your story, or mine? ok, well, how about both?!

ok, so tonight's thoughts are a bit in the realm of the abstract.

sorry, that's what happens when i have two full days to do nothing but whatever strikes my fancy.  (never occurs to me to tackle a to-do list when i have an unscripted day before me.)

what i'm contemplating is the idea of a QUEST.  grab a comfy chair and kick up your feet.  this could take awhile.

*           *            *          *          *

yesterday i picked up this book entitled How to Read Literature Like a Professor.  i want to review it and perhaps give a copy as a christmas gift to my neighbor brien, who teaches junior high language arts. (i think of him as a type of professor, as he's a true connoisseur of classic literature. read his blog and see what i mean!)  as my ability to absorb intelligent literature is fairly limited -- perhaps i should give the book to him now and then for christmas, ask him to write me a summary of what the author is trying to say.

but, i'm all for giving it a go.  the first chapter is entitled "every trip is a quest (except when it's not)".  off and on all day, i've been chewing on what it has to say.  i find myself pausing at what i've read because i feel there's some hidden way to use this new information to add perspective to dad's passing.  i believe i may do this for awhile.

he's trying to teach his readers that many stories are built to be a QUEST TALE.  and that, structurally speaking, they all consist of the same basic things: a knight, a dangerous road, a Holy Grail, at least one dragon, one evil knight, one princess.  i get it, these grand old stories.  but then he asks me to contemplate the fact that these things are often metaphorical, cloaked in unfamiliar garb.  like: the knight can be a guy next door; a dangerous road, the path from his house to the corner Circle K; the Holy Grail, a loaf of Wonder Bread; the dragon, a 1968 muscle car.  and so on.  i'm stretching.  but i like the resulting intelligent feeling that comes over me as it starts to sink in. 

but then he kinda blows my mind.  and gets me thinking about my life with dad these past months.  he says (and i quote)

the real reason for a quest never involves the stated reason.  in fact, more often than not, the quester fails at the stated task.  so, why do they go and why do we care?  they go because of the stated task, mistakenly believing that it is their real mission.  we know, however, that their quest is educational.  they don't know enough about the only subject that really matters:  themselves.  The real reason for a quest is always self-knowledge. that's why questers are so often young, inexperienced, immature, sheltered.  forty-five year old men either have self-knowledge or they're never going to get it, while your average sixteen-to-seventeen-year-old kid is likely to have a long way to go in the self-knowledge department.

Whew.  ok i'm still trying to figure out exactly what a quest is, and how an old car can be a dragon.  but since professors usually know what they're talking about, i'm inclined to believe him.  if he says a quest is NOT about the stated reason, then it probably isn't. 

so where does that leave me with my dad?  it begins to dawn on me, slowly, today that

perhaps his journey through death
is not completely as it seems.

*           *            *          *          *

all of a sudden, i see myself as an average sixteen year old kid.  i'm at the ryan house, peeking my head out into the hallway anytime i see a gurney go by.  i'm an overgrown adolescent as i pass by dad's roommates' doorways, straining to see the various forms that "almost dead" can take.

*           *            *          *          *

someone along the way mentioned that dad gave to us even in his death.  i was a bit taken aback by that statement at the time, as the past months have seemed to be a lot about what i and my family have given to him.  perhaps in many ways, though, this idea holds more truth than i know.

take even just his extended presence in a home for the dying.  was it just for him to have the space and time, the luxury, to die in peace?  or was it, also, somehow, a bit about me?  did dad somehow know that his daughter needed to surround herself with death  in order to accept it with grace and joy? 

*           *            *          *          *

THE STORY WITHIN THE STORY

MAKES THE ONE I'M TELLING EVEN BETTER

six years ago i specifically chose to actively participate in my grandfather's end of life care (who by the way, is a man so like my father that i loved him dearly from day one).  i did this in part, yes, as a way to share my love and skills with him.  but, also i wanted to walk through this time with him.  i had this sense that i was ready to experience death, that i would come to peace with one of life's deepest strains.  to this end, i dove right in and started strong.  i thrived in the privilege of assisting him with all his daily needs: dressing, bathing, toileting, eating, and beyond. but, alas, this place of warmth and joy was not to last.  when it came time for grandpa to die, during his last two weeks on earth, i had to step aside.  my heart was literally breaking and i could take it no more.  just as i specifically chose to place myself in his everyday life, so i consciously chose to remove myself.  one day, coming to visit him at his hospice location, i looked into his eyes and no longer saw him there.  i knew immediately that this visit would be my last.  i knew i would not return to him until he was taken from me.  so much for the embracing of the death and dying process.  imagine my dismay to discover that not only was it was acutely painful and sad, but it was also totally and completely impossible for me to bear.  there was no way to create meaning, purpose, context.  i felt no growth, no maturing. just deep and unretractable sorrow.  the active pain lasted for many, many months, and i never gained that perspective that i had so innocently thought i could choose.

