four fours makes forty four, twice

hey dad!

 thought i`d stop by to say hi on this my 44th b-day. feel like a newby trying to type on tims kindle, so brief it may have to be!

we are making excellent gains on our backyard again. wish you could see it all unfold, or even better yet, join in the fray. i never saw you working all the projects on the georgia property, but i know your sons come by the passion honestly. your love of wood, and all the possible accomplishments that can be birthed from the wielding of it. the courage and optimism you demonsrtrated when you took on cabinetmaking was...well i guess i would have to think on the proper adjective to describe it. at the time i was shaken by your choice to leave behind life as a professor, the work i knew you`d longed to do since i was a teenager interrogating you about what work you would do upon retirement...you always had such confidence as you described your desire to build engineering skills into the lives of Christian youth. by the time you moved to cabinet making i was disillusioned, compelled to distance myself from you and from the confusion i felt, the shifting of what i was so sure was right, your right. but even admist all of that smoldering loss, i still i felt these tinges of...okay i have it now...ADMIRATION.  admiration for the way that you released the one good thing and embraced a new good thing. you created another vision for your life. just like that. no ego, no angst. just the warm solid actionable embrace of a new venture that was tangible. karen, there's a pleasure that comes from creating something with your hands, something that endures, a finished product....these were your words when as a young woman i re engaged long enough to question you. you took the time without judgement to explain how as much as you loved your military career, it never afforded you that type of job peace and release, and then I'm sure you added for emphasis the factoid you'd gathered somewhere about how truck drivers have some of the highest reported job satisfaction, because when they drop off a load, they experience completion. which so many jobs don't give you but that making furniture will....

well here i am, the same age you were when you left the military to forge a new life, stumbling through the confusion of a business that doesn't need me in ways that are comfortable or familiar, discovering the visceral pleasure of working with my hands finishing the massive construction projects your engineering sons created with that irresistable designer husband of mine.

ironic, huh!?

you then, me now.

four fours make 44, twice.


ate carrot cake in the dark tonight, twinkling yellow candles, one in each corner, both pups beside me, tim sleeping behind me, windows open in the night breeze, tree branches in my forward vision, uplit by a low slung string of lights, nothing but open possibilities between me and them.

44 is going to be the best year I've had in an age. i feel it in my bones.

sleep well, my dear dad!

hugs,
k.

3 years, today

Dad,
I'm glad to meet you here today but the time that I really wish I would have reached out to you was the night of Daniel and Jessica's wedding.

The day was amazing.  I'd like to tell you all about it, how precious the time together was, and how poignant our sense of loss to not be able to share it with you.  True to the Bruce way, we were not able any of us to be open with each other or the public about how much we missed having you in our midst.  Not with our words, anyway.  But at times I looked around and every moment seemed to be a silent testament to who you have been in each of our lives. Particular moments at the Vaughn's lovely farm when I looked around and just felt, how do i say it, an indescribable type of -- full.  I still see the crisp details in those moments but in time, they will fade to a sensation I will always carry with me.  I've only had a few of them in my life.  I'm glad this day created them, because every year your son and his wife celebrate their marriage, I'll be reminded to ponder these moments.

We're at the Vaughn's lovely farm. Country music floating in the air, Charlyn's famous barbeque served by the best caterer a lifetime of friendships can find.  The not-so-random random silverware gingerly washed, wrapped, and stacked. Abundance of wildflowers everywhere, lush green grass, moist air how is it not hot in Virginia in July?, constant summer sheen on my desert-adapted face.  The biggest picnic table, a relic of Georgia days lovingly re-purposed by David and Daniel just for this event.  Filled with the people who knew you, lived years on end with you as a part of each day, can't believe we're all here together and doing this thing without you here to substantiate it but sucking in the presence of kin.  Kids -- your grandkids, alongside Vince Baker's grandkids, can you imagine that! -- fishing off the pier and taking paddle boats around the lake.  Tables adorned with arrangements that your daughter, daughter-in-law, son-in-law (Darren with floral tape! I could not have been more proud), brother, brother-in-law, sister and sister-in-law created with precision and care (and speed!).  Amazing toasts by your sons (their voices project as well as yours!), dancing father daughter mother son, cake cut by your four foot sword, Daniel in your mess dress. photo of you centered amongst the story of your son.   Laughter, joy, swollen tears.  We would have spoken of you to strangers, but it would have been impossible to put you into words.  But you must know, Dad, that you were present in our every motion of love toward each other.  As family, we were Phil Bruce personified: humble and warm, optimistic and innocent, with more than a whisper of Grandpa's dignity and grace.

On to more mundane things.  There's a mouse in our house who won't die.  He actually escaped out of the trap a few nights ago, I kid you not.  He comes out at night to check out our latest fruit and crumb supply.  After escaping with the bait cheese in paw several nights in a row, we're laying in bed and the horrific SNAP sounds and immediately I feel sick. Tim goes to check on the situation, comes soberly in and says "it won't be long now"  (well felt like that -- I think it was more precisely "i'm going to wait about 15 minute before going back to get him" -- later he tells me his chest was still rising and falling underneath the bar!)  and a few more moments pass.  let me tell you how awful it feels for any little creature under your roof to be breathing his last! And then all of a sudden there is this HORRIFIC racket....I feel like I screamed but I hope I wasn't girly about it -- tim rushes out to see what happened and he sees the bugger scampering away and back up the wall and into his hole.  No kidding.  And according to Tim, he was walking with his head held high.  So go figure, I suppose it's time to hire an engineer to build a better mousetrap.

I only bring up the mouse in this moment because I just heard a small racket in the kitchen and I know too much.  No need to go check it out.  I refuse to get any more attached to this crazy creature.  My respect for his survival skills is already through the roof; I don't need to see how cute he is, to boot!  As it is, I refuse to let Tim try again until I am away for the weekend.

