The Power of A Single Second

This short video clip is a good demonstration of the power that even just a single second in time can have:

          If the video above won't play, click HERE to open the link in a separate window.

Since my dad's diagnosis and his subsequent death, I think a lot about the concept of time: I am more fully aware than ever before (and more aware than I actually want to be, I think) that there is no way to restore the sand back into the top part of the hourglass.  And that it's passing by, quickly, and that once a moment in time - or an opportunity - passes us by, it's in the past, and so it's so important to seize the moment, to take the plunge, to prioritize ... and to take time to stop and smell the roses, to be present with the people we care about, and to be kind and appreciative and gracious along the way.

The Days In Between

I often wonder why it is that there are certain things about a person that aren’t often fully realized or recognized until after that person’s physical presence is gone.  Do we not see those things because we aren’t paying close enough attention?  Do we not take the time to consider the value of our interaction with and of the lessons learned from that person?  Do we see it on some level and just not think about it, articulate it, or appreciate it until we see that that’s all there is?  Is our view - or our awareness - shaped by loss, or experience, or both?

Thinking about all of that starts me thinking about the concept of rippling and about the intangible things that a person can leave behind, often without even realizing he is doing it.

I woke up with a raging headache and thought about my maternal grandfather; I remembered how he used to rub my forehead and the area around my eyes tirelessly when I was with him and had a headache.  Every time I put sheets on a bed, I think about my maternal grandmother: she always put the flat sheet on top in a face-down position so that the “good side” showed when she pulled the top of it over the edge of the bedspread and folded it over.  I think about my paternal grandfather whenever I see a man joyfully playing with young children; he was the king of the piggy back rides when my sisters and I were little.  And I think about my paternal grandmother when I notice that the bottle of Heinz ketchup is almost empty; I often follow her example of making something out of almost nothing and use her recipe to use that last little bit of ketchup to make BBQ sauce for chicken for my family.

And then there’s my dad, a man who taught me so much, most of which he did inadvertently.  Many of those lessons have become seasoned with the shift of my perspective over the years; all of them are more valued by me than I can adequately explain.  Some come from big events and big days in our lives, but most of them come from the in-between kind of days when we were just hanging out or just going about our everyday business.

I recently came across a video clip showing the different ways that people reacted to a man whom they thought was homeless:

CLICK HERE TO WATCH THE CLIP

The whole piece is framed around the idea that the people who reacted in a kind, compassionate manner were extraordinary – or even heroic.  Watching the clip, though, I thought about what my dad would say about the people and the situation shown: Why wouldn’t a person be friendly and try to help the homeless man? he’d say.  In his eyes and, because of him, in mine, the people who came to the aid of the man aren’t heroes and they aren’t extraordinary – the things they did to help the guy are normal and ordinary parts of human compassion.  Those in the film who aren’t kind are the ones outside the norm; they are the ones who are remarkable, just not in a good way.

There are so many other lessons embedded in me from interaction with those in my past, and I am appreciative of every one of them.  In return for all that has been given to me, I will continue to strive to pass on these lessons to others around me, on the difficult days, on the great days, and on the days in between.

Not Knowing: Grandmom's Story, Part 4

Continued from Part 3 - Grandmom's Story 

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

My daughters and my dad, with Grandmom, Sept. 2010

For all of my life, I'd thought of my grandmother as one of the most fiercely independent individuals I knew, a person whose goal it was to leave the earth a better place than she'd found it, without asking for much help or (as she put it) "without burdening" others and without using anything as an excuse for not doing her part to help others in need.  Grandmom has perhaps one of the most interesting life stories I've ever heard, with lots of adventures and even more challenges faced along the way.  She pinched pennies, cut corners, and made due for all of her life, but, a deeply religious person, she never failed to tithe or to give of her time when her church or someone in her community needed assistance.  She was well-read, and maybe that was one thing that contributed to her acceptance of people from all walks of life, of all backgrounds and all races, which was not a practice often seen in that time.  From the way I saw things, Grandmom didn't concern herself too much with what a person's income or job title was or with how fancy of a car or house a person had; as long as someone seemed to have a good heart, seemed to be trying to "do right," and seemed to be genuine and kindhearted, Grandmom liked that person, and, like my dad, she extended courtesy and respect to most everyone she met.

