It's been 14 weeks...or three months...or 100 days since my father died in the early morning hours of June 19th, 2012. I don't know how the time has passed but somehow it must have, because September is almost over and the leaves are starting to change and the cards of condolence stopped coming a long time ago and I find myself pretending to function on a somewhat very normal level. And yet the loss is part of my every moment, my every thought. Our closeness, and now the absence of that, has been more painful than I could ever had prepared for.
In the last 100 days I have:
Cried. In yoga. At the bar. At home. On the phone. In therapy. In grief counseling. In the swimming pool. In bed. By myself. With friends. In the car. In Starbucks. At work. At Ravinia. In the grocery store. Pretty much anywhere has been fair game.
Spent a lot of money on chair massages. Spent a lot of money at the bar. Raised over $1,300 for the Alzheimer's Association.
Gone out of my way to seek out hugs and touch.
Had panic attacks. On the El. In a restaurant. At work. In yoga. On the streets of Downtown Evanston. In the car. Taken a lot of Xanax. Taken a lot of Tylenol PM. Taken a lot of anti-depressants.
Been told by a psychiatrist that I'm doing just fine. Been told by an internist that my strange symptoms (why did my arm go numb for three hours?) are all not unusual, my labs are normal so I shouldn't worry.
Listened to a lot of Billie Holiday. Listened to a lot of Wilco. Listened to a lot of Beethoven. Listened to a lot of Leonard Cohen. Listened to a lot of Regina Spektor. Listened to a lot of Pearl Jam.
Listened to people tell me everything they think will help: "You should drink a lot of water." "It must be such a relief." "You really need to get back into dating." "He's in a better place now." "I had a dog for a week then had to get rid of her, so I understand what you're going through." "So you're okay now, right?"
Been so thankful for the people who may not know what to say, but were willing to listen to me. Been so thankful for the incredible support of my friends and the community.
Seriously considered quitting my job. Realized that was a seriously dumb idea.
Slept more than I thought was possible. Stayed awake more than I thought was possible.
Hurt more than I thought was possible.
I have not:
Picked up Dad's stuff from the nursing home. They packed everything up and put it in storage, with the understanding that I can come get it whenever I'm ready. I'm not ready.
Picked up his ashes from the Cremation Society. A dear friend of mine painted the wine bottle "urn" I'm planning on using...but I haven't gone to get it filled yet.
Closed his Mastercard account. I'm so used to having the card in my wallet. I haven't used it, the account balance is zero, the bank accounts are all closed...but that silver card looks so comfortable in my wallet. I realize that I could close the account and keep the card. This is an obsolete idea.
Gone to the beach. All summer. I love the beach. I couldn't go.
Had a memorial service- it seemed way too overwhelming. I am slowly working towards one, after attending a dear friend's mother's service last week.
Gone more than 20 minutes without thinking about him. The car, work, the apartment at night, are the worst. You think I'm talking to you? You think you see me laughing? Chances are, I'm thinking about him. Or the lack of him. Or my loneliness.
And I am not alone. I know this. I have the best friends, co-workers, community a gal could ask for. But something has been missing for the past 100 days, and it's irreplaceable.
I am not thinking about the next 100 days. I am not thinking about tomorrow. I am thinking about getting through tonight. It's not "One day at a time." It's smaller than that- the next half hour, this moment. I want to cherish this moment. I want to be happy. I want to smile, really smile again.
I want to love again. I want to be loved again.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Friday, September 7, 2012
Friday
"Today is Friday...Fish Day Friday, is everybody happy, then I must say!" So says one of my residents, but she also says the same thing for Thursday... and Wednesday. This morning, when asked how she was feeling, her answer was "terrible". Are you in pain? "No." Are you sad? "No. I'm just terrible." And I could sort of sympathize with her, even though my job at that point was to encourage, support, and uplift her. For my resident, all it took was a tambourine, a visit from a therapy dog, and a theatrical rendition (by me) of "Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue". Terrible quickly turned into Terrific.
I'm not "in pain." I'm not "sad," otherwise, how could I function "so well"? I mean, I get up. Okay, so today I finally woke up to the third alarm, 20 minutes later than I had planned. I was only 4 minutes late for work, which is better than the usual 6-7 minutes. Because I don't care. Which isn't true. But it is. I hate mornings. So much. I just want to sleep forever, and things like "work" and "life" seems to get in the way of that, grr.
And really, it was a decent day...I mean, yeah. We had a music therapy program this morning, one of my favorite activities. My residents get caught up in the music (as do I), and there is so much love and connection and emotion and engagement and feeling in the room it's overwhelming. I talked with the music therapist, a good friend of mine, for quite a while after the session and we made plans to see a jazz show in the upcoming weeks. During my lunch break, I did a phone interview with someone for an upcoming article I'm writing, and got inspired again by the ideas and principles of fair trade and sustainability. In the afternoon I leafed through Ladies Home Journal with a resident who Oohed and Ahhed at every picture of birdhouses and Chris O'Donnell and okay, so did I. But we shared that, and it was good. And we laughed. And I played "table balloon ball." And I played Beethoven, on the piano. And I read some poetry. And I laughed. And I danced. And I helped. And I want to think I made a difference.
And I wanted to cry. I left work, went for a swim...the water was like home. The water was the most comforting part of the day. In the water I am safe....from the world. And I can cry in the water, and it's okay.
And I joked with some friends. And I laughed. And I joked. And I wanted to cry.
I went to an art gallery opening, for "green" artwork in Evanston because in my former life I cared about things like that. And the art was fun...and I had two glasses of some white wine out of a recycled, compostable cup. And I left because couldn't stand to be there anymore...around people...laughing...caring about stuff...how could they?
I stopped at Jewel to order a cake for a resident's 98th birthday tomorrow. While I was there, I waved to my banker who was across the aisle in the line for the deli. And I flirted a little with the guy in front of me in the self-checkout line...and he flirted back...and I have had a good horrible miserable day I want to cry scream yell curl up retreat hide forever.
It's not okay. Nothing is okay. Nothing is normal. People are walking down the street. Don't they know that the world is different now? Don't they know that nothing matters? What is up with them?