fastforward just six short years.  so what do i do, now that dad is in my mom's and my care, and clearly he is dying?  no one i love has died since grandpa.  so no new development here.  i just might be that 45 year old man who's never gonna get it.  but fortunately, i know this journey, this quest, is not about me, but only what i can do for dad.  as long as my heart and mind don't break, dad, i am there for you.  i'm here to help you finish strong and fully loved.

but as i look at myself now, wandering around and about the hallways of the ryan house, i wonder.  did dad, forever the giver, somehow make parts of his dying story all about me? 

the thought humbles me.  i want to reject the idea, even the very sound of it.  but as certain details run through my memory, i realize this could be the truth.  in living through dad's quest, with each and every gift he gives to me -- a conversation here, a sudden look of recognition and delight there, smiles, sparkles, tears -- gradually i change.  i begin to experience the closing out of life in an entirely new way. fitting. as it should be. timely. purposeful. beautiful. painful, yes, but very right. and wholesome, and good.  what a gift, this growth, this knowledge of all that death can be. 


all of a sudden, i'm no longer the kid who can't get enough of death.  or the old guy who can't soak up anything new.  perhaps i've simply shifted to a better version of the me i've always been. at least when it comes to the part about the dying.

*           *            *          *          *

ok, so i'm still not quite sure about where the princess and the evil knight come in.  or how it is that dragons can arrive on the scene dressed as a car.  but, true to form, i think the gifted professor would say that i'm on the right track. even if i'm not quite there.

*           *            *          *          *

if i'm going to keep writing i've got to share the floor a bit more than i have so far!  now that my pressing need to share the unfolding details of dad's story has passed along with him,  i'd love to become more of a conversation starter.  

with this in mind, yesterday i checked in with karli, our most free-spirited commenter to date (and boy do i love her for the way she shares her heart!).  she told me that she's been holding back, out of love for me and respect for my dad -- and thought that others may also be.  well dad and i are ready to take you on! 

so perhaps i'll do as my uncle mike suggests, and end every post with a question.  he says it will help you bring your own life experiences to the table.  so here goes:

QUESTION

(if i can enter this abstract world of really smart readers, so can you!)

can you conjure up any quick examples of other real-life things that fit some aspect of THE QUEST? 

dragons? 

dangerous roads? 

holy grails? 

something from your own life -- or something made up, from your fast-moving imagination?  i'd love to hear what can be learned on that creepy scary road, or while slaying that awful dragon.

thanks for giving of yourself.
xoxo k.

i've been chipping away at a sudden identity crisis all day long. 

not because i am now a daughter whose father is no longer alive (although, it has occurred to me that this may be a contributing factor).

no, it's because i've realized i've fallen in love with this precious community that has evolved to follow me through my dad's unfolding life-death journey.  each time i read one of your comments, a wave of appreciation comes over me, in a flush, this sense of gratitude at your voluntary presence.  i'm not ready to write the final chapter.

but all of a sudden, the star of my story is gone.  sure, i could yammer on about how much i miss him.  but already today, not two full days after his passing, i feel strange in my own skin as i imagine myself in the act of the yammering.  dad modeled for me in our countless military moves how to take the past in all its dubious glory and quickly bring it into the promise of the current opportunity.  healthy adaptation is all about the skill and speed with which we bring the old into the new, dad taught me, never in a lecture but continuously through his example.  He taught me how to keep the past simple, light-hearted; a constructive context from which to thrive in the here and now.  and, happily: living fully in the present, for the most part, has kept my past from becoming unsightly, awkward baggage that bores the life out of even myself.

so now i experience an awkward shift.  dad's life-death-life dilemma has now resolved itself in death.  which is as it should be.  and in terms of a storyline, as best as i can anticipate, there are only two additional "official" pieces yet to tell:  (1) the experience of his funeral service, and (2) the outcome of his autopsy.  then what?

i'll move on from this tenuous place of loss, for sure.  and i'm okay with this.  looking forward to it, actually.  and, i'm even okay with not knowing just how and when this will occur.  this indeed is the thrill of life, the unknown.  but the daily living out of my grief?  i'd be happy to share, if it benefits you, but i can assure you that these details of my life will not hold my heart captive like my dad has these past weeks and months.  and if i am not enraptured, how can i expect you to be? 

i know when to let a good thing go.  but so quickly after losing my dad, it saddens me to think of saying goodbye to the safety and community you and i have created.  but why keep meeting here? our story is without a plot, and no beloved protagonist, by the mere suggestion of his presence, is begging us to return.  i'd love the privilege of building a long-term community; writing and relating have been lifelong interests of mine. but what would you want to read?  how do we sustain the continual coming back for more? a blog without an active readership is, in the famous two-word phrase of brother daniel, a fail.  better to craft beautiful journals by hand and leave them under the mattress for future generations to find.