Back to my thoughts before the noise..The Vaughn Bruce nuptuals.  Well I know in five years I will wish I would have written down every last detail -- just like I already wish I had documented every word of the autopsy doctor's meeting with us -- but I think I've probably opened myself up as far as I can go in one night.  I hate to admit it, but it is still a bit painful to come here and talk directly to you.  I have to stop and be willing to open myself up to the pain of remembering, and then going to bed the next day to wake up and continue my efforts to live well, without you.  it feels like a release of control that's not in a good way.  Or at least it's in a way that feels confusing, and not possible to assure timely re-containment.  But it would be worse to believe that I didn't have the courage, or the heart.

But once I'm here and settled in, I love it.  I love having a place where I can go to give my heart that extra room to expand.  And I love that it brings me closer to my memories of you.  It reminds me of the times when I would have you all to myself for a few minutes as a kid, in the garage, on a bike with you running beside, or the couple of times we had a meal out just the two of us.  Where people are welcome to listen in to whatever lively conversation we're having, ponder the problems we're solving, but your attention is fully engaged in our dialog.  It was a wonderful way to grow up, to have parts of your dad that you didn't have to share with the Big People.

Much love always,
thank you for being my center.

your daughter
k.

p.s. we love our new dogs.  they've breathed youth and vitality back to a house that had been ailing for awhile.  RIP dear Roxy and Dixie.  You did right by us for many years!!!!   xoxo

p.p.s.  i think i'm going to ask Daniel to help me switch up the photos here.  I'm done seeing you as you were in your final days.  perhaps that's what's causing some of the pain!  I'm ready to see the dad that i knew for the bulk of my life.  it's time to re-balance the scales and weight them as they existed in real time.  your amazing traits carried you through to the end and someday i will be ready to see images that take me back to those deep and precious times together. but for now....bring on the bikes and birthdays and sofa cozies while the books were being read! xoxoxox

This Week I Sniffed Memories of You

Hey Dad,

I'm avoiding a work email I need to send out, but thought I'd stop by quickly to tell you that I had fun, fond memories of you all week long.  Jonathan was in town to help Tim build this cool new wall that will define the modern, minimalist-style space of our new Arcadia Courtyard.  I wanted to be out and about in all the hubbub but not enmeshed in their process.  So I stained the pillars of last year's project, the deck off the west side of the office (dubbed affectionately and ironically by Ulisses as "The Lobby" when it was nothing but a pile of mud and rotting plywood planks).

The smell of the stain took me back to my early childhood.

To images of you handcrafting wooden boxes whose open-air windows showcased 3x5 index cards containing Bible verses you were committing to memory.

Thank you for sharing your handiwork with a curious girl too young to do anything but get in the way.

I never felt discarded by you.  I wonder how much patience that required.  I'll never know -- because you never let on that I was anything but a delight to have around.

Thanks for embedding your kind and practical father-goodness deep within me.  So deep you've even captured the ancient smell centers of my brain.

xoxo
k.

today I meet the smartest man in the world

Dad,

It was an unbelievable day, sitting down with a world renowned neuropathologist to discuss the results of your autopsy.

which were, in the end

inconclusive.



Your brain.  The part of you that held your soul and released it to us one word, one action at a time.  Distilled to its smallest possible form.  Studied at 40,000 levels of magnification.  And even then, the cause of your crushing life closure is ultimately unknown.  

September 12, 2010.  The scientist sits at his desk.  Another day, another slide.  Slips it into his microscope.   As your cells come into focus, things begin to get interesting.  An infection, yes.  How cool!  Incredibly rare.  But the specific pattern your cells display?  He's never seen it before.  And yet, there it is, present in multiple eloquent places in your brain.  Even though they take up a tiny fraction of the total mass of your brain, their look is so distinctive, he knows as soon as he sees them he's stumbled onto something that demands an explanation.  Since there's no one to call and consult with (pathologists don't specialize in infections because they'd have nothing to do), he turns to his computer to tackle the literature reviews.  What he finds is sitting next to impossible.  And just like that, you become a file he'll never forget.

Well, Dad, perhaps eventually I'll spell out every last detail in the event they don't keep medical records where you are.  But tonight I'll keep it brief.  He only found ONE OTHER CASE that totally matches yours!  Imagine that!  Only two of you, in all the known world.  But if that isn't wild enough, the next fact is truly beyond belief.  The other guy's cellular changes were caused by a viral infection....so the logical conclusion is that yours would have been caused by a virus, too. But your brain tissue contained. no. viral. organisms.

Cause of death?  A viral infection of the brain.

Inconclusive because....?!?............. no virus was present in your brain.

Well dad, what can I say?  Your status as the Ultimate Medical Mystery lives on. No one could figure you out as your life was leaving us in all those dramatic fits and starts.  And now that all your secrets have been laid bare, we are, acutely, none the wiser.    You were unknowable in life, and now you are enduringly unknowable in death.

It almost feels magical, this space you take up in our world.

I wish you were here with me tonight....we'd both be enjoying the fitting irony of it all.
xoxox
k.

p.s. You will never leave the inbox of the smartest man in the world.  How do I know?  Because he said so himself as he put down his rubber band and paper clips, shook our hands, and walked us out the door.  Well done, dad! Your science-nerd daughters are very, very proud.

2 Years, Tomorrow

Hi Dad,

Tomorrow, or actually it's already tomorrow, ends the second year that we have been here and you have been there.  I'm still not all that invested in afterlife daydreams -- just what exactly IS dad doing with all his free time?! --  preferring instead to focus on ways in which my life is muted without you here with me.

Example one.  We're driving with J & B to Colorado -- Durango of all places -- and I had no idea the depth of my exclusive childhood connection:  Colorado = Dad.  It doesn't hit me until several days into our trip and we're making the trek over the mountains from Durango to Telluride.  I see the grandeur of the terrain...the heights, the sheer dropoffs, the carpet of evergreen trees...and I see you, in memory form, as a type of overlay that brings a haze of present tense into each scene.  Had I chosen to write them down, stories of "You in Colorado" would have filled all the empty spaces of our car.  It was physically painful, in an odd sort of way.