Tonight at Jewel I bought myself some flowers...to replace the ones that people sent after Dad died (80 days ago), to bring some life into my apartment. Later this evening, the whole vase fell on the floor...but didn't break. The glass didn't shatter. The flowers are in tact.
Life goes on. But it doesn't. But it has to.
I'm not "in pain." I'm not "sad," otherwise, how could I function "so well"? I mean, I get up. Okay, so today I finally woke up to the third alarm, 20 minutes later than I had planned. I was only 4 minutes late for work, which is better than the usual 6-7 minutes. Because I don't care. Which isn't true. But it is. I hate mornings. So much. I just want to sleep forever, and things like "work" and "life" seems to get in the way of that, grr.
And really, it was a decent day...I mean, yeah. We had a music therapy program this morning, one of my favorite activities. My residents get caught up in the music (as do I), and there is so much love and connection and emotion and engagement and feeling in the room it's overwhelming. I talked with the music therapist, a good friend of mine, for quite a while after the session and we made plans to see a jazz show in the upcoming weeks. During my lunch break, I did a phone interview with someone for an upcoming article I'm writing, and got inspired again by the ideas and principles of fair trade and sustainability. In the afternoon I leafed through Ladies Home Journal with a resident who Oohed and Ahhed at every picture of birdhouses and Chris O'Donnell and okay, so did I. But we shared that, and it was good. And we laughed. And I played "table balloon ball." And I played Beethoven, on the piano. And I read some poetry. And I laughed. And I danced. And I helped. And I want to think I made a difference.
And I wanted to cry. I left work, went for a swim...the water was like home. The water was the most comforting part of the day. In the water I am safe....from the world. And I can cry in the water, and it's okay.
And I joked with some friends. And I laughed. And I joked. And I wanted to cry.
I went to an art gallery opening, for "green" artwork in Evanston because in my former life I cared about things like that. And the art was fun...and I had two glasses of some white wine out of a recycled, compostable cup. And I left because couldn't stand to be there anymore...around people...laughing...caring about stuff...how could they?
I stopped at Jewel to order a cake for a resident's 98th birthday tomorrow. While I was there, I waved to my banker who was across the aisle in the line for the deli. And I flirted a little with the guy in front of me in the self-checkout line...and he flirted back...and I have had a good horrible miserable day I want to cry scream yell curl up retreat hide forever. It's not okay. Nothing is okay. Nothing is normal. People are walking down the street. Don't they know that the world is different now? Don't they know that nothing matters? What is up with them?
Tonight at Jewel I bought myself some flowers...to replace the ones that people sent after Dad died (80 days ago), to bring some life into my apartment. Later this evening, the whole vase fell on the floor...but didn't break. The glass didn't shatter. The flowers are in tact.
Life goes on. But it doesn't. But it has to.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Time
I remember sitting in a friend's kitchen in the week before Dad died. It was 7:30p, she was making soup, we were drinking wine and eating something I had brought over (hummus and chips? I can't remember now). Her boyfriend was busy unpacking boxes of books and CDs and "albums" and other artifacts- they had been together more than eight years but just moved into a new apartment with more bedrooms and shoe closets and office space than one could imagine and a neat view of the park across the street. The cat was still hiding under the bed in one of the offices. Life was good, promising, exciting. I felt that with them.
I was sitting on a stool in the kitchen; that much I remember. I had nothing and everything to say, and so did my friend. Neither of us had been this close to death before. To her credit, she readily admitted that she didn't know what to say, and I loved her for that. I opened my mouth and didn't know what would come out. Turns out, it was the most random, technical, boring stuff. I had nothing to say about the hours I had spent by Dad's bedside that day; how I brought my yoga mat to practice while he slept; how the Hospice nurse came three different times to check on him. I couldn't talk about how his breathing started and stopped; his eyes were closed but fluttered occasionally; how his body softened when I lay next to him. Instead, my mind had gone numb and I could only think about the concrete stuff.
"Now I know some of the answers that will be with me forever," I said. "Dad died in Jun 2012. Dad died when he was 87. Dad died when I was 32 (it was 13 days before my birthday). Dad died in June." On that Thursday evening (Dad died five days later on Tuesday, June 19), I had some of the answers. I never wanted to know these things. But now they are with me forever. It's been 59 days since June 19th, 2012. Dad was 87. I am now 33. Somehow, time has passed. I don't know how. But still...I am not the same person I was (before). Not in the slightest. I have been through every emotion, sometimes in one day, one hour, one minute. I have had panic attacks, cried in the grocery store, melted down at work, hyperventilated in a bar, had horrible nightmares, had peaceful dreams, had the best hugs from friends and co-workers, read the most touching cards, sent the most raw e-mails, struggled through grief therapy, read all the books, let go of more than I could have imagined.
Today a dear friend lost her mother. We first met four years ago at Dad's first assisted living facility and stayed in touch long after Dad got kicked out (for bad behavior- that's my Henry!). Over the years we've shared drinks, e-mails, pictures, texts, hugs, tears. I saw her yesterday and we both knew it was close. Hours, the Hospice team said. She was my last thought before I went to bed last night and my second thought after I woke up this morning (Dad is always my first).
When I got her text this afternoon my heart dropped. I was at work but as soon as I had a break I retreated to my office for a few minutes and gave her a call. Her voice, my voice, our words...it was all like a strange memory, I wanted to do everything, I wanted to make it better, I had just been there 8 weeks ago. There was nothing I could do. We both knew that. But we were on the phone together. We talked. She talked. I listened. She was heading out to take her sister back to the airport. Was she okay to drive, I asked? Her son would drive, she said- it was good practice. We exchanged our love, promised to make plans to get together. I gave her titles of two books that have helped me in the past two months. She promised to look them up. We hung up the phone.
I finished my afternoon at work, went swimming. Thought that today was August 17, 2012. My friend would always remember it.