Although the level of anxiety and extreme depression that Grandmom had been experiencing seemed to leveled off for the most part over the course of the weeks after she had been told about my dad's illness and subsequent death, her overall health did not improve.  On the afternoon of April 18, 2011, my mom got a call from the nursing home and was told that Grandmom's condition had worsened.  Mom called my sisters and me to update us as she hurried to get to Grandmom's side, where she stayed for the remainder of the day.  With Grandmom's breathing labored and her skin color changed, Mom talked to the nurses and decided to spend the night with Grandmom so she would not be left alone even for a minute.  The staff at the nursing home was kind enough to move Grandmom's roommate to another room so Mom could sit at Grandmom's bedside in privacy.  Throughout the night, Mom read to Grandmom, talked to her, and tried to reassure her that it was ok for her to go on ahead, reminding her that she was so loved and that my dad and my grandfather were waiting for her in heaven.  Grandmom seemed to be at peace, and, as the first light of day could be seen through the big window in the room and with my mom holding her hand, Grandmom took her last breath.

My sister Nancy joined my mom soon afterwards at the nursing home, and together they dealt with the things that needed to done, including calling the funeral home, packing up Grandmom's belongings, and saying their goodbyes.  There were some haunting similarities to what had had to be done after my dad's death just three months earlier, but at the same time this was a different situation for many reasons.  Given all that had happened to impact her quality of life and given her age and overall health, we all knew that Grandmom was prepared to go on ahead and that she very likely welcomed her own passing from this life.  From my perspective, it seemed that she had been leaning into the light for quite some time, dearly missing her husband of 50 years and many others who had gone before her - and feeling that her purpose on this earth had been served.  Personally, I will say that the news of her death hit me hard but that my mourning was much more for my own sake than for hers, and the grief from her passing and from that from my dad's was so enmeshed it was like pouring gas on a fire.  

I found a group email that my dad had sent out just before he'd gotten sick to update people about Grandmom, and I used that set of contact information to communicate the news to many extended family members and friends about Grandmom's passing and to let them know that we had decided to hold a memorial service for Grandmom in her hometown over Memorial Day weekend to give those traveling from out of town time to make the necessary arrangements.  Mom had the obituary run in the newspaper in Grandmom's town and contacted Grandmom's church to let them know as well.  

A couple of weeks later, a violent storm came through the area where I live overnight.  The noise of the thunder actually woke me up in the night, interrupting a dream that I had been having about my grandfather's brother Hilyard, whom I had only seen a few times in my life.  The last couple of times I remember seeing him, he was using a walker to get around; it had been many years since his passing and many more since I had seen him.  In the dream, though, he walked up to me unaided, looking younger than I remembered ever having seen him but so closely resembling my grandfather that it was easy for me to recognize who he was.  He looked at me and said very simply, "Your grandmother and your dad want me to tell you that they are ok," and then, before I could respond, he turned on his heel and strolled away.

When I checked my email early that next morning, I saw that I had a message from my dad's second cousin Carl, Hilyard's grandson, who had heard on the news that the storm had left damage to many homes in my city.  I was touched that Carl was checking in on us; I had not corresponded with him in the past except for the recent message about Grandmom - but I was stunned at the timing of the communication, just about an hour after I had had the dream about his grandfather.  I emailed Carl back and told him that we hadn't sustained any damage in the storm, but, not knowing what he would think if I told him about the dream, I didn't mention it then - but I did a few weeks later at the memorial service for Grandmom.

To be continued ... 