Example two.  We have a puppy.  You'd laugh with Tim and me, watching her antics.  Clearly, at 3 and 1/2 pounds, she's no German Shepherd.  Not a real dog.  More like part rodent, part feline, part bat, and last and least, part dog.  Despite the combo, I know you'd approve and though she's just a pet and not a child, there's a tiny part of me that thinks the experience of bringing her into the human world would be fuller, if you could share it with me.

Well, I think I'd like to copy down a story that I would have read to you, perhaps at your birthday gathering later this month, that would have made you smile:





 

 

it's just a regular day

Hi Dad,

It's just a regular day today.  My heart isn't hurting especially much for you right now, which is perhaps why it's possible for me to set aside a few moments and connect with you.  Life is so normal now, compared to how it was when you were sick, or right after you died.  So when waves of missing you come over me, i feel somewhat surprised and it feels foreign to "lean into it" like I had no choice but to do during all those months of intense grieving.  I think of this space, and how I'd like to meet you here, but then I decide just to wait passively until the wave passes.

It's interesting, how your other children are faring.  I wish we could each of us experience more closeness together through our grieving, but the path is so personal, and each of us is so different from the other!  And each of us experienced your illness and death so differently.  Perhaps in the years to come we will feel more common ground in our sense of missing you.

This week coming up is the 4th of July.  I think perhaps it will be the first time every single one of us has been together since your memorial service in Phoenix.

The room will feel empty without you.
xoxo

november 1

hi dad.

you'd love to hear that i'm doing something completely new.

COMPLETELY.

i'm writing a novel. 50,000 words in 30 days.  or at least that's the idea.

i know it's just a little thing.  but because of the fluid life that tim has taught me to live, such a black-and-white goal feels completely foreign to me.

if you were here, you'd give me courage.  tell me that a goal is a good thing.  but that it has no bearing on my worth.  go for it, just don't freak out about it.

ok well that last sentence is your ideas, my words.

i wish i could read each chapter to you as they roll off the presses.  because you'd listen carefully, innocently, always with a smile.  no fear.

i hope my sense of you doesn't fade with time.

hugs to you,
k.

aging

hi dad.

today tim is 48.  It's hard to believe that he's almost 50.  50 seems so old when life is still so slippery, so hard to digest.  like grandpa told me a year before he died, you never stop needing to grow.

texas continues.  when (and how) will the adventure end?  sometimes i'd just like to hit the pause button, other times i want to rip the dvd out of the player and chuck it out the window to be crushed when the trash truck comes.

i still can't bear to contact mrs. cherry.  seems i can't fathom it unless tim can come too.

i continue to be amazed at my limitations for living extended times without tim in the room.  8 days has come to be my natural, near comfortable limit.  what sucks is that he can go for weeks in a well-adapted solo rhythm, buying groceries for himself, fixing chicken dinners, running, working 10 straight hours a day, taking out the trash, not locking himself out of the house.  his main glitch seems to be washing the striped, fitted sheet to the king sized bed.  not bad, all things considered.

i like not thinking about you every day. the dying you, that is to say.  i like not feeling the constant weighty presence of fresh grief.  but forming instead is a vague new longing.....a sense of all that could have been had you been a 60-something HEALTHY dad.  along with the sadness is a frustration, for despite my obsession with fiction, i have a terrible imagination.  i wonder if i should nurture the ability to create mental scenes of what will never be, or just leave well enough alone.

i can't wait for the day when photos of the sick you seem completely foreign to me.  and photos of the healthy you take me back to the simple joys of growing up with you as my dad.  it was a privilege to live so close to such a hopeful, optimistic, honorable man.  i do so wish you could still be here.  i'd build a new, spacious room for you in my heart.  Create a sensibly luxurious spot for you in our tiny studio space -- the moment you would ask.  i'd happily share my life, my space, my time, my skills.  sick or strong, i promise i'd try REALLY hard not to hold back.  just come back home to me.

if heaven can wait for all of us here, it could wait again for you.  i wouldn't keep you here forever.  just a year or two, or more.  we have a lot of birthdays yet to endure, and i'd really rather not do them without you.

a couple little things

i never thought i'd be the type of person who would need to keep in some sort of odd touch with the dead.  but, i guess i never really thought about what it would be like to live without a dad.  we didn't rely on giving each other updates when our lives were criss crossing here.  but somehow i must have known that dad always bent his ear, never rushed me through my vocalizations.  especially as a little girl.  i remember the bike rides, how i would petal and he would run beside my purple banana seat bike.  it worked well for both of us, i guess: because i had to go kinda slow (my front wheel would wobble sometimes), i had plenty of air in my chest cavity to do all of the talking, and since you had to go kinda fast to stay in step, you had only enough air to say "uh, huh" ....which was all the encouragement i needed to continue on.  occasionally i'd wonder at your interest, because you weren't saying much, but then you'd look my way, and smile, and i knew you were all mine.

so, here are my updates:

* my kindergarten teacher contacted me.  One of the most influential women in my whole childhood, one who nurtured me solidly onto a trail of continuous-feed learning. my heart is so full of, i don't know, just so full, that i begin to choke up with tears just thinking that she can still be in my life after an entire childhood has come and gone, and all of my early adulthood years as well.  i know without a doubt that she was the firstI knew that heros could exist beyond moms and dads.  I was taken, to my core, with admiration and the strongest urge to make her proud.  well she contacted me via email, can you believe it, and she lives in Tucson.  i just cannot wait til i can pull myself together and go give her a hug from the deepest place of childhood love.  and sure enough, she's proud of me, and you, and all we did together as you died.

* tim has taken a job that has given us an unbelievably exciting new-life adventure.  we get to live in texas too!  it's very cool.  i think you would love to do a tour of the manufacturing "plant" -- huge office, really, where they build their boxes, the ones that sniff the air for toxins.  I think you'd be fascinated, and would ask tim such best questions that he would actually begin to feel that it was him that was so fascinating.  I loved how you could do that.  tune in so well that people felt better about themselves by just having a simple conversation wtih you. 

