to say to another person who is bereaved.  Here's my gut feeling, though: I think those whose loved one has gone on ahead need to hear that the person who died will live on in the memories of and in the hearts of others who knew him or her.  I think it can be helpful for them to hear about what that person meant to others or even just to hear a story that that person has to share about their loved one.  For me, one of the things that I have feared the most since my dad died is that time and the business of everyday life will swallow up the impact of my dad's presence for other people in the world, like he wasn't here or like his life didn't matter to anyone other than to those in my family.  Maybe that is a common thing to fear in a situation of loss, and, if so, maybe reassurance in some form from those who also knew that person will in some way help those who are suffering from a loss.

From my own experience, I also learned that the significance of following-up with a friend who has lost a family member, checking in with them after a little bit of time has gone by, is so often overlooked, or at least it was in my family's case; I think it's something that most people just don't think about doing, or maybe they think about it but just get too busy with their own lives.  I learned how touching little things are as we go through the process of the funeral are, everything from having someone bring extra Kleenexes to someone taking photos of some of the flowers to the strangers along the way to the cemetery who pull their cars over on the side of the road to let the procession go by.  I learned that different families, different situations, and different religious practices result in different types of funerals, and that that's ok; certainly there's no right or wrong way to hold a memorial service or to grieve.  

The funeral today was at my friend's church; the service was very touching and was reflective of my friend's beliefs and her preference in music and verses.  My dad's, though, was a different style altogether.  Before he got sick, Dad had said many times that he didn't want a big service to be held in his memory after he died; he said it embarrassed him to even think about having lots of people gather in mourning for him.  For as long as I can remember, he'd said that he wanted to be cremated, and several times after going to someone's funeral he commented that he would much prefer it if a celebratory type of gathering could be held in his honor in place of a traditional funeral, when the time came.

And so, on the night he died, my mom, my sisters, my aunt, and I sat in my parents' den and talked about what Dad wanted, and the plans were set in motion.  A memorial celebration it was, to be held three days after he went on ahead, to allow for travel time for the many who came from out of town.  Some of the time around the gathering is a blur to me; I see from this vantage point so clearly the shock that blanketed us then and I know that created a haze over some of what was going on.  I remember who came, though, and I will never forget their efforts to comfort us with their presence and their kind words and gestures during the most difficult time in our lives.  The memorial celebration was memorable, in probably precisely the way it needed to be, and it served as Part One of our bereavement process.

Part Two happened six weeks later, when the cremation had been completed and when those of us who lived out of town had a chance to regroup and return for the burial.  One benefit to delaying that part of the process of laying my dad to rest was that my mom, my siblings, and I had a chance to put some thought into how we wanted to have things go.  We'd decided early on to honor Dad's wishes and to have the burial only opened to close family members, and we agreed that we wanted the ceremony to be held at the graveside only and to pay our respects on that day in whatever way each of us decided.  One by one, each of us chose what part we wanted to play as individuals, to honor and to pay our respects.  My mom, my sister Jennifer, and I planned to read something that each of us had prepared in advance; my brother Lee wanted to read from the Bible, and my sister Nancy did not plan to address the group during the ceremony.  As it turned out, though, Jennifer had trouble getting through the end of her reading, and Nancy came to her rescue to finish the passage.  When my turn came, as I read what I had written, I felt my voice shaking, and I couldn't hardly see through the sea of tears that clouded my vision as I struggled to keep my emotions in check enough to get through the words I wanted to say. I thought I would feel some closure, some relief, or some comfort.  All that really happened, though, is that I did more of exactly what I'd been doing since the moment of Dad's passing:  I breathed, I mustered up all the courage I could, and then I pushed forward to do what I knew Dad would want me to do, despite the pain and the confusion in my heart.

Mark of Honor

During the months while my dad was in training for the Ironman triathlon before he was diagnosed with cancer, he mentioned several times that he was thinking about getting a tattoo after he finished the race to celebrate his achievement.  He said that he wanted to get the Ironman logo on his ankle.  Finishing the Ironman was definitely a Bucket List item for him, and we supported his plan to get inked after such an impressive accomplishment.

