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.

Feels So Good

Following is a guest post written by my sister, Jennifer:

While Dad was sick, we tried everything we could think of to make him smile, to help him relax, and just to take his mind off his worries.  During one of our middle of the night conversations (that I wouldn't trade for anything), we started talking to Dad about music, a subject about which none of his kids is particularly knowledgeable, but one that Dad had always been passionate about.  Dad played the trumpet very well as a young man and always loved listening to big band music, as well as Barbra Streisand and more recently Josh Groban.  That night, I asked Dad what his favorite song was and he said he didn't really have one -- he wasn't really that engaged in the conversation.  But I clearly remembered his having a favorite song when we were growing up and I wanted him to remember it, too, and so I started trying to hum the tune (it didn't have any lyrics, just instrumental, with a beautiful trumpet solo).  I have zero musical ability, however, and no one had any idea what song I was describing. 

A few days later, after I found the name of the song ("Feels So Good" by Chuck Mangione), my husband Peter bought it on iTunes and emailed it to me so I could have it on my phone in Nashville.  I played it for Dad, and he smiled just briefly and said that he remembered it, but he really didn't have the strong recollection of how much he loved it that I had expected.  I kept insisting, "Dad, it's your FAVORITE!" and he just kept agreeing with me, I think not wanting to make me feel like I had gotten it wrong.  No one else remembered it as being one of Dad's favorites or particularly special to Dad at all.

Fast forward a few short weeks later, and Dad was home on hospice care.  On the night he died, my mom, sisters, and I were with him, sometimes all at once, sometimes in pairs, and at times one at a time.  During one of the moments when I was alone with Dad, I crawled into his bed with him, cramming myself between his body and the guard rail of the hospital bed, and I started humming the song into his ear.  Dad wasn't able to respond, but I felt sure he could hear it and that it might ease his mind in some way, still insisting to myself that Dad loved the song.  Then I remembered that Peter had emailed it to me, and I got my phone and played it quietly, holding the phone right next to his ear.  I'll never know if it made Dad feel any better, but it made me feel more connected to him (whether he remembered the song as having been a favorite of his or not!), even when he couldn't reply.

A few months later, on a random spring day in L.A., I reluctantly went on a Home Depot errand with Peter.  Peter loves Home Depot, and I really can't stand Home Depot, so as Peter was walking up and down the aisles looking for certain items he needed, I trudged along behind, working on my own to-do list in my head and not really paying attention.  The store was crowded, and the only sounds I could hear were parts of the background noise of busy shoppers and the occasional store announcement.  All of the sudden, as I came to a display of a truck bed with a fancy waterproof stereo system that was for sale, a song started playing, loud and clear.  At the exact second that I reached this display, Dad's "favorite" song started playing: Feels So Good.  From an aisle or two away, Peter heard the song, too, and knew of its significance to me, and he rushed over to find me with tears pouring down my face but with a big smile.

Dad always worried about us kids, and he always wanted to know that we were settled -- especially in our jobs and our homes.  Since we'd moved to the L.A. area about two years before, Peter and I had been renters, and that bothered Dad.  He wanted stability for us and for our children, and he knew I was anxious to buy a house that I could make into a home.  Even during his illness, Dad continued to ask me about whether there were any houses for sale that I liked and whether we planned to make an offer on any of them (then rolling his eyes and telling me they were all too expensive, in his practical, conservative way.)  It wasn't until March of 2011, two months after Dad's death, that we found the right house, and that was the reason we were at Home Depot that day -- to buy things for our new house.  It felt like Dad knew, and he was happy, and he wanted me to know that.

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.

What’s In A Name?

Mom and Dad "horsing around" on a camping trip

One of Dad’s quirks that was so endearing to anyone who spent much time around him was his “creativeness” when it came to identifying certain things by name.  He often got what he considered to be the details mixed up; this wasn’t a memory problem – it just wasn’t a priority for him to remember the exact name or pronunciation of certain things.  It was usually pretty easy to figure out what he was talking about if it was mentioned in context; it was like a guessing game other times, but either way it was always entertaining.

For example, Dad asked his granddaughters, “Have you heard of this Michael Boubble [he said it like bobble] guy?  What’s his name?  Michael Bluhbluh?”  They deciphered from the conversation, which was about music, that he meant Michael Buble.  They told him that most of Michael Buble’s fans were middle-aged women, but Dad said he didn’t care, he really liked the guy's music too. 