* on Saturday a guy broke into our back office and started stealing our Arcadia computers.  then for some reason he started coming into the house via the pantry door at the same time that i was walking toward the pantry.  I wasn't sure what I was seeing until I was looking at him through the glass door that I apparetnly had just slammed in his little dark hoodied face.  i won't bore you with the details.  but i guess the take home message is that i finally get why you men think doors should be locked.  here all this time i thought you were being hypervigilant, because maybe you all were forced to give up playing cowboys and indians a couple years too soon.  Tim rushed to the airport to catch a flight home to commence the Security Summit (I really do love how men think)...but was waylaid by some trouble of his own.  i'll wait to let him fill you in on that bit.  but overall, the experience has left me properly chastised for my resistance to door locking, and a firm believer in non-monitored alarm systems.  i'm afraid you and your sons and your son in law have so carefully influenced me to embrace the DIY movement.  you could NEVER get me to pay someone money just to be sure i properly maintain my alarm, i'd be working from them every day, having to drop all my bags and race to the alarm so as not to disturb the poor alarm workers.  give me my pellet gun, and let's go glue glass shards along the back yard.  i'm not sure that if you were here i'd be all that interested in your opinion -- you probably wouldn't be so keen on the "rogue" approach.  But maybe if i got on my bike and you got on your running shoes, i'd at least fully understand how i feel about it by the time we've gone our 5 miles, and you'd be smiling, to watch your daughter come to a place of confidence just through her own time to talk out loud in the ears of a dad who never belittled or judged.

* Roxy died on the 5th month of your death.  Two weeks before, I had started calling her my hospice dog as i knew the only way i was going to take her in to the vet was is she was clearly suffering.  not suffering, her, but me suffering, yes.  everytime i reached down to scratch her little chin to see if she was alive, i felt what it was like to be reaching for you, to see if you were still with me.  I so wanted more of you -- and so little of her.  Everything else about her dying was like re-living yours.  Small scale, of course.  I had to keep it in a box because I was just getting to a place where thoughts of your dying process, and our current loss, were not at the foundation of every day. Its been nice to be able to breathe a little, to tackle my job and this new two-life-project with some recent energy.  I couldn't let a little weinerdog take me back under.  But whew!  Thanks to our true blue friend ulisses, Roxy was in good hands.  just today we learned that ulisses' other half, Nicole, was there for the service and some gentle words were given on her behalf.  And she is place north to sough, face and paws toward the west, to keep her eyes on the house.  God rest litlle dauschund soul.

*Arcadia business continues to improve.  If you were here, you'd be so good to ask about our growth, and we'd talk about numbers, and I'd probably get into the excitement of finally having a solid block of girls who want what we can give -- lots of classes and companionship, and help to structure their work so they don't get out of balance or overwhelmed.  I truly love this work.  and as I say this you would say something about how you think I'm good at it, then I would ask why, then you'd pause to think, then, well,  hmmm, we'd find some angle, some spin on your thoughts that would leave me feeling that i was probably a great pic to try just about anything, after i spent time with you when we would speak about work, I always had this sense that you truly, deeply believed in my competence to tackle anything.  That often meant the conversation had kinda come to a natural conclusion, and so tim would come in and disiss me.  and then you'd be off in la-la-happy plane land.  Two good ment.  Giving eveything their skilss would allow to nurture the girls they loved.

- Spanish class continues.  Love it.  will be over May 10 so I will  be so ready to get to extend our texas visits to about 10 days.

*that's about it for now.  friend is staying with us, til her house sells.  learning is a good thing.

so i have typed past my sleep medications picking in ....can't wasit to see what awaits me in the mornign.

ahhh...the day is here

oh my goodness.

i'm in a plane headed east.  in just a couple hours tim and i will land in washington d.c. -- truly, the place that we Philip Bruces have soundly decided is HOME.  which is not easy to do, as a military family, to name the place to house our roots.

i could not be more excited that dad's final resting place is in the nation's capital.  after all, he's the one that etched the truest form of patriotism into our familial heart. 

and further: for his body to be placed at Arlington National Cemetery, amongst the sea of men and women who have given themselves to America.  WOW.  takes my breath away.

and yet further: to be an observer of the greatest honors a country can bestow one of their fallen

don't love what i see

ok, so in re-reading my last two posts, i gotta say i'm not loving where this is going.

somehow, dad, i thought i'd always be able to keep this space all about you.  yes, my presence, my signature sense of things, is allowable here, sure, but only as a medium to show people the kind of man you are (pre 9-11) / were (post 9-11).  but it's weird, at least for me, how the "grief process"  -- i still prefer the word "process" over "grief"; who wants to grieve? -- it somehow becomes more about me than you.  how i'm feeling, what you meant to me as a dad, what it means to be here without you.

i remember when grandpa died, and i couldn't do a thing with or for myself -- no process, all grief.  it wasn't cool, how i would spontaneously burst into silent, desperate tears when a tender thought of him crossed my heart -- but at least i didn't have to drag myself through the self-analysis that your death, or rather, my place in your death, seems to be bringing before me.  they say you can't run grief's show.

ugghhhh. 

well, dad, it was 2 months ago tonight that you breathed your last.  hope it wasn't painful or too hard.  seemed pretty workable to me, what your body was asking you to do as you passed.  certainly, it was nothing like what life had asked of you in the weeks and months, maybe even years, leading up to your death.  i remember i wrote that it was a gentle death, complete with your signature twinkle.  it was also kinda open-minded, just like you...how you seemed gone, then you weren't, then maybe it's now, then i guess not yet....now?  no, not just yet.....................the breaths kept coming, even when we thought surely this one was the last.  even laura, our hospice nurse, waited five minutes to call your time of death because she wanted to be sure.  your final breaths were, well, remarkably flexible.  just like you.  whew.  people die the way they live, i've come to say.

sister cheryl was the one who checked in with me today.  funny, how aware she seems to be of the dates and the times.  and how clueless i am.  she says it took her weeks to get through a saturday night without reliving pieces of your passing.  me -- symbolic dates kinda sneak up on me, they're haphazard and arrive without fanfare.  i'll be one of those post-stroke patients who is never fully oriented, no matter how much self-insight i display! 