In the days before and just after the time when he had surgery and when we got the diagnosis, he brought up the subject of the tattoo again, wondering aloud if it would seem like a misrepresentation if he went ahead and got the Ironman symbol on his leg even if he wasn’t able to complete in the event.  I can still recall the feeling of the precariousness of the air in his room in the Neuro-ICU as I think back to the last conversation I had with him about the subject.  “I’d hate to get it done and then have people ask me about it and then I’d have to say I didn’t really do it,” he said to my sister Jennifer and me, certainly picturing himself - as did we and as we surely wanted him to do – years down the road, reminiscing about his battle with brain cancer as a thing in the past.  

“What if we get one too – would that make you want to do it?” Jennifer asked him.  

“What?? Y’all can’t get one!  It’s only for Ironman athletes!!”  he said, incredulous at the apparent ludicrousness of the idea.  We watched him for a minute as he seemed to be working something out in his head and then he said dispiritedly, “I guess I don’t need to get one either.”  The look in his eyes and the emotion in his voice were heartbreaking, and, looking back, such a harbinger of things to come as he was forced to rewrite his Bucket List again and again due to his declining health.

On the Saturday after my dad went on ahead, we held a memorial celebration in his honor.  I don’t recall how the topic of tattoos came up then as I talked to my mom’s cousin and her husband, but I do remember the stunned look on their faces when I told them that my sisters, my mom, and I were discussing getting a memorial tattoo.  They exchanged a look that appeared to me to be one of horror and pity, one that said, “They are in shock but hopefully they won’t do anything CRAZY!”   I didn’t care, though; like everything my family had been through over the eleven weeks preceding that moment in time, we knew that our situation, our experience, and our perspective were unique, something that no one else would ever totally understand or view as we did.  

Last summer, on our first family vacation without Dad, my sister Nancy brought up the idea again, and my oldest daughter started saying that she wanted to be in on the commemorative inking as well.  The problem was that we weren’t sure of the design we wanted to get or where on our bodies we wanted to get it.  We went back and forth with thoughts and ideas; the frontrunner was a picture of a running stickman that would go on the back of each of our left shoulders.  Still, though, there was some uncertainty, or at least some inaction, and the plan remained inert.

Over the course of the last year, in the time span from one family vacation to another, my sisters, my mom, my daughter, and I all agreed that we liked the idea of having the image be consist of a depiction of the way Dad typically signed off when he wrote notes and messages to people, with two lower-case printed b’s followed by two forward slash marks as an accentuation or underscoring of his initials.  We also decided, based on an astute comment made by my youngest sister Nancy’s best friend, that we wanted to have the tattoo in a place on our bodies where we could easily see it, with the idea that that could bring comfort and inspiration to each of us.

And so, last week, on the day we all gathered in California, three of us decided to take the plunge – Nancy, my daughter Maddie, and me.  My mom and my middle sister Jennifer went with us to the tattoo parlor (they are still considering getting ink and plan to use the same design if they decide to go ahead with the idea at some point), and Mom brought along several samples of things that Dad had written to show the tattoo artist, who actually traced Dad’s writing for the pattern she used on all three of us.

Nancy and I opted to get the design done in navy blue, Dad’s favorite color, and Maddie chose black, which I thought was funny because Dad often wore those two colors together when he ran (“Real runners don’t wear matching outfits!” he claimed.).  All three of us decided to get the design placed facing us, on the inside of our left wrist, since Dad was left-handed, and positioned slightly off-center, to symbolize Dad’s uniqueness.  In what I thought was a really cool and kindhearted gesture, the tattoo artist placed the sticky note that’s she’d used to make the template of the design on the table beside us so we could see it as we got it done.  One after the other, we were marked, in honor and in memory of the man who will always be as much a part of us as the ink on our wrists.

When my daughter told one of her friends what we'd done, her friend said,
"Some families plant a tree in someone's memory, but this is way cooler."