*        *        *        *        *

today as i meander through Borders (a favorite spot when i need to wander), i begin to formulate my sense of this sudden identity crisis.  the long and short of it is this:  when i began dad's blog, i only allowed myself the luxury of "immersion journalism"  because i felt it was the only way to do justice to my dad's compelling story.  in the words of wikipedia: to use personal experiences and emotions to provide context for the event being covered.  to go gritty and deep.  and besides, my dad's story was bursting from my soul.  the immediacy of the plot, the depth of the supporting cast, the countless twists and turns.  what other choice did i have?  reducing dad's remarkable story to a list of medical facts wasn't going to help any of us process all that had just happened and was yet to come.  but now, the immediate work has been done.  what a privilege!  what an experience.  two nights ago, my dad's story reached its potent climax. i am fortunate to have captured it in outline form that night, and (thanks to a stranger named anne) through powerful imagery last night.   a fan of suggestive endings, i know we've arrived. a pensive conclusion is in order. i realize this immediately...just about the time i realize, also, that i'm hooked.  I'm hooked on the daily structure of my writing sessions, the therapeutic outlet, the love i feel from and for each of you. 

sounds like a type of identity crisis to me, does it to you?

*        *        *        *        *

in a book i find a nugget that gives me pause:

in this modern world, we have never been taught to experience authentic grief.  we (and others) want our mourning to be tidy, polite, and over in a day or two so we can get on with our busy, outwardly focused lives.  we are afraid of grief's primitive rawness that can completely overwhelm us with its own agenda.  (A Beautiful Death, Cheryl Eckl, pp 255-56)

in a friend, i find a seed of hope:

i don't just come here for your dad's story.  i come to hear your heart.

  

*        *        *        *        *

i hope not to become that sad soul who gets stuck looping through those unattractive stages of grieving.  i hope not to be that stoic daughter who avoids the sting of her new dad-less reality.  and (most of all), i hope not to be that classic therapist who, in the absense of her story's hero, is afraid to let her friends and family see inside her heart.

an age old habit i think i'll adopt

tonight i was visiting auntie gail's blog, encouraged by the love her people are pouring out to her as she suffers the loss of her oldest brother's passing.

i saunter over to her post about seth godin ("my two cents: why seth godin shouldn't quit", august 26).  one of my favorite authors as well, i am drawn into the lively conversation she and her readers are having about the value of traditional books.  a passionate reader, and holder, of physical books, this new awareness -- that seth may indeed be saying goodbye to published works -- would normally send me into a flurry of research to discover just exactly what the guy is up to.  but tonight i find myself only loosely intrigued.  this i attribute to the day's rather dulled emotional state (at 11:45 pm tonight, sister cheryl notes we've achieved "the 24 hour landmark").  a vague interest, that is, until a reader about 18 comments deep grabs me and holds on tight: 

wow, annie binns. in six simple sentences i am transported again to dad's bedside last night. the closing of my dad's eyes when his life here is no more, the holding of my face tight against his chest, the closing of my own eyes as my tears escape. i breathe in the very last of him, i take in his breath that wooshes out as he closes out this life and enters into the next.

I could never give up the tangible, bound book. I, too, highlight Seth’s and a few others’ books with yellow and blue and even stick Post-It tabs on their pages. But the part I really can’t give up is an age old habit when I finish a good book. I close the pages and hold it tight next to my chest like I’m giving it a hug. I don’t know why I have always done that. I close my eyes while it’s right there and try to breathe in the very last words of wisdom that woosh out of it as it closes.

perhaps the closing of a good book, with all its wisdom tucked within, is quite like the closing of a good life.  gratitude for all that was given, and sorrow to have arrived at the end.  the urge to re-read the highlights, to experience again the highs and lows of the story as it captures us and teaches us a little, or a lot, about life.

dad, my life feels heavy without you here with us.

thank you, loved ones, for all you have given, and will continue to give, to us. 

xoxo k.