When the movie “Pirates of the Caribbean” was released, Dad said he wanted to take his grandchildren to see it, but he kept referring to it (even after they’d seen it) as “The Pilots of the Mediterranean.”  They knew what he meant, though; they were used to Gramps’s reinterpretation of things like that and thought it was hilarious.

Before Dad got sick, he read in the news that President Obama had eaten at Five Guys, a fast-food restaurant, in Washington D.C.  Dad thought it was great when his city got a Five Guys; it is actually located not far from the hospital where Dad was taken when he got sick.  As part of our campaign to get Dad to eat more when he was sick, we offered to get him food to-go from any restaurant he wanted, and he said, “I guess I could eat an Obama burger.”  Those of us who hadn’t read the article didn’t know what he was talking about, but luckily those who had caught on and he got the burger he wanted. 

It’s funny what specific things we miss about those who have gone on ahead, like Dad’s renaming which was such a great part of him.   He never had the chance to hear this duet sung by one of his old favorites and one of his new; he probably wouldn’t have remembered the name of it, but he definitely would have enjoyed the music.

This one’s for you, Dad!

Road Trips

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Orleans On The Mind

My dad loved New Orleans.  He thoroughly enjoyed the food, appreciated the people, delighted in the music, and, of course, he LOVED the Street Beer!

 

Dad, making a presentation to some of his clients at a meeting

When people asked Dad what he did for a living, he said that he was “in the grain business."  During his career, he managed several grain elevators, supervised the opening of a rice processing plant, and, in 1993, joined an agricultural marketing consulting firm as a principal commodities broker.

Not long after he graduated from college and got his first job in the field, he joined the Mid-South Grain Association, a trade organization for people in the ag-marketing business.

During the course of his career in the grain business, the Mid-South Grain Association was a constant for Dad.  He served as president of the organization for several years and was secretary-treasurer for the past 18 years. He was always so appreciative of the numerous friendships he developed through the group and enjoyed organizing their semi-annual conventions, one of which was always held in February in New Orleans.

My sisters and I and our spouses tagged along several times when my parents went to the convention in New Orleans, always a fun time for all of us and a good opportunity for us to see Dad “in action” with so many people he had known professionally and personally for years and in some cases for decades.

When Dad got sick in late October, he had just begun planning for the convention the following February.  He still had to line up guest speakers, get people registered, and coordinate with the hotel where the meetings were always held, the Royal Sonesta.  He had quite a long To-do list going, and this became one of the things about which he worried while he was sick.

After Dad was admitted to the hospital, while he was in the Neuro-ICU for several days awaiting surgery, he was on several different medicines, including a massive amount of steroids to address the swelling around the tumor in his brain and a type of pain medication that we later learned resulted more in increased anxiety and talkativeness than it did in pain relief for Dad.

My mom, my sisters, and I took shifts, often in pairs, to be with him 24 hours a day, and, as I’ve mentioned, we took careful notes about everything that went on.  One of the things we wrote down was what he said, especially when it related to things about which he was concerned. 

During those long, scary nights in the ICU, he talked endlessly, often about not feeling well, having a bad headache, and being very tired, all of which made sense given what we knew about what was going on with him medically.

Just a few hours before his surgery, he seemed to finally be getting some rest, but he kept talking in his sleep, saying things like “I’m bored,” “I’ve got to know when I can run again,” and “I don’t know why I have to be here.”  He also said some things that weren’t in context, like “I’m going to the oyster bar,” and “I’m going to eat a dozen.”  In between comments, he kept repeating a number that didn’t make sense to us, and, after hearing him say that same number over and over, I decided to use my cell phone to Google it.  It turned out that the number was the telephone number to the Royal Sonesta Hotel in New Orleans.  Apparently, he had New Orleans on The Mind.

Over the course of the next several weeks, we made lots of notes of things that Dad told us to write to complete the Convention-Planning To-Do List, and then we passed it on to someone else in a leadership position with the organization.  Dad still worried about it frequently, but we tried to reassure him each time he brought it up that it was being taken care of. 

After Dad went on ahead on January 5, Mom was asked to continue taking part in the convention and with the organization, if she felt up to it.  She had worked side-by-side with Dad for all those years in planning for and putting on the convention, and she definitely knew the ropes.  Because Dad was so concerned that the convention go smoothly, Mom felt that carrying on with that task was a good way to honor his wishes and to uphold his legacy in the professional realm.  She did get the job done, coordinating the planning for the event, and, with my husband and me, attending the convention to represent Dad as he would have expected us to do. 

I’m sure that Dad was watching over us during our time in New Orleans and that, although he might have missed being there, he was proud that we honored his commitment and that the show went on.