i hope cheryl never stops checking in on your anniversary dates.

well, dad, we miss you.  that much is clear.  and, as anxious as i am about being in a "good place" when we put your body to rest a week from monday,  i am sure looking forward to experiencing the honor of your resting place.  and seeing your beautiful flag-covered casket once again.  you make me so proud.  truly you do.

hope you're finding heaven to be as delightful a place as everyone envisions it to be.

always, k.

xoxox

a little word looms large

so, here's the post i placed friday night into hellogrief.org.  love the peppy way i talk around the utter fatigue that grief brings?  me too! 

as i wrote and edited, one thing that i thought carefully about is the phrase at the end:  "as i rebuild my spirit in the wake of my father's death..."  i considered two things:  one, am i overdoing it, to suggest that one's spirit falls in disrepair after sustaining the death process with a loved one?  nah, don't think so.  not in my case, anyway.  the second:  what does the term "wake" really mean?  and does it fit here?  so here's what i learned about the different nuances of the word (complements of dictionary.com):

WAKE: (n) 1-a watching, for some solemn purpose; 2-a vigil by the body of a dead person before burial, often involving feasting or merrymaking; 3-the state of being awake.

seems to me there's some paradoxical stuff going on here.  one, that a solemn purpose (watching over the body of a dead person) would involve a party; and two, that the opposing concepts of "awake" and "dead" would be intertwined in the same word.  makes me think of dad's spirit: when it was all said and done, his death process likely brought to him both awakening and merrymaking. 

yes, in some odd way i think the word is a perfect fit -- and hidden within it must  be some keys to the resolving of that utter fatigue.  a little bit of fun, anyone?  ahhhh, for sure, when the proper time has passed.

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Interesting.  Tonight I ran across a journal I'd started on my birthday two years ago.  Apparently, I was preparing a year in advance for the beginning of a new decade.  I love to take time every so often (usually at New Years -- my favorite holiday) to step back and take a look at the global picture of my life: what's working, what's not, what I value, what I don't.  I love to get a visual picture of what I'm hoping for, so I know what to work toward.  The end of one era and the beginning of another can be especially delightful.  So...what better time to take stock in things than a year before the "expiration date" of a great decade?!  At least that must be what I was thinking that night as I placed my thoughts on the page:
_____________________________________________________________

My 20's:  I created and established the adult me. 

My 30's:  I discovered and labored within my life work.

My 40's: FREEDOM and JOY ----- and lots and lots of FUN !  (I have one year to figure this out.)

_____________________________________________________________

Well...................
Ok, so I'm now one year behind schedule.  Not bad. 

Freedom and Joy, actually, are always with me.  They define the deepest part of who I am (thanks to all that hard work in my 20's).  But -- FUN?!?  Even worse --- LOTS AND LOTS of fun?!?  What planet was I on?  What foreign substance was coursing through my veins? 

Tonight, as my eyes arrive at that simple birthday wish of two years ago, I feel the Grief Haze heavy over me: I'm reading a language I studied as a kid and I can't quite place the word.   

fun?   
FUN?   
F - U - N ?    
"F" as in Frank, "U" as in Underwear, "N" as in Nancy?    

What exactly is it?  A person?  A place?  A thing?  A feeling?  An idea? And what does it have to do with me?  Or my future?  Did I really want it?  Think I needed it?  Deserved it?  Nothing better to do with my time?  My heart?  My life?

The calendar on the corner of my computer catches my eye.  It's Friday.  Count the weeks: October 22nd, one week.  October 15th, two weeks.  October 8th, three; October 1st, four.  September 24th, five weeks; September 17th, six; September 10, seven.  Seven weeks ago tonight, Dad had one day left to live.  Seven weeks ago tonight, my sister had just flown in from Canada and we were soaking up our father, knowing our time together was coming to a close.   Birthday wishes?  Who would want them now?  Fun?  I couldn't think of anything more frivolous if you paid me a million bucks.  Lots and lots of fun? Ok now we've entered the realm of the obcene.

Could it really have been me that night, wishing for an abundance of such an innocent, idealistic, unneccesary 3 letter word?!?  A woman all of 38 years of age?  Seems like something an eager adolescent would ask for, not some well-established, mature, enlightened adult.  Could this really be the same woman who had, for countless hours and days of each year of her life, been brave to touch and tackle so many grown-up things?  Did she really fall in love with the man of her dreams?  Figure out how to stay permanently and gloriously in love with the man of her reality?  Start, re-start, and finally finish schooling?  Start a business?  Keep a business? Nurture friendships?  Build a home?  Care for her beloved Grandfather as he died a slow and careful death?  Help her baby brothers grow to become amazing young men?  Follow the antics of five nephews, one neice, no two, no three, make that eight adorable neices and nine precious nephews; with more who are sure to join the fray?

This woman's been to the moon and back, in her own unique and marvelous way.  So why would she now, nearly two full decades after her big adult life began, want to capture something so very very small?  How did she find the place inside herself to wish for it?  From whence did that youthful energy and ambition arise? 

Actually, to tell you the truth, I can't exactly remember.  I don't remember why.  And I certainly don't remember how.  But I think I can wager a guess.  I think my yearning for that simple, three-lettered something has everything to do with being a kid again.  Because living large and all grown up isn't all there is to life.  Sure, I wouldn't want to give up my home, my work, my friends, my memories with my Grandpa, those awesome years with my brothers -- and for sure, you couldn't pry that priceless husband of mine from my heart if you tried.  But...I can only be an adult, a responsible, reasonable adult, for so many years on end before childhood comes knocking at my door once more.  I don't mind the heavy decisions and the gut wrenching sacrifices that brave adulthood brings.  In fact, I see them as a privilege and a gift.  But it's those blasted grown-up expectations of others and myself; its' those responsibilities and commitments that come because I didn't think to dig a little deeper.  Life doesn't have to be complicated.  No need for grandiose.  Just a simple soaking up of life.  To see the happy moments and linger there for just an extra moment or two. 