tonight i was visiting auntie gail's blog, encouraged by the love her people are pouring out to her as she suffers the loss -- and joys -- of her brother's passing.

and then i sauntered over to her blog post about seth godin ("my two cents: why seth godin shouldn't quit", august 26).  one of my favorite authors too, i found myself loosely intrigued by the whole discussion of his recent decision to discontinue traditional publishing.  a passionate reader, and holder, of physical books, i normally would begin a full-on search to discover just exactly what the guy is up to.  but, given the permission cheryl has given me to have a post-passing dulling effect ("the 24-hour landmark" she called it, at 11:45 pm tonight), i figured that a vague interest would have to suffice for now.  but then -- one of her reader's comments, about 18 comments deep, grabbed me and held on tight:

"I could never give up the tangible, bound book. I, too, highlight Seth’s and a few others’ books with yellow and blue and even stick Post-It tabs on their pages. But the part I really can’t give up is an age old habit when I finish a good book. I close the pages and hold it tight next to my chest like I’m giving it a hug. I don’t know why I have always done that. I close my eyes while it’s right there and try to breathe in the very last words of wisdom that woosh out of it as it closes."

wow, annie binns.  in six simple sentences i am transported again to dad's bedside last night.  the closing of dad's eyes, the holding of my face tight against his chest, my fin, the resting of my head upon his chest as my eyes fill with tears.  i breathe in the very last of him, his breathe that wooshes out as he closes out this life and begins the next.

SEPTEMBER 11: a fitting day for dad to die

i thought i would be able to sleep tonight without coming here to wrap up my day. but, apparently meeting you here through my posts has become an elemental part of my daily routine. perhaps i will need some time to pass before i can know and share with you impressions that are close to my heart, but it seems best to state a few things simply to you, my dear family and friends.

tonight, at 10:40 pm, our dad slipped away from us. each of us in the room -- mom, cheryl, jonathan, bethany, tim and me, along with our nurse laura -- experienced his passing in our own unique way. likely tomorrow I will discover some of their perspectives -- perhaps they are completely different from my own. but for me, i must say, i experienced his death as gentle, generous, dignified and, yes, with a bit of dad's signature twinkle!

* gentle, because it wasn't sudden or traumatic in any way. his final breaths came intermittently, with long pauses in between, for about 30 minutes. we had time to adjust. there were no gasps or ragged, wheezing labored efforts, no heaving chest; it was...well...different than any other type of breathing mishaps he's had. It felt purposeful. and not scary to me, or him, in the least.

* generous, because all of us were able to be in the room together. while this may not have been by dad's specific choosing, i do feel inclined to think it was by design. why not just by chance? well, today contained the only 12 hour window of time since his icu "brain death" days in july, when mom and all of us kids (minus the military one) have been together in the same room with him. without going crazy on the math, i'd say there were about 119 other 12-hour windows that could have been given to our family for his passing. some of which, were only mom or me present with dad. or dad in his room, all alone. how strange and wonderful, i had projected in an earlier post, it would be to have us all together in the same room wishing him well as he enters eternity.  it was both of these sensations, and more.  strange, wonderful, and most merciful to all.

* dignified. dad, all this time, and despite intensive levels of cognitive decline and emotional strain, has always had a presence about him that others beyond our family have noted. lots of different descriptors that they used, nurses, doctors, therapists, visitors, to explain their experience with him....but i've delighted in their efforts to put their sense of him into words. because no matter what words they use (fascinating, intelligent, cute, precious, adorable, mysterious, inspiring), i always see an overlay of dignity; like his father, he was always gracious in every setting. eager to express appreciation at your presence.  a true military diplomat.  and even though his ability to interpret his environment became diminished over the past few weeks and months, his sense of dignity remained. i can't describe the dignity within his death tonight; perhaps tomorrow i can gather some sibling support on this one and get back to you.  tim says it was quiet dignity.

* with a bit of dad's signature twinkle. at the end, when his breaths became intermittent, we didn't know when (or if) they would resume. and as they continued to return, time after time, they gradually began to morph into breathing i'd never seen before. had this happened just once or twice, i could have handled it by quickly stashing the experience away in a distant, vague memory bank. but as these intermittent breaths continued i began to get a bit disoriented: what is happening here?  cheryl's imagery mid-way through provided an immedate visual for me to hold on to. and then, all of a sudden, i saw the sparkle in it all. his breathing made it appear he was running. running, my laser-beam-heaven-focused sister recommended, straight to the gates of heaven.  as soon as she said it, i could see it. the eager over-exertion that forces one to slow down just for a few moments to catch one's breath.  but not for long, as something worth the effort is right before your eyes... a big wide ribbon that you're straining to break, so you can know the race is won. run dad! we promise we're not that far behind.