Kindness and a "Beef"

I can't remember when I first started hearing about "random acts of kindness," but it was many years ago.  As the story goes, a woman named Anne Herbert is said to have written the words "Practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty" on a placemat in a restaurant back in 1982, which reportedly started the movement as her words were seen by a fellow diner and then began to be shared, the momentum of which eventually gave rise to a book called Random Acts of Kindness, which was published in 1993.  The book quickly became an international bestseller and has inspired many conversations as well as the writing of numerous articles, posts on social media, and other books, all based on the simple concept of demonstrating kindness to strangers.  

The original book gives examples of random acts of kindness and provides many quotes about kindness, all of which are generally inspiring, thought-provoking, and uplifting.

It's impossible, I think, to imagine that there is a person alive who wouldn't agree that the concept of performing acts of kindness as the book describes is anything other than a good thing to do.  However, after years of hearing people talk about the random acts of kindness they have done, I have a beef about the way this idea is often being put into practice.

I think it stems from the fact that I work with a group of behavior specialists who talk a lot about the fact that every behavior has a motivator; in other words, everything a person does is done because he is motivated by something to do it.  Of course, that motivation - the dangling carrot, if you will - varies from person to person and from situation to situation.  Sometimes it's money, sometimes it's power, sometimes it's recognition, sometimes it's just plain fun, but the reason people do things is that they hope to get something they want in return.  

In my estimation, what Anne Herbert meant when she scribbled those words on that placemat was that she believed in altruism; she believed that people in general could be motivated just by the idea that they could influence the well-being of others and that knowing that would generate a desire to reach out in some way to do something kind.  I think she intended for people who carried out random acts of kindness to be satisfied just by feeling like they'd done something good for someone else.

Martin Luther King talked about the concept of selfless love and said that people should "create redemptive goodwill toward all men ... an overflowing love which seeks nothing in return." 

Of course I agree; of course I recognize that the world would be a better place if we all practiced more kindness.  My concern comes from the way that I've witnessed random acts of kindness being put into practice, with the person or persons performing the kind act telling others about what they have done. 

In my opinion, talking about the fact that one did a good deed turns that act into something of a boast; telling others about the kindness starts to seem more like an opportunity to proclaim one's own goodness and, from the way I see it, the generosity of the act is tainted by such a declaration.

I understand the intended chain reaction, the rippling effect that can come from hearing about a way that someone has helped someone else. I have often said that peer pressure can sometimes be a good thing, and I can see how one could be inspired or could even just glean an idea for a way to try to help another person from hearing about someone else's act of kindness. 

But I think that what the originator of this concept actually meant to inspire is not only the performance of random acts of kindness but also anonymous ones. I think a true act of kindness or generosity bears no witness and has no strings attached.  I think that if any information is to be given out about the exchange of kindness after a random act from a stranger it should actually come from the recipient, not from the giver.  That, to me, preserves the purity of the altruism; that makes an act of kindness what it is really supposed to be: a deed of benevolence that sets up an opportunity for the spread of more of the same, which protects the basis of the original idea and extends the hope that all of mankind may someday, somehow be touched and inspired by kindness, just for the sake of being kind.

So here's the challenge of the second Exercise in Perspective that I want to share:  Do something kind for someone else and don't tell anyone about it.  Don't do it because you think you should and don't expect anything at all in return - not recognition, not thanks, not good karma, not gratitude.  Just enjoy the feeling it gives you - that's really more than enough reward.

Just in case you need help or inspiration to think of an idea for a Random (and Anonmyous) Act of Kindness, here is a link to the Random Acts of Kindness Foundation:

                                        CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE LINK.

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.

Part 28 - Friends

Continued from Part 27

Dad, with Mom and friends on a camping trip several years ago

My dad was always one of those people about whom it could be said didn’t meet a stranger.  He honestly considered every person with whom he came into contact to be a potential friend, and he was consistently and genuinely kind in every situation.  He once told me that he didn’t see why everyone didn’t make an effort just to say hello to every person with whom they crossed paths.  “Even a dog knows it’s better to wag his tail to greet people he passes on the street,” he said.  