As I gradually rebuild my spirit in the wake of my father's death, I'm sure I'll be ready once again.  Maybe not this month, maybe not next year.  But when the proper time has passed (and surely before the next decade rolls around) my youthful ambition will return.  And then I'll be READY.  Ready for lots, and lots, of pure and simple, soul-refreshing FUN.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *

FOR MY VISITORS AND FRIENDS:  Thanks for reading my post!  So, I'd love to hear about you.  What do you feel like you've lost?  What do you hope will return?  How long do you think it might take? 

=========================================================
p.s. tonight is the last time i get to say "last month my dad died."  from here forward, his death becomes, increasingly, a thing of the past.  funny how even the littlest of things can require one to work at letting go...ready or not.

a whole new world arrives at my door

this week i stumbled onto a new community that has already meant the world to me.  it's a place built for children who are learning to live with loss.  specifically, the loss of a brother, sister, parent, grandparent, or other key person who played a crucial caregiving role in their life.   drownings, alcoholism, heart attacks, suicides, car accidents, death.  death, death, and more death.  all these tender spirits who have sustained the crazy-heavy blow of loss.  Not just any loss, mind you, but loss of the one they relied upon for all of the basics of their life: food, clothing, shelter, love.  or in some cases, it is actually a cocktail of loss.  take one of my new friends for example:  at 13 she lost her grandfather who took care of her, because at 5 she lost her father, and at 4 she lost her mother. 

so many awful stories.  so much pain and sadness.  and yet, to spend time there is to feel this oddest lifting of the spirit.  when i'm there i find my insides fill themselves with hope, with goodness, with fun.  hard to imagine isn't it?  i guess you gotta see it to believe it.

http://www.hellogrief.org/

its the online community of a not-for-profit group that puts on camps for children who are grieving.  pretty cool, what this organization has created.  and how it helps those kids. and their parents.  and the volunteers.  and me.

it's inspirational, in the largest sense of the word, to connect with these precious kids and young adults. to learn from them how to balance the past in all its frail glory into the future with its endless demands of growth.  they gather themselves together, and they do it.  they tackle their futures,  those countless big, first-time grown up things:  they graduate from high school, attend their first class at college, collect new boyfriends, buy new houses, walk down the aisle. birth their first child.  each and every new task that life brings to them, they do without their father.  or their mother.  or both.  their courage empowers me as i begin  to craft my dad-less frame of life.  their friendship humbles me.

Soooo....

not only have i started "friending" people, and creating updates and commenting on the forums and posting cool photos, but i've fleshed out my profile and created an awesome memorial page for dad (if i do say so myself).  and what's more, i've found a whole new way to honor dad.  i've begun to blog.  and as i write, i find myself almost supernaturally filtering my thoughts and feelings in a way that allows me so soon in my grief to avail myself to a kid who might be able to learn from the story i have to tell. it's the most remarkable thing.   i'm speaking honestly.  yes.  i'm honest, vulnerable, raw.  but the me that finds itself on the page is a PG version of me.  it's the same me that found her voice here, but its a gentler, softer me.  


wait.  you don't feel the wonder of this gift that has found its way into my lap?  well, then -- perhaps you've never stared grief between its beady eyes. 


grief, i am sad to discover, is a twisted, unwieldy beast.  it doesn't surrender itself to chirpy wishes or soften when offered a vanilla-flavored dose of vague sentamentality.  it refuses even to bend itself to a heartfelt desire to remember the dead through a pure and simple lens of kindness.  oh no.  grief is not generous, steadfast or warm.  it is a fickle friend, at best; at worst, it is that enemy you must keep closer than a friend. 


so now do you see the beauty of this thing?  i have found another safe place to share my pain.  as i enter the world of these courageous children and teens, i find myself able to use my words to connect.  i don't have to water down the cold, cruel facts of my heart and thus weaken my sense of the truth.  my spirit, on a path all its own, is softening the message to match the heart of my intended audience.  and because it is, i am free to fully connect with them.  my ugly scruffy grief, when brought to the place where children live, is willing to take a gentler stance.  all brutality is set aside as i paint for them pictures of my father.  and me as his daughter.  thank you, grief.  you nasty tender bastard, you.


if i've learned anything from my arcadia families and all my precious neices and nephews, i've learned that kids must be given the truth in a way that nurtures their unformed curves.  their tender developing selves cannot absorb a truth in a form that crushes or cripples.  Our imperfect stories -- yes, even pieces of our darkest, saddest stories, can and should be given to our children as humble gifts of love, but they can only be delivered in the best possible way.  life's hardest lessons colored in gentle, lighter, warmer shades of the harsh, original hue.  of course.  that's where we get baby blue.  and pastel pink.  and lavendar. and lemondrop yellow, and seafoam green.

*              *               *                *                *

so what to do with this space here?  well, perhaps, in order to keep this as my permanent dad memorybook, i'll reprint my Hello Grief posts here.  and perhaps, in keeping with the me that flows like an extension of my body the moment i sit down at this screen,  i'll attach a prefix or a postscript for you.  if i can, i'll add an unfiltered, true-blue take on the topics i'm tackling for myself and those brave souls in my new young world. 

what a great place this is

wow!!  what a great place this is.

over the past weeks, i have been collecting multiple ways to stay "tapped in" to dad and the amazing process of living within his life and death story. 

* Grief Share (a church-run support group that friend jen introduced me to.  which, by the way is very cool in that it is in the back office of a church run coffee house.  never knew that coffee houses had back offices complete with sofas, dvd players, and tissues for tears.  as if coffee houses needed another reason to be cool!)