it wasn't hard to imagine the twinkle in his eyes & i've seen it, against all odds, all the way to the end; surely it was there tonight.

so, so much yet to accomplish in the celebration of dad's life and the putting of his body to rest. I want to officially thank each of you for your ongoing support of me and my siblings as we have shared dad's journey with you.  i feel we have a few days, yes and perhaps weeks and beyond, to process what we have  experienced.  I welcome you to sign off, and return to your normal routines.  or, if you'd just assume stay and participate with us in our process of embracing our dad's passing, we welcome you to stay on. 

Based on the speed with which i have raced to my laptop each evening, i can only imagine that this form of community will continue to play a key role in my life as the reality of what we've lived through comes to settle in my soul.

_______________________________

brother daniel and i are planning to collect your individual memories and impressions, and integrate them into the upcoming celebration of dad's life.  if you have any photos to share, feel free to send them via email to me at karen@arcadiatherapy.com.  if you have words to share, feel free to post them here or email them to me.  and for any snailmailers, our address is 60 East Vernon Avenue, Phoenix, AZ 85004. 

_______________________________

has my gratitude to you for your connection to me and my siblings been apparent in my posts and responses to your comments?  has my need and appreciation for your love and support been clearly expressed?  if you could spend time with me physically in the same room, i feel as though you would see it oozing out my pores.  you'd feel it in my hugs, you'd see it in my eyes.  without you here, my ability to be present as i was with my dad, day after day, week after week, would not have been possible. 

so once again, i thank you with all my heart for keeping me and my family in your heart.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox always and forever,

k.

pending freedom

the nurse just told us that she will be surprised if dad will lives past midnight.

mom and i just spoke together that dad has been working a long time toward freedom.

sad for us, surely, but so right and glorious for him.



the only one we're missing here tonight is daniel, and the rest of cheryl's family.  my gratitude for dad passing on a night with so many of us here is just, well, beyond measure.

i feel the love of each of you with us.
thank you all.
xoxo
k.

ahhhhh....more precious time?!

well, mom, dad, cheryl and i (along with tim) have parted ways for the evening.  dad lives on.  the doctor who saw him tonight says that his heart rate is quite elevated (now 140 beats per minute rather than 60-100, which is the norm).  and that surprisingly, his lungs are now clear (they have been coarse for the past few days).  this means that he will likely not end up ending life with a type of "suffocation" death (which, several days ago when his lungs were filling with fluid, the doctor said was likely.  He had worked to prepare us, stating that while this type of passing is difficult for bedside loved ones -- the air hunger, the gasping, and the gurgling --  thankfully due to adivan and morphine, it is not typically difficult for the patient.)  this doctor was an amazing, unexpected help for each of us tonight.  we learned lots of new things, and not once, not twice, but three times he asked us if we had any further questions.  to fully appreciate this is to know that mom and i, ever the information seekers, seldom experience this level of patience and investment at the physician level. hospice however...yet another way that these guys break the mold.   he took lots of time to fill in our end-of-life knowledge gaps.  one of which, the ever-present backdrop priority, is the "when" of it all.  in saying we won't likely have more than two or three more days, he gives us the idea that perhaps, in fact, today may not actually be the day after all. 

i must admit, i feel almost giddy.  first and foremost, sister cheryl is here.  the sensation as a little sister that my competent big sis is here to save the day...well it's palpable.  and effectively  indescribable. she wonders at her inherent "hero status" (simply by stepping off the plane -- but i know as well as anyone that, with 4 growing kids at home, even this thing is no small feat).  second, is the sense that i may not need to see my dad strain for his final breaths. (i did see this status for about an hour two days ago, until re-positioning shifted the demand on his lungs.)  how it will look, exactly, no one is able to outline...but the idea that we may not have to suffer beside him....well, giddy is really the best word.  third and finally, is the sense that i keep getting more time with my dad.  still, after all this time, i thrill at the idea of more.  Insatiable, i am.  well, perhaps this word isn't perfect....but it's close.  

jonathan and bethany will be here in the morning.  would be strange and wonderful, all of us in the same room, loving our dad, and wishing him well as he enters eternity.

i cannot tell you how hopeful i am that another late night call will not come to us tonight.

thank you again, each of you, for all your kindness and support.

soon we will be living with a dad-gap in our lives, but for now -- we phil bruce kids are gifted with just a little more time.

xoxo, k.