It's not an Ironman insignia, but I think this one was well earned and sits as a mark of honor too.

Time – Part 4

Continued from Time - Part 3

Last year on Father’s Day, I was resolute in my determination not to fall apart despite the fact that it was my first without my dad.  I wanted to honor my husband, who is a spectacular father, and I wanted to be able to hold it together so that those around me would think I was improving in my ability to cope with my grief.  

With the help of my teenaged daughters, the first part was easy, and it helped me to stay busy so that I could address the second part.  In the middle of that afternoon, we decided to go over to my in-laws’ house to give my father-in-law (my husband’s stepfather) a Father’s Day card.  We already had a gift for him but still needed a card to go with it, and so I asked my husband to stop at Walgreen’s and let me run in to get a card on the way to their house.  

I entered the store through the sliding glass doors and went straight to the greeting card aisle.  And that’s where I lost it.  As I stood there unabashedly crying in front of the special section of Father’s Day cards, I could hear the sound of a ticking clock, even more loudly than I had been hearing it since my dad’s diagnosis, filling my head.  My husband, realizing I had been in the store too long, came in and found me, pieced me together the best he could, and walked me back to the car.  As we had done since my dad went on ahead five months earlier, we muddled through somehow, sad but putting one foot in front of the other because that’s what has to be done.

In the last year, I honestly don’t think my grief has gotten any better (no stupid NEW NORMAL for me!), but I do think it has changed.  But one thing that hasn’t changed is the sound of that damn ticking clock.  Or maybe it’s a timer on a bomb.  Or one of those metronome things that used to drive me half-insane during the piano lessons I took as a child.  Whatever it is, I hate it.  I hate that I have that sound in my head; I hate that I have the knowledge that things won’t always be even as “ok” as they are right now.  I hate that I often don’t feel safe, because in a single minute two Octobers ago, life as I knew it dropped off the edge of a cliff, and everything I believed in was called into question.  When things became unbalanced, when I lost control – wait, correction, when I learned that there really is no control to be had over anything in life except maybe our perspective.  

And sometimes even controlling that is not entirely possible to do, especially for me now with that noise in my head and the knowledge that I needed more time with my dad!  Time while he was healthy, time to take care of him while he was sick.  Time to figure out ways to ensure that each new day would be one that he would look forward to because of the joy it could bring, rather than one to dread or to fear or even just to tolerate.  I wanted him to be able to close his eyes and smile peacefully, but he didn’t close his eyes very often and when he did, he wore more of a grimace or at least a look of worry.  As much as fucking cancer stole my dad, it also stole my chance to have enough time to make his last bit of time not just bearable but joyful for him – he didn’t get the cherry on top and for that I will always be resentful and remorseful.

And that’s the tough thing about grief: in the process, we are forced to learn to live without givens, in the midst of chaos and with the sadness and the anger mixed in.  We have to learn to focus on the good while at the same time knowing that doing so won’t make up for what happened or quiet the ticking noise or bring meaning to our loss.  As we flail and struggle and fight over what happened and about what needs to be done in light of it going forward, may we not forget the sustaining beauty that exists in every moment we are privileged to live on this earth.  Even the dark ones.

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary. I want to put a ding in the universe." ~Steve Jobs

The Why of It

Sometimes I can't clearly remember the me that was before my dad got sick, the person who thought all problems could be solved with effort, the person who believed the world pretty much made sense, the person who believed that good came from good.  

Sometimes I still don’t believe that my dad isn’t still here with us, and – here’s the whole truth – when I have those moments of thinking that, I sometimes let myself bask in the glory of that belief for a little while.  It feels like lying on a beach, soaking in the sun, when these moments occur, but then, inevitably, the sun goes behind a cloud or, worse, a thunderstorm appears from out of nowhere, just like Dad’s cancer did.  