* Books (still loving the two i found during my quiet days right after dad's passing: Awakening from Grief, by john welshons and A Beautiful Death, by cheryl eckl.  And have spent a few moments in sister cheryl's all-time fav, Heaven, by randy alcorn)

* Tim (turns out, he's got sadness issues of his own to muscle his way through, as a result of his love and care for dad during his final days)

* Dinner Dates with dear friends (whether half the night is all about dad, or i receive just the briefest moment of dad-specific care as a friend imagines my months of pain...you just can't beat surrounding yourself with people you love who made tough choices to walk through loss alongside you)

* Mom and Me, at our new ESL -- that's English-as-a-Second-Language -- class at her community church (ok, dad, this one's not directly about you....but i miss working with mom to tackle your story.  so, in your absence, here's something that i just know you would have been so supportive of.  you always got excited when you thought of things that mom would be so good at doing.  which was often...you always held her in such high esteem!  as a young kid, about 5 or 6 it seems, i actually felt sorry for you -- i had this sinking feeling you just weren't the sharpest tool in the shed.  we can say this one's got YOU written all over it, dad....you were always contrasting mom's brilliance with your own, well, not-so-shiny skill sets.  it was spelling, and english, i think, that did you in.  course within about 7 or 8 years i began to see all that flying of the planes, and all those shimmery buttons on your mess dress uniform, as evidence to the contrary.  what a clever way to help your kids admire their mother!! and -- outside of your design -- in time, it helped your kids come to admire their father, too.)

Tonight, I find myself back here. 

Here, at the place where i went each night to clear my heart in preparation for what lay ahead when i awoke again to a new dad day.  the past several weeks, i've not come to visit.  i guess my heart was spinning in other directions and it didn't seem right to bring it back to relive the details of dad's passing.  but tonight, i come to check just one small thing and before i know it, i'm back.  not fully immersed, but fully partially immersed.  it's September 11th, and September 17th, and the 5 posts in between, that fully partially capture me.  i don't need to relive my sensations (i'm not that very far removed yet) and i don't need to comb the place for new insights (i'm still stumbling over the ones that are already staring me down).  even after hanging out here for an hour or so, i guess i still don't think i need to be here tonight.  But....i must say...MAN IS IT NICE TO BE HERE AGAIN!!! 

i'm kinda surprised:  i'm not reliving the pain, i'm reliving the love.  maybe someday i'll take the time to get back into the heartache etched in all my many words.  but tonight...what amazes me is the love. 

wow.  i remember again why those impossible days weren't unliveable.  the connections made here were powerful.  sustaining.  God's love passed through His people's online presence.  karli, jen, gail, cheryl, D, jb, beth, and so so so  many other good kind souls.  107 comments all told.  pretty wild-cool.

ahhh, i love how God, how He lets life advance, and new things take hold.  new, big things that touch us all...squishy-techy things like blogs and facebook love.  and new, medium-sized things that touch a few.  like gifted authors, and coffee house secret spots, and ESL.  and new, small things -- big things -- that touch just me. 

i get a lot more than just coffee tonight

okay so, dad, it's been two weeks and sixteen minutes since your time of death was announced.

whew. 

i'm glad we're not burying your body until November.  gives us time to adapt, in stages.  and how unbelievably grateful i am that we can honor you at arlington national cemetery.  our nation's capital, the place our whole family feels is a bit like home.

*          *          *          *          *

tonight i'm sitting at my friend's christian-ish coffee shop, elevate.  her young friend nate is singing the blues on the coffee shop stage.  this one song has four lines, i think, or maybe it's actually three, do they call them stanzas? -- that just keep repeating themselves, over and over and over and over.  which is nice for me because eventually the words cut through the fog and i begin to hear what's being said.  and then i discover i like what's being said.  and then i get to write it down.  and then i get to hear it again.  by the time nate's moved on, i know what it is about the words that work for me tonight.  repetition is nice that way, it buys you time.

what am i supposed to say
when the best of me was always you

what am i supposed to do
when i'm all choked up and you're ok

i'm barely breathin'
i just pray to a God i'm not quite believin'

i know the song is about breaking up, a guy and a girl, and i'm not sure what's going on with the praying / not quite believing combo.    but it comes over me, tonight, that these are the sensations of loss.  not all of them, for sure, but some of them.  and loss, in its many forms, always sings a similar sad tune.  lovers. dads. a child, a childhood dog, a lifelong friend.  the strands of loss are universal, i suppose it could be said.

and while the words are not a perfect mirror for me tonight, since i get to hear them over and over and over again, i begin to love the chance i've been given to contemplate the parts that reflect the bits and pieces.

some of my best was embodied in you, dad.

the senseless crying sessions have started, dad, even when i know full well you're more than ok.

ok so yeah sometimes with the crazy tears, they do have a way of getting in the way of the breathing. 

and yeah, i'm not quite sure what's going on with the praying / not quite believing combo, but i'm sure i could do
more of the one and less of the other.

goodnight, dad.
goonight, friends.
xox
k.

SEPTEMBER 17: a fitting tribute to a godly man

oh my goodness. 

how to summarize the life of a man in a service that contains just sixty minutes of time?  how to summarize those sixty minutes here?

*               *              *               *               *

ok so i'm listening to daniel's audio recording of dad's service to try to snag a piece of it to share with you.  to get some sort of focus, some sort of place to begin.

i'm following along with pastor ron's warm welcome, then pastor short's inspired opening prayer.  so far, so good.  i'm catching a sense of where i might want to go.  once daniel can show me how to rewind his fancy program, i'll be able to roll up my sleeves and get to work.

and then, pastor short's prayer is over.  and the long pause begins.  at first i'm thinking we've arrived at the obvious, necessary quiet as one speaker steps away and the next walks forward to begin.  but the long pause continues.  and continues.  and continues.  i notice the silence gradually, as at first i'm filled with my meandering thoughts, this new insight i'm discovering as i consider what i've just heard, in these moments that have passed.  poetry is hidden within every heartfelt effort to honor a man.   in time the silence overtakes my thoughts and a sense of immediacy strikes.  i speak to my mind, come on karen!  you were there!  you can do this!  remember....what comes after the prayer?

and now i remember.  the air force honor guard.  and all of a sudden, it's happening again, in real time in my mind, as the silence continues.

i see eight men march up the center aisle of the chapel, slowly, heads held high. their steps are crisp, their uniforms a picture of perfection.  15 steps and they arrive at the front on the chapel.  in a single smooth motion all eight men stop.  then turn to their left.  five steps more and they are at the foot of dad's casket.  the four airmen on the right begin their steps to align themselves behind dad's casket.  the four on the left begin their steps to align themselves in front of dad's casket.  somehow, my mind has skipped a beat: now all eight are facing dad's casket. it happened, dreamlike, through some sort of secret language these men share; with one simple, crisp command each of them know how to move their legs, their torsos, their arms, ther hands.  and what about their heads?  well their heads, they never move.  but always they are balanced beautifully, setting the tone of their bodies' entire posture: not forward, not back, not up not down.  just perfectly centered.  it's the only message the military knows how to send: singular focus, never waver, always calm, always sure.  dignity, respect.  awareness, gratitude for those who have come before.  faithfulness to their fallen.

and now the flag.  they pick it up and begin the most elaborate ceremony i've ever witnessed in my life.  as a child, dad taught me and my sister this cool folding thing.  we folded anything we could get our hands on this way. although sheets and towels are always fair game, my baby doll blankets work best for my little fingers.  and, clearly, most worthy of the time it takes to do it right.  i love to guess at the perfect place to create the folds so that my finished product is always the proper size.  and then creating the triangle:  once i get the first fold right, the rest is easy.  slow down, i say to myself, and be a little more careful.  never rush or it will look sloppy in the end.  flip over, flip up, flip over, flip down.  no matter how slowly i go, this part is always over too soon.  i think it's really my favorite part.  ok, looks like i've done it right so far, i have a perfect triangle without a single lump.  and now i tuck the blanket's excess edge back into my bundle.  how is it that there's this perfect little slot that fits just right the length of the blanket i need to tuck away?  keep it slow...if i speed up now, i'll just have to pull it out and start the tuck again.  i learn to pull and straighten kind of in one smooth motion, so the edges are sure to lay flat.  and now, to top it off, i place my hands, one on top of my triangle, one on the bottom, and i just kinda pat it.  pat it here, pat it there.  and then....well then, i'm off.  off to my next girlish adventure.  i know this thing is special, this cool folding thing that dad's taught me and my sister to do.  and every time i do it, i do it purposefully, carefully.  sometimes i feel impatient inside myself, because it's not like me to be slow doing anything.  but somehow, i know it's just the way it's done.  but now, i'm finished and i'm ready to run.  i never stop to ask dad why to be slow.  and why a perfectly smooth triangular bundle is so significant. 

now i know why.  because it becomes the most beautiful, precious gift the military knows to give the widow of a man who has has served his country well.  words cannot describe.  my eyes can only shed their tears.

and now i hear the tap of the shoes as the airmen turn and march out the door.  click, click, click, click.

and now the guns, saluting dad.  one.  two.  three. 

and now the trumpet begins.

i sing in my heart the words that closed every girl scout meeting i had as a child:

Day is done,

gone the sun,

From the hills,

from the lake,

From the skies.

All is well,

safely rest,

God is nigh.

and now, the celebration service begins.

*               *              *               *               *

whew.  if we could have all put the day on pause, we would have, each of us, right then and there.  and we would have gone home, kissed the ones we love, and thanked the good Lord for a day well done. 

perhaps that's what we'll do tonight.


all is well, safely rest.


love forever,
k.

hospice asks some really cool questions

the first morning after we placed dad in hospice, i woke up in a frantic place.  i knew i needed to get to dad fast.  once i saw him safe and secure at the ryan house, i figured i would be able to regroup and keep my already elevated level of panic from escalating out of control.  (remember the word i used to describe a daughter helping to take her father away from intervention settings and into hospice?  DAUNTING.)

so as soon as tim and i get in the room, i immediately feel better.  but not all the way better.  it's a lot, to force your body back into a calm, cool rhythm after waking up to those crazy anxiety sensations.  so i sit down, we say hey to dad.  he's able to vocalize, but he's not able to follow conversation clearly.  so i'm still feeling uneasy, not sure how to settle in. 

then i look at dad's bedside tray.  i discover one of many ways the ryan house tells their patients and their families that they care: the form they place on a bulletin board in every patient's room for all the staff to read.  i grab a pen, and get started.  it isn't long before i find my rhythm.  a gentle way to begin the process of re-visiting the things i love about this man who will soon be leaving me behind.

by the time i've come to the end of the page, i see him clearly again. he isn't just this sad, sad, suffering soul.  he isn't someone who has to be defined by his physical diminishment.  he isn't a head injury. or a dementia patient.  or, even, a fascinating medical mystery.  he is my dad.  a man who loves marie calendar pies and combs his hair to the side.  this is, i think, the moment when i realize my very sick father has this unstoppable, signature sparkle. all of a sudden it's something i deeply hope for: that his twinkly smile stays until the end.  it's been awhile since i've hoped for something so simple.

i soak up this crucial thing i'm doing here beside dad as the moments pass.  and my body begins to return to its normal place.  in trying to capture dad, line by line, for all the people who will give him love and care during the last days of his life, i begin the process of entrusting him, and us, to them.  and i begin to capture the countless images i have of my father, not just how he is right now, but for who he's always been.  it's one more step in this long, arduous goodbye. 

i wouldn't change a thing.

*          *          *          *           *

goodnight and please pray that the service tomorrow honors dad.  and that all who attend can capture some little piece of his life story, a piece that helps them pull a little more goodness out of life.

mary, vince, donna, sandi, karl, rob, gail, mike ... thanks for traveling so far. you love us so well!!!

xoxoxox always
k.


oh. one more thing.  he sparkled during his entire two week stay.

it's time to love on the brother

so tonight i find myself dubbing him the Death Expert.

hmmm, perhaps this is a complement for him, perhaps not so much.  but in my short time in his book  Awakening From Grief, i've found enough conversation starters to last us the rest of the week.  (not to mention that crazy book about dragons and princesses