During the time that Dad was sick, we received many cards, emails, Care Page messages, and phone messages of concern and love, and we appreciated all of them.  On the front lines of the war we were fighting, we were frantically trying to keep our heads above water, plugging the holes in the dam for as long as we could, though, and the daily challenges and the shock with which we were have to cope were so overwhelming that it was all we could do to get it together to post on the Care Page every couple of days or so.  Returning individual phone calls and emails was just too much, both because our time was spent focusing on Dad and the things that needed to be taken care of as part of taking care of him and also because it was just too much to even consider detailing the tragedy of it all out loud outside of The Bubble of our immediate family. It was just one of the cold hard facts about how it was when Dad was sick; our propensity to reach out was thwarted by the outrageousness of what was happening, but unfortunately the closing of the ranks ended up being something that we later learned had affected how Dad felt about himself and his views about the impact and the quality of his own life.

Not long after the second round of chemo, Mom got a phone call from one of Dad’s best friends from the small town in Missouri where my parents used to live.  Dad’s friend said that he was going to come over to visit Dad.  Other friends had offered to visit many times since Dad had gotten sick, but up until that point we had declined their offers for several reasons, most notably that we were concerned that contact with others could impact his health both physically and emotionally.  We’d been warned by the oncologist about the dangers of germ exposure for a person on chemo.  Another concern was that Dad’s problems with memory and reasoning would travel like wildfire through the gossip lines and reach his coworkers and his clients, which would be a source of embarrassment to him.  Because of the logistics of caring for him while he was sick, Dad didn’t have a lot of privacy, and we felt strongly that we should do what little we could to protect him.

But this friend wouldn’t take no for an answer.  He insisted that he just wanted to check in but assured us that he wouldn’t stay long.  We were worried that Dad’s friend would not be able to hide his shock when he saw the changes that were so apparent in Dad.  As much as possible, those of us who were around regularly were striving to act as if it was no big deal that Dad had to use a walker to get around the house and that he needed reminders about what day of the week it was or the fact that he wasn’t going back to work the next day.

On the day of the visit, Mom and my sister helped Dad get ready, and he was seated in his chair in the den when his friend arrived.  The conversation flowed without too much of a hitch, and, after about 30 minutes, Dad got up to go to the bathroom (of course, without waiting for help).  He used his walker to slowly make his way down the hallway, and his friend didn’t miss a beat; he expertly disguised the shock and sadness he must have felt to see such drastic changes in the man with whom he used to share the course of their weekly Saturday morning twenty-mile runs.  When Dad resumed his position in his recliner, they visited for a while longer and then his friend said he had to go.  Dad was both exuberant and exhausted afterwards; he lied down on his bed to “rest his eyes” with a big smile on his face.

Of all the memories I have from during the time surrounding Dad’s illness and subsequent death, this is one of the ones that is guaranteed to make me sad to the core every time it pops into my head:

Late one night when I was sitting up with Dad several weeks into his illness, he abruptly changed the subject from whatever we were talking about by saying “I don’t even have any friends.”  

“Oh Dad, you are wrong,” I said, with tears in my eyes, “and I wish you knew just how wrong.”

With his eyes wide in amazement, he said incredulously, “I am?” 

“Yes, Dad,” I told him, “I know you are usually the one who knows best about a lot of issues, but you have to believe me when I tell you that you have more friends and more people who love and respect you than anyone else I know.”

“OK, I hope you’re right, because it’s really important to have friends,” he said, and then he drifted off to sleep.

I’ll never know if he fully believed me or otherwise realized the depth of the truth to what I said that night.  In something that I think we could only have seen in hindsight in our situation, I wish so much that we had encouraged any of Dad’s friends who were so inclined to visit while he was sick.  Being a true friend was one of the many things at which he excelled, and he needed to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that his friends were rooting for him as he fought, that the many people who cared about him were there for him in the shade as well as in the sunshine, and that those who knew him were changed for the better for having known him.

Up next ... Part 29 - A Slippery Slope