Sometimes I think that whole thing about the five stages of grief is inaccurate.  There is such a flooding of emotions, a constant state of flux, and I’m not sure it isn’t essentially stagnant since there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight.  If the stages do exist as stated, I guess I am clinging onto Denial and fighting off Acceptance, almost as vigorously as I clung to Hope as I fought Dad’s cancer.  And the Anger, I am holding onto that too.  I want revenge, I want justice, I want to lash out; I think that would feel good after all that has happened that feels so awful.  Hell, what I really want is to have my dad back, happy and healthy, and I don’t think it’s too much to wish for that to happen, if only in my memories.

Because mostly what I remember these days is the him while he was sick.  I don’t understand why that is!  I had him for over four decades before the time when he had a zipper of a scar on the top of his head and confusion and fear in his eyes.  Why is that the way I am seeing him now, as he was during just ten of the 2194 weeks I had him during my life?  

Dad never asked, “Why me?” when he was sick.  He did wonder why he got brain cancer, but he thought about it in terms of what he had done to cause the cancer; he thought his health was his responsibility.  He wondered aloud if it could have been caused by the chlorine in the pools where he did so much swimming; he said he thought maybe it was somehow from too much running or from having too many bike wrecks.  While he was in rehab, he asked the neuropsychologist if the cancer came from talking on a cell phone too much, and, even though Dad wasn’t one of those people who seems to have his phone permanently connected to the side of his head and even though to date there is no conclusive evidence that there is a link, the guy told him there could be a connection.  Dad asked the doctors at Duke if they knew what could’ve caused it, and the team of neuro-oncologists there who are some of the leaders in the world in the field of brain cancer told him the causes were unknown.  It made me so sad to see him guiltily ask these questions, all framed with self-reproach, and somehow remembering that now fuels my anger even more.  DAMN that he had to wonder and worry and that he still somehow thought he needed to apologize for having gotten brain cancer.  Not right, not fair.  Add that to the list.

Dad wasn’t ever one to over-think or really contemplate the “why” or “why not” of things; before he got sick, he used to joke around about the saying, “It is what it is.”  “Well, what else would it be?” he’d say facetiously.  

But I questioned, and, when I started to realize there would be no answer, I said, “It’s not fair!”  It really isn’t fair, is it?  

And yet, it doesn’t escape me that none of us promised a perfect life nor does it that despite the fact that what we went through was terrible, it could have been worse.  I’m sure most people in a tragic situation want to know why it happened.  I guess it really doesn’t matter, though, because the fact is that it did happen, and things cannot be undone or changed.   If I knew why would it make me less sad; would I miss my dad less?  Maybe I would be less angry, but of course that is pure “grass is greener” thinking.

I know that I am so very lucky to have had my dad in my life for as long as I did, and I still consider him to be an important part of my life and my perspective.  But I struggle all the same, and again and again my thoughts come back to the same rejoinder: “It’s not fair!”

I used to hate it when I was a kid and I heard a grown-up say, “No one ever said life was fair.”  I always wanted to say, No kidding, but how is pointing out that something isn’t fair any different from commenting on the weather?  It is what it is, and no one said it wouldn’t be, but it kind of helps to say it out loud.  

I can’t imagine a scenario where a person would be told he is terminally ill, and think oh, yeah, well, that’s fair.  That’s ridiculous!  I am trying to come to terms with the fairness issue, the anger, and the burning in my gut, and I'm sure it would be easier if I could stop comparing and thinking about what I think should have been.  I know what I have to do, to move on past the Anger, to honor my dad:  change my perspective. His death challenged me and made me acutely aware that our paths are never certain. A traumatic loss challenges our belief system and the core of life's assumptions, and acceptance is a major hurdle when death is traumatic and/or sudden (and I do consider my dad’s to be both). Telling the story is supposed to help make sense out of the senselessness. I’m not sure that goal will ever be accomplished for me, but, just like my dad did, I plan to give it my all and then to focus on feeling lucky for what I have and have had instead of the alternative.

I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge -

That myth is more potent than history.

I believe that dreams are more powerful than facts -

That hope always triumps over experience -

That laughter is the only cure for grief.

And I believe that love is stronger than death.