Every day is a gift. I want to do something every day to remember. Today is Day 59, but is also the day that I went to a random art gallery opening by myself and wore a huge orange t-shirt at work celebrating our employee recognition initiatives. Today is Friday. As one of my residents and I yelled in the elevator, "Today is Friday! Friday, fish day! Is everybody happy? Then I must say..."
But everybody is not happy, and I wish love and peace tonight to "everybody."
I was sitting on a stool in the kitchen; that much I remember. I had nothing and everything to say, and so did my friend. Neither of us had been this close to death before. To her credit, she readily admitted that she didn't know what to say, and I loved her for that. I opened my mouth and didn't know what would come out. Turns out, it was the most random, technical, boring stuff. I had nothing to say about the hours I had spent by Dad's bedside that day; how I brought my yoga mat to practice while he slept; how the Hospice nurse came three different times to check on him. I couldn't talk about how his breathing started and stopped; his eyes were closed but fluttered occasionally; how his body softened when I lay next to him. Instead, my mind had gone numb and I could only think about the concrete stuff.
"Now I know some of the answers that will be with me forever," I said. "Dad died in Jun 2012. Dad died when he was 87. Dad died when I was 32 (it was 13 days before my birthday). Dad died in June." On that Thursday evening (Dad died five days later on Tuesday, June 19), I had some of the answers. I never wanted to know these things. But now they are with me forever. It's been 59 days since June 19th, 2012. Dad was 87. I am now 33. Somehow, time has passed. I don't know how. But still...I am not the same person I was (before). Not in the slightest. I have been through every emotion, sometimes in one day, one hour, one minute. I have had panic attacks, cried in the grocery store, melted down at work, hyperventilated in a bar, had horrible nightmares, had peaceful dreams, had the best hugs from friends and co-workers, read the most touching cards, sent the most raw e-mails, struggled through grief therapy, read all the books, let go of more than I could have imagined.
 |
| Dad with a doggie friend at Three Crowns, December 2008 |
Today a dear friend lost her mother. We first met four years ago at Dad's first assisted living facility and stayed in touch long after Dad got kicked out (for bad behavior- that's my Henry!). Over the years we've shared drinks, e-mails, pictures, texts, hugs, tears. I saw her yesterday and we both knew it was close. Hours, the Hospice team said. She was my last thought before I went to bed last night and my second thought after I woke up this morning (Dad is always my first).
When I got her text this afternoon my heart dropped. I was at work but as soon as I had a break I retreated to my office for a few minutes and gave her a call. Her voice, my voice, our words...it was all like a strange memory, I wanted to do everything, I wanted to make it better, I had just been there 8 weeks ago. There was nothing I could do. We both knew that. But we were on the phone together. We talked. She talked. I listened. She was heading out to take her sister back to the airport. Was she okay to drive, I asked? Her son would drive, she said- it was good practice. We exchanged our love, promised to make plans to get together. I gave her titles of two books that have helped me in the past two months. She promised to look them up. We hung up the phone.
I finished my afternoon at work, went swimming. Thought that today was August 17, 2012. My friend would always remember it.
Every day is a gift. I want to do something every day to remember. Today is Day 59, but is also the day that I went to a random art gallery opening by myself and wore a huge orange t-shirt at work celebrating our employee recognition initiatives. Today is Friday. As one of my residents and I yelled in the elevator, "Today is Friday! Friday, fish day! Is everybody happy? Then I must say..."
But everybody is not happy, and I wish love and peace tonight to "everybody."
Friday, August 10, 2012
Reminders
It's 9:34p on Friday night and I'm looking around the apartment. I really should clean, or at least "straighten up," but instead all I want to do is Pigeon and Pyramid Pose and feel some actual sensation that I can handle, process, understand, compartmentalize. I look on the corner stool and there are the flowers that Maryhaven, Dad's nursing home for the last two years of his life, sent after he died. It's been 52 days since that morning in late June and the flowers are wilted. Still, I can't bear to throw them away.
My eyes fall to the floor under the standing lamp, where the book "Living After a Loved One Has Died" landed after I threw it there in frustration one night.
Over on the desk stand 25+ sympathy cards from friends and coworkers...I have taken great care in opening them on the most difficult nights and there are still two more that I haven't opened yet...but I am saving them because I am scared for the day when the cards stop coming.
On the bedside table sits "Healing After Loss- Daily Meditations for Working Through Grief," a book my dear friend gave me for my birthday 13 days after Dad died. She thought it was a somewhat strange birthday gift but the daily readings and validations have proved invaluable for me over the past 7 weeks.
Poking out of the recycling is the program from a reception I went to at Midwest Hospice last night. I would have not been able to make it through the past two and a half years without their incredible care and support...and Dad certainly had a vastly improved quality of life because of them.
On top of the stack of papers "to be filed" is a large envelope from The Cremation Society of Illinois. I am reminded that I still haven't picked up his ashes from the office in Park Ridge. I will soon. Seriously. I just haven't...had time...or I don't want to. But I can't stand to have them stay there either...
I open the fridge and there is the hummus I bought at the Trader Joe's across the street from Maryhaven for dinner while I sat with Dad during his last night. It's half empty and probably moldy but I can't bear to throw it away.
I get a text message from a coworker. I remember how she came out to sit with us twice during the five days Dad was dying...she had never met him before but knew him through my stories. She was there, present, giving, willing to Be with us at the most difficult time.
I am tired. My boss is on vacation this week and I snuck away for a yoga class during my lunch break today, which was cathartic but also made me Feel. Now, nine hours later, I am emotionally drained. I miss him now. Earlier today a friend texted that she is having dinner with her father, who lives out of state and is back in town for the weekend. I am happy for her, but a teensy bit jealous. Yesterday I helped a friend and his family move his grandmother into a local independent living facility- being with the family made me happy, but a teensy bit jealous.
I haven't canceled plans since Tuesday, and I even went on a date this week. I've gone out every night since Tuesday. I have distractions. But still. I miss my father so much, all the time. The reminders are everywhere, and even if they weren't around they would still be top of mind.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Wednesday
Random musings:
43 days. How has the time passed since Dad died? I don't remember any of it.
I should really go to the beach.
10 hours of sleep isn't nearly enough.
The phone is ringing. I don't answer it. My Super Mario Brothers ringtone makes me smile.
Maybe I'll stay in bed. All day. Yoga would make me feel so much better. Get up and go to yoga!!
No really. Get up.
Like, now.
Riding my bike makes me happy.
Again, with the tears in yoga. Woman next to me: "We did a lot of heart openers, it's understandable." Me: "My father died a few weeks ago." Woman: Blank stare.
The pool is my sanctuary. Underwater I am free...safe. I don't want to get out.
Lane: "I have the same bike. No, seriously." Of course he has the same bike.
I should really go to the Botanic Gardens.
Me: "It's strange because I don't feel alone...or lonely. I feel loved...and supported. But the loss...this one, specific loss...it hurts so much. It's taking over everything."
The Olympics are still on?
I should really get back to online dating.
Someone should invent kalamata olive ice cream. The best of both worlds.
Woman in yoga: "Take care of yourself.". Text message from friend: "Take care!"
Alyssa: "So I got a text this morning from my friend who lives in Disney World..."
Not sure if I've smiled yet today.
I should really eat something.
Tylenol PM doesn't count on the FSA card? It's doctor prescribed...
Just realized it's August 1st. Hahahaha. I don't remember anything about summer.
Rebecca: "Let (the tears) come."
Brandon Priestly is doing commercials for Old Navy? Yikes.
It's only 7p? Yikes.
Sangria.
Muddy Waters Pandora.
I wish I started my laundry before 9p.
Jimi.
Revisiting Bodeans' "Lullaby," heard earlier today: "Goodnight, my sweet little one. Go to sleep now, your day is done. Dream about how good it's been...and tomorrow, let's do it again....if I die before you wake, you were worth the chance to take."
Yes. Take the chance. No matter how much it hurts.
43 days. How has the time passed since Dad died? I don't remember any of it.
I should really go to the beach.
10 hours of sleep isn't nearly enough.
The phone is ringing. I don't answer it. My Super Mario Brothers ringtone makes me smile.
Maybe I'll stay in bed. All day. Yoga would make me feel so much better. Get up and go to yoga!!
No really. Get up.
Like, now.
Riding my bike makes me happy.
Again, with the tears in yoga. Woman next to me: "We did a lot of heart openers, it's understandable." Me: "My father died a few weeks ago." Woman: Blank stare.
The pool is my sanctuary. Underwater I am free...safe. I don't want to get out.
Lane: "I have the same bike. No, seriously." Of course he has the same bike.
I should really go to the Botanic Gardens.
Me: "It's strange because I don't feel alone...or lonely. I feel loved...and supported. But the loss...this one, specific loss...it hurts so much. It's taking over everything."
The Olympics are still on?
I should really get back to online dating.
Someone should invent kalamata olive ice cream. The best of both worlds.
Woman in yoga: "Take care of yourself.". Text message from friend: "Take care!"
Alyssa: "So I got a text this morning from my friend who lives in Disney World..."
Not sure if I've smiled yet today.
I should really eat something.
Tylenol PM doesn't count on the FSA card? It's doctor prescribed...
Just realized it's August 1st. Hahahaha. I don't remember anything about summer.
Rebecca: "Let (the tears) come."
Brandon Priestly is doing commercials for Old Navy? Yikes.
It's only 7p? Yikes.
Sangria.
Muddy Waters Pandora.
I wish I started my laundry before 9p.
Jimi.
Revisiting Bodeans' "Lullaby," heard earlier today: "Goodnight, my sweet little one. Go to sleep now, your day is done. Dream about how good it's been...and tomorrow, let's do it again....if I die before you wake, you were worth the chance to take."
Yes. Take the chance. No matter how much it hurts.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Afterwards
It's 4:27p on Friday afternoon and I am frantically waiting for the day to be over. This is how most of the days have gone since my father died in the early morning hours of June 19, 2012, just over three weeks ago. Maybe at some point I will be able to write of the days I spent with him at the end, our experience with music thanatology, his final hours, watching him breathing, stopping, starting again...but not now. I haven't been able to revisit that time in words or thoughts very much, or even talk about him. I've cried very little. I've only screamed twice. I've gotten out of bed everyday- sometimes not until 2p, but still. I think I appear to be functioning fairly well.
And yet inside, it hurts more than I could have thought possible. Today, after another failed attempt to regulate my sleeping between 14 hours a night or insomnia (last night's Ambien allowed me to sleep from 11p-3a, toss and turn until 6a, and pass out again for 5 hours), I finally got out of bed at 11:30a. I stumbled around the apartment for a while, forced some breakfast, threw the pillows back on the bed (I haven't bothered to use sheets in a week), and rode my bike to the gym- exercise is one of my biggest stress relievers. As I headed up the stairs I ran into a dear friend of mine who has encouraged me through all of my travails with Dad over the years and has been especially supportive over the past three weeks. Although she just lost her father-in-law two days ago, all she wanted to do was listen, really listen, to how I was doing. Instead of smiling and brushing it off (to not have to "deal with it", like I've been doing a lot) I told her about the panic attacks, the fear, the emptiness, the sleep problems. We discussed how grief triggers old emotions and learned responses, and how important it is to have a strong outside network- how good it was that besides friends and community, I'm seeing a grief counselor once a week and my regular therapist once a week. Even though she was at work and had probably been there since 5a, she stopped her day to talk, listen, hug. I suddenly didn't care that it was 1p and I hadn't "done anything" all day- that 15 minute connection made it okay.
Still, I felt despondent and defeated when I left the gym and called another really close friend. She was another supportive ear and we were even able to laugh and joke about a few things. I rode my bike home, putzed around for a while, then got up the motivation to drive the car for a long-overdue emissions test, something that I guess has to happen every year or every few years- it isn't that difficult, it just involves driving a few miles and waiting in line while the mechanic pushes some buttons or whatever, but I had been putting it off. Apparently, I had also been putting off general "care of the car" because the Subaru failed the test and now I have to go to the mechanic and get code P208 fixed, whatever that is, but I can't call until tomorrow because my cell phone is out of minutes because I guess when your father dies you spend a lot of time on the phone.
I started to drive home and felt this utter wave of sadness and emptiness hit. I thought to a passage I read in one of the grief books- "There are no pat answers. No one completely understands the mystery of death. Even if the question were answered, would your pain be eased, your loneliness less terrible? There is no answer that bridges the chasm of irreparable separation."
It is now 5:07p. Unfortunately, the day still isn't over. But I have plans to go over to a friend's house, eat some homemade peach ice cream, probably have some wine, sit on her couch and she will accept me for who I am whatever state I am because that's what awesome friends do, and I have some pretty awesome friends.
But my father is no longer alive, and the reality of that is sometimes more than I want to face.
And yet inside, it hurts more than I could have thought possible. Today, after another failed attempt to regulate my sleeping between 14 hours a night or insomnia (last night's Ambien allowed me to sleep from 11p-3a, toss and turn until 6a, and pass out again for 5 hours), I finally got out of bed at 11:30a. I stumbled around the apartment for a while, forced some breakfast, threw the pillows back on the bed (I haven't bothered to use sheets in a week), and rode my bike to the gym- exercise is one of my biggest stress relievers. As I headed up the stairs I ran into a dear friend of mine who has encouraged me through all of my travails with Dad over the years and has been especially supportive over the past three weeks. Although she just lost her father-in-law two days ago, all she wanted to do was listen, really listen, to how I was doing. Instead of smiling and brushing it off (to not have to "deal with it", like I've been doing a lot) I told her about the panic attacks, the fear, the emptiness, the sleep problems. We discussed how grief triggers old emotions and learned responses, and how important it is to have a strong outside network- how good it was that besides friends and community, I'm seeing a grief counselor once a week and my regular therapist once a week. Even though she was at work and had probably been there since 5a, she stopped her day to talk, listen, hug. I suddenly didn't care that it was 1p and I hadn't "done anything" all day- that 15 minute connection made it okay.
Still, I felt despondent and defeated when I left the gym and called another really close friend. She was another supportive ear and we were even able to laugh and joke about a few things. I rode my bike home, putzed around for a while, then got up the motivation to drive the car for a long-overdue emissions test, something that I guess has to happen every year or every few years- it isn't that difficult, it just involves driving a few miles and waiting in line while the mechanic pushes some buttons or whatever, but I had been putting it off. Apparently, I had also been putting off general "care of the car" because the Subaru failed the test and now I have to go to the mechanic and get code P208 fixed, whatever that is, but I can't call until tomorrow because my cell phone is out of minutes because I guess when your father dies you spend a lot of time on the phone.
I started to drive home and felt this utter wave of sadness and emptiness hit. I thought to a passage I read in one of the grief books- "There are no pat answers. No one completely understands the mystery of death. Even if the question were answered, would your pain be eased, your loneliness less terrible? There is no answer that bridges the chasm of irreparable separation."
It is now 5:07p. Unfortunately, the day still isn't over. But I have plans to go over to a friend's house, eat some homemade peach ice cream, probably have some wine, sit on her couch and she will accept me for who I am whatever state I am because that's what awesome friends do, and I have some pretty awesome friends.
But my father is no longer alive, and the reality of that is sometimes more than I want to face.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Juxtaposition
I'm not sure how long I'll be "at that age" where I can count on two and a half hands all the close friends who are pregnant or recently had a child, but for now it's still in full force. A week after sending off a newborn package for my first "niece" in New Mexico, I spent the afternoon today at the baby shower for one of my managers at work and tomorrow I'm visiting a local friend who is ecstatic to be two months pregnant after a long wait. My dear friend in Arizona is expecting her first child in June, and I have no idea how she manages the added stress, fatigue and other symptoms on top of her rigorous physician job. But alas, the woman (and men) in my life continue to amaze me as they go on to grow their families and bring joy.
I see this, and I feel conflicted because so much of my life revolves around death. Well maybe it doesn't revolve around death, but death certainly plays a prominent role and is on my thoughts quite a lot. As an activity coordinator for residents who have Alzheimer's and other dementias, my job is to bring joy, stimulation and engagement to people at the end of their lives. While it's a pleasure and an honor to be with them, seeing them decline and eventually pass away is by far the hardest part. Witnessing my own father's decline over the past eight years, and specifically the 28 months he's been on Hospice, has been both enlightening and heartbreaking.
I only had a short time to visit Henry this afternoon. I had intended on getting out to Maryhaven in the late morning but had been running late all day and didn't get there until 12:45p. I had to be back in Evanston by 1:30p to help set-up my co-worker's baby shower, which meant I had to leave Glenview by 1:10p. I ran in quickly, signed in how I always do ("Carrie" visiting "Henry") and dropped off some yogurt for him in the main fridge. After a quick scan of the living room, I realized that he was still in his room and headed that way. From down the hall I could hear his screams, and by the time I got to his room I saw that Rachel, his wonderful Hospice CNA, was getting him dressed. I poked my head in and his eyes met mine and he stopped yelling. He was lying flat in bed, wearing a diaper and undershirt with his sweat pants halfway up. Julie, his Hospice nurse had said he had been losing weight but I was still shocked to see how frail and emaciated 140lbs looked on my once robust father and I caught my breath. I walked in, gave Rachel a hug and gave Dad a kiss. I turned on the CD player and started singing along with Billie Holiday, in an attempt to distract him from the pain and terrors, real and perceived, of arduously being dressed by someone else. I reached for his hand while Rachel turned him to the side in order to get one sleeve of his sweatshirt on his arm, and tried to quiet his yells of protest. He squeezed my hand and stared at me. For the next 15 minutes we continued on this way, Rachel turning him this way and that and angling his head into his shirt and wrapping his legs in the protective socks and Henry looking into my eyes and squeezing my hand and wondering...I don't know what. Begging me. Asking me. Questioning me. And I couldn't help him. And then I had to go, promising that I would be back on Thursday and would be able to visit longer. And I left. And I felt terrible.
But I had a baby shower to get to. My manager, coworker, friend is three weeks away (or so) from having her second child. So I helped decorate with flowers, streamers, balloons, tablecloths. People brought food, presents, cards, hugs, good wishes. On my card I wrote, "So happy for the life, light and love that you are bringing into our world." And I was so, so happy for her, and willing my heart to be open. But I felt sick, and after leaving the party I went to yoga and that's when the tears started to silently flow. For 60 minutes I physically tried to work through the joy and promise of new life and the pain and heartbreak of a life that lingers...waiting...I don't know what for. I don't know what I can do. I don't know what to do. I had plans with a friend tonight but after yoga I sent her a text saying, "I need to go home and cry and sleep." But now that I'm home I can't do either of those and...I don't know what I can do. I don't know what to do. Life is precious, life is beautiful.
I can't think of anything worse that watching a loved one suffer and not being able to help. I want my friends' children to come in to this world happy and loved. I want to protect them from pain forever. And I know that's not possible. And I hurt inside.
I see this, and I feel conflicted because so much of my life revolves around death. Well maybe it doesn't revolve around death, but death certainly plays a prominent role and is on my thoughts quite a lot. As an activity coordinator for residents who have Alzheimer's and other dementias, my job is to bring joy, stimulation and engagement to people at the end of their lives. While it's a pleasure and an honor to be with them, seeing them decline and eventually pass away is by far the hardest part. Witnessing my own father's decline over the past eight years, and specifically the 28 months he's been on Hospice, has been both enlightening and heartbreaking.
I only had a short time to visit Henry this afternoon. I had intended on getting out to Maryhaven in the late morning but had been running late all day and didn't get there until 12:45p. I had to be back in Evanston by 1:30p to help set-up my co-worker's baby shower, which meant I had to leave Glenview by 1:10p. I ran in quickly, signed in how I always do ("Carrie" visiting "Henry") and dropped off some yogurt for him in the main fridge. After a quick scan of the living room, I realized that he was still in his room and headed that way. From down the hall I could hear his screams, and by the time I got to his room I saw that Rachel, his wonderful Hospice CNA, was getting him dressed. I poked my head in and his eyes met mine and he stopped yelling. He was lying flat in bed, wearing a diaper and undershirt with his sweat pants halfway up. Julie, his Hospice nurse had said he had been losing weight but I was still shocked to see how frail and emaciated 140lbs looked on my once robust father and I caught my breath. I walked in, gave Rachel a hug and gave Dad a kiss. I turned on the CD player and started singing along with Billie Holiday, in an attempt to distract him from the pain and terrors, real and perceived, of arduously being dressed by someone else. I reached for his hand while Rachel turned him to the side in order to get one sleeve of his sweatshirt on his arm, and tried to quiet his yells of protest. He squeezed my hand and stared at me. For the next 15 minutes we continued on this way, Rachel turning him this way and that and angling his head into his shirt and wrapping his legs in the protective socks and Henry looking into my eyes and squeezing my hand and wondering...I don't know what. Begging me. Asking me. Questioning me. And I couldn't help him. And then I had to go, promising that I would be back on Thursday and would be able to visit longer. And I left. And I felt terrible.
I can't think of anything worse that watching a loved one suffer and not being able to help. I want my friends' children to come in to this world happy and loved. I want to protect them from pain forever. And I know that's not possible. And I hurt inside.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Tears
It was bound to happen; I was overdue for a breakdown. I do so well, you know, most of the time. I go about life smiling and laughing and joking. Random people have told me I have the calmest face, most peaceful demeanor. My standard response is a laugh, a smile, and an offhanded "oh, I do a lot of yoga!" People who don't know anything about me think I'm happy-go lucky. As hard as I try, I can't keep it up all the time. I get stressed, okay, there I said it. And every once in a while, yes, I just break down. As I said, it was time.
Henry has been losing even more ground in the past three weeks. He is less responsive, sometimes to the point where he doesn't know I'm there. Julie, his Hospice nurse, has noticed the same thing and was the first one to bring it up. It has been an unseasonably warm March, so I have been able to bring him outside on the patio during my visits. Even though he is usually sleeping, he still holds my hand and he is still soaking up sunshine and vitamin D. I tell him about my week, and even though he may not process it I still like to feel like that's a normal thing to do. "I had drinks with a friend last night, and on Saturday I'm going to a magic show after work," I say. Because aren't these the things a Dad would want to know? "I'm almost done with my taxes, and yours too. Your old friend Rick, who has been doing your taxes for dozens of years, said he'd finish them for us. What a great guy." And he's still asleep, and still holding my hand, and then I sit and stare at him.
This afternoon I had a staff meeting at noon, then headed out to Maryhaven around 2p. Dad was sitting on the outskirts of the circle they had set up with the residents. The woman leading the group announced loudly, strictly for his benefit, "Carrie's here!" I pulled him back and gave him a kiss, knowing that he wouldn't really miss being away from Ring Toss. I brought him into the foyer, which is relatively quiet and has a couch I can sit on. He was fading in and out of consciousness, so for a few minutes I just sat there and held his hand. I rubbed his legs to stimulate circulation, gave him a little shoulder rub, and stroked his arm. Then I started singing. I made it all the way through "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" and halfway through "The Way You Look Tonight" before I lost it. "Lovely, never ever change, keep that breathless charm, won't you please arrange it because I love you..." and I just burst out crying. Unabashedly sobbing. And finally he opened his eyes, briefly. He stared at me, then drifted off again. Eyes closed, he squeezed my hand. And I was on a roll- I couldn't stop crying. For my love for him, his love for me. For the sacrifices we've both made. For the length this journey has been drawn out. For all I have learned, all he has taught me about myself. For all I have grown. For his pain....for my pain. For the fear of losing him. For the possibility that life might go on afterwards, and how wrong that may seem.
20 minutes later, my eyes puffy but dry, I returned him to his unit and headed out. I was restless and a little hysterical. It was after hours for my regular Hospice social worker, so I got in the car and called several friends with little luck. I stopped for a coffee, then headed to the gym to practice some yoga on my own. I've always been physically oriented- I get that from my father- and exercise or movement always makes me feel better. I went to the library and picked up the next selection for Book Club. I went to a wine tasting. I came home around 7p, had more wine, ate dinner, read the newspaper, went for a walk. Now I don't know what else to do, so I'm writing because in theory it should help. You know, get it out. Let go of the pain, the emotion. But it doesn't necessarily work that way. My heart hurts.
I'll fall asleep sometime tonight. I'll go to work tomorrow. I'll call my Hospice social worker on my lunch break. I'll be okay. This will pass. I'll get busy, I'll get distracted. And in three months or so, it will come out again. I wish knew what was between stuffing the feelings inside and letting them all flow out. I wish there was a middle ground.
I wish he wasn't suffering.
 |
| Sleeping in the sun |
This afternoon I had a staff meeting at noon, then headed out to Maryhaven around 2p. Dad was sitting on the outskirts of the circle they had set up with the residents. The woman leading the group announced loudly, strictly for his benefit, "Carrie's here!" I pulled him back and gave him a kiss, knowing that he wouldn't really miss being away from Ring Toss. I brought him into the foyer, which is relatively quiet and has a couch I can sit on. He was fading in and out of consciousness, so for a few minutes I just sat there and held his hand. I rubbed his legs to stimulate circulation, gave him a little shoulder rub, and stroked his arm. Then I started singing. I made it all the way through "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" and halfway through "The Way You Look Tonight" before I lost it. "Lovely, never ever change, keep that breathless charm, won't you please arrange it because I love you..." and I just burst out crying. Unabashedly sobbing. And finally he opened his eyes, briefly. He stared at me, then drifted off again. Eyes closed, he squeezed my hand. And I was on a roll- I couldn't stop crying. For my love for him, his love for me. For the sacrifices we've both made. For the length this journey has been drawn out. For all I have learned, all he has taught me about myself. For all I have grown. For his pain....for my pain. For the fear of losing him. For the possibility that life might go on afterwards, and how wrong that may seem.
20 minutes later, my eyes puffy but dry, I returned him to his unit and headed out. I was restless and a little hysterical. It was after hours for my regular Hospice social worker, so I got in the car and called several friends with little luck. I stopped for a coffee, then headed to the gym to practice some yoga on my own. I've always been physically oriented- I get that from my father- and exercise or movement always makes me feel better. I went to the library and picked up the next selection for Book Club. I went to a wine tasting. I came home around 7p, had more wine, ate dinner, read the newspaper, went for a walk. Now I don't know what else to do, so I'm writing because in theory it should help. You know, get it out. Let go of the pain, the emotion. But it doesn't necessarily work that way. My heart hurts.
I'll fall asleep sometime tonight. I'll go to work tomorrow. I'll call my Hospice social worker on my lunch break. I'll be okay. This will pass. I'll get busy, I'll get distracted. And in three months or so, it will come out again. I wish knew what was between stuffing the feelings inside and letting them all flow out. I wish there was a middle ground.
I wish he wasn't suffering.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Charm
My father was a charming man. Or rather, he was good at charming people- to call him always "charming" would be a serious overstatement. He was the president of the international division of a prestigious insurance company and traveled around extensively- by the time he retired when I was eight years old I had already been to more than 25 countries with him on business trips. He quickly made friends with all the new people he would meet, from the foreign businessmen to the hotel clerks. At my young age, it seemed as though everybody was catering to Mr. Jackson and his wife and family. I remember elaborate parties for his birthday in Japan, private cars driving us around London, and participating in special local festivals in Thailand. His lifestyle took a dramatic shift when he retired- instead of people giving him rides on elephants he was carting two kids to gymnastics, piano, and horseback riding.
I think it was a difficult time for him- the retirement wasn't entirely his idea- but he did the best he knew how to. He would pick me up from school on his bike, with our neurotic dog Rusty riding in the grocery basket. My friends loved going home for lunch with me because he would make the best grilled cheese sandwiches on sourdough bread, and as a special treat he made stove-top hot chocolate. In the morning he would cut up plates of fresh fruit and bring them to Mom, my sister, and me while we were getting ready as an "appetizer" before breakfast- before he made his own famous fruit bowl with a huge scoop of cottage cheese on top. Many years later, when he could no longer figure out how to cut a grapefruit by himself (and we didn't trust him with a knife), I made sure the caregiver or myself always started his breakfast with fresh fruit.
I remember taking Dad to Old Navy a couple of years ago to stock up on basic clothing. Fortunately, I didn't have to get him to try anything on in the dressing room- for as long as I can remember he had been a size 32w x 34L so shopping for him was easy. While we waited in the checkout line he laughed at the doggie costumes they had set out for Halloween and we imagined trying to get Rusty into one of the ladybug suits. When it was our turn to check out, he smiled at the clerk and glance at her nametag. "Michelle," he said. "That's a beautiful name!" She smiled, and in his perfect tenor voice he started to croon out his best Paul McCartney. "Michelle, ma belle. These are words that go together well...my Michelle." The young clerk blushed, but she was delighted. "My parents named me after that song!" she exclaimed. Dad started beaming, obviously thrilled that he had made her happy. We walked out humming Michelle and talking about the Beatles. While this scenario wouldn't have worked out so well in every circumstance- I can imagine it would be different and slightly awkward if I had been the one singing or if Dad had been 30 years younger- in this case the clerk was obviously charmed by the gentle octogenarian on an outing with his daughter.
I was reminded of this story last Sunday morning as I was driving to work. I was listening to Breakfast With the Beatles, a show dedicated to all things Beatles on WXRT. Although Michelle won a Grammy in 1966, I think it sometimes gets overshadowed by their even bigger hits so when I heard it on the radio I was taken by surprise. My mind immediately went back to that October day in Old Navy, how happy the clerk was to be acknowledged, and how happy Dad was to make her smile. While he had a horrific temper and it was easier for him to swear than say "I love you," I choose now to remember the softer, more charming side of my father that was beautiful when he let it come out.
 |
| A rose by any other name...circa 1980 |
I think it was a difficult time for him- the retirement wasn't entirely his idea- but he did the best he knew how to. He would pick me up from school on his bike, with our neurotic dog Rusty riding in the grocery basket. My friends loved going home for lunch with me because he would make the best grilled cheese sandwiches on sourdough bread, and as a special treat he made stove-top hot chocolate. In the morning he would cut up plates of fresh fruit and bring them to Mom, my sister, and me while we were getting ready as an "appetizer" before breakfast- before he made his own famous fruit bowl with a huge scoop of cottage cheese on top. Many years later, when he could no longer figure out how to cut a grapefruit by himself (and we didn't trust him with a knife), I made sure the caregiver or myself always started his breakfast with fresh fruit.
I remember taking Dad to Old Navy a couple of years ago to stock up on basic clothing. Fortunately, I didn't have to get him to try anything on in the dressing room- for as long as I can remember he had been a size 32w x 34L so shopping for him was easy. While we waited in the checkout line he laughed at the doggie costumes they had set out for Halloween and we imagined trying to get Rusty into one of the ladybug suits. When it was our turn to check out, he smiled at the clerk and glance at her nametag. "Michelle," he said. "That's a beautiful name!" She smiled, and in his perfect tenor voice he started to croon out his best Paul McCartney. "Michelle, ma belle. These are words that go together well...my Michelle." The young clerk blushed, but she was delighted. "My parents named me after that song!" she exclaimed. Dad started beaming, obviously thrilled that he had made her happy. We walked out humming Michelle and talking about the Beatles. While this scenario wouldn't have worked out so well in every circumstance- I can imagine it would be different and slightly awkward if I had been the one singing or if Dad had been 30 years younger- in this case the clerk was obviously charmed by the gentle octogenarian on an outing with his daughter.
I was reminded of this story last Sunday morning as I was driving to work. I was listening to Breakfast With the Beatles, a show dedicated to all things Beatles on WXRT. Although Michelle won a Grammy in 1966, I think it sometimes gets overshadowed by their even bigger hits so when I heard it on the radio I was taken by surprise. My mind immediately went back to that October day in Old Navy, how happy the clerk was to be acknowledged, and how happy Dad was to make her smile. While he had a horrific temper and it was easier for him to swear than say "I love you," I choose now to remember the softer, more charming side of my father that was beautiful when he let it come out.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Fresh Air
Somewhere in Pennsylvania this morning, after much prodding and poking a groundhog stepped out of his resting spot and somebody decided that he could see his shadow. According to folklore, that means that we will have six more weeks of winter. Here in the Midwest we're not sure what that means. On the second day of February, the temperatures are predicted to reach 48 degrees today. Yesterday was the anniversary of last year's Snowmageddon, which dropped 26 inches of snow in two days and shut down Lake Shore Drive for the first time ever in Chicago. This year I've only used the snow scraper once and it almost wasn't necessary. As Tom Skilling likes telling us repeatedly, this is the warmest winter Chicago has had in 80 years. I've only lost one pair of gloves (so far), in large part because there have been so many days I haven't needed to wear them. I was worried that the cute pink coat I got for $30 at a secondhand store in October would only last for a month or so because it's not lined in down; instead, I've been able to wear it all but five days this year.
What does this all mean? Putting aside all the practical worries of global warming and confused birds messing up their migration plans and flowers coming up months early, I am loving this weather. I find I have much more energy and motivation when the thought of doing an errand isn't sidetracked by "ugh, but it's so COLD outside!" I'm walking more, not using the heat in the car as much, and haven't had to fight with layers of long underwear. Mostly, I'm reminded of how much I love to be outside. I love fresh air. I work in a stuffy, dry, hot building and it's so refreshing to get outside at lunch even just for a quick walk around the block. Having the wind blow my hair and getting a little chill when it goes down my neck. Squinting from the sun and getting some natural vitamin D. Feeling the softness of the ground under my feet- not frozen as it usually is at this time of year. It's all a reminder of the might and potency of nature and it's somehow both humbling and empowering.
As I was driving out to Dad's on Tuesday afternoon, the thermometer on the car read 59 degrees and I rolled the windows down a little to feel the breeze. I was planning on bringing him into the library and show him some of his favorite videos on YouTube- Singing in the Rain, Kick Your Knees Up Steppin' Time, Billie Holiday in concert, the What a Wonderful World hand-puppet show. Okay, that last one is my favorite but I tell myself that he likes it too- I don't have a good way to tell for sure. When I got to Maryhaven, however, I had a much better idea. I walked up to Dad, wiped up the drool on his chin from the meds the nurse had just fed him, gave him a kiss, and asked him if he wanted to go outside. He responded with a blank stare, but I thought maybe I could see a twitch in his eyes. I got some blankets from the laundry room, piled them on his wheelchair and pushed him off the unit. As soon as we went through the front doors his face softened and I realized that it's probably been four months since he had been outside. I get stir-crazy after being inside for three hours, and that trait was definitely handed down from my father so I can't imagine how restless and claustrophobic he feels trapped in the nursing home day after day. I asked him if it felt good to be outside and he nodded his head ever so slightly. We only stayed out for 10 minutes- he started shivering- but I could tell the whole experience brought him a lot of joy. Driving home, the sun was starting to set and it was getting cooler but I put on my scarf so I could roll the windows down anyway and feel the fresh air. Whether or not Puxatawny Phil was right, you'll hear no complaints from me this winter.
What does this all mean? Putting aside all the practical worries of global warming and confused birds messing up their migration plans and flowers coming up months early, I am loving this weather. I find I have much more energy and motivation when the thought of doing an errand isn't sidetracked by "ugh, but it's so COLD outside!" I'm walking more, not using the heat in the car as much, and haven't had to fight with layers of long underwear. Mostly, I'm reminded of how much I love to be outside. I love fresh air. I work in a stuffy, dry, hot building and it's so refreshing to get outside at lunch even just for a quick walk around the block. Having the wind blow my hair and getting a little chill when it goes down my neck. Squinting from the sun and getting some natural vitamin D. Feeling the softness of the ground under my feet- not frozen as it usually is at this time of year. It's all a reminder of the might and potency of nature and it's somehow both humbling and empowering.
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