 ~ Robert Fulghum

A Heartfelt Tribute

Like other families, my family has some quirky holiday traditions.  Some of them are from Christmases past, things I remember doing as a child growing up in my parents’ house, like letting our dogs, who lived outside, come into the den so they could be in the Christmas morning pictures with us, and like getting goodies in one leg of a pair of panty-hose instead of in our handmade stockings that hung over the fireplace.

In fact, one of the most vivid Christmas memories from my childhood was a tradition repeated year after year and was something that annoyed my dad greatly:  my sisters and I always had a “sister sleepover” in one of our bedrooms on Christmas Eve, and every year we found a way to get up after our parents had gone to sleep so that we could check out what Santa had left for us downstairs.  Every year, after our parents told us to go to sleep, we either stayed awake (feigning sleep when they checked on us before they went to bed) or we set an alarm so that after we went to sleep we could get up in the middle of the night.  One year, we woke up in the wee hours and went to check out what Santa had left for us, and I discovered that I had gotten a new bicycle!  Despite the freezing cold temperatures outside and the snow on the ground, I went out in my pajamas and without shoes (the pajamas were the kind with built-in feet, so I figured that was good enough!) and rode my new bike up and down the street until Dad caught me a little while later.  Another year on Christmas Eve, Dad told us that if we set an alarm before we went to sleep, he would just turn it off so that we wouldn’t get up.  Hmmm.  We retaliated by setting TWO alarms, one on the bedside table (which he later turned off) and a second one hidden under a bed.  Mission accomplished; sorry, Dad, but we were EXCITED!

Some of the holiday traditions from my childhood are continued in my family today; for example, after each present is unwrapped on Christmas morning, the wrapping paper is wadded up and thrown on the floor so that by the time all of the gifts have been unwrapped there is a mountain of paper in the room in which the kids are able to completely hide, which they do until someone counts, “1, 2, 3” and then a photo is taken as they jump up out of the pile of gift wrap.   We also always give our pets Christmas presents, and we always open gifts one at a time.  

A few of the things we usually do may not happen this year; we may take some time off and resume these things later, or we may just let them go.  One of the things I am mostly avoiding this year is listening to Christmas music; every song reminds me of my dad and fills me with such sadness that he is not able to be here with the rest of us.  Maybe next year those songs will be happy reminders for me of his beautiful singing voice and how he loved to listen to Christmas songs and hymns; we’ll have to wait and see on that one.

Thirteen years ago, my sister J had her first child, a daughter who was born too early and subsequently had to stay in the hospital in the Neonatal ICU for several weeks.  During her hospital stay in a city over 100 miles from where my sister and her husband lived, my family took turns visiting, and we stayed at the Ronald McDonald House near the hospital.  

Though the days while my niece was in the NICU were terrifying and exhausting, there was a happy ending: my sister got to bring her beautiful, healthy daughter home, a child who tomorrow becomes a teenager!  The story actually repeated just over a year later when my sister’s second child, another daughter, was also born early, this time for different reasons than the first time.  Another long hospitalization, another roller coaster ride, another extended stay at Ronald McDonald House, and – thankfully  – another recovery and another beautiful, healthy baby who is growing up just fine. 

Since that time, my family has been committed to supporting Ronald McDonald House Charities and its efforts to help critically ill children and their families.   When my dad went on ahead and people asked us to which charity we would like donations to be sent, we knew right away what Dad wanted us to say:  Ronald McDonald House Charities, an organization with a special place in all of our hearts and something that we associate with healing, good news, and new beginnings.

In thinking about the changes for my family this holiday season, we decided that we want to do something positive, something helpful and hopeful, and something to honor Dad, and so we signed up to cook and to serve Dad’s favorite meal – spaghetti, salad, and apple pie – to the children and their families at our local Ronald McDonald House on Christmas night this year.  We are all looking forward to this tribute; it’s a perfect example of the way that making an effort to be helpful is often at least as helpful to oneself as it potentially is to the recipients of that effort.

                                Happy holidays!

To Dad, whom I know will be there in our hearts as we take part in our Christmas tribute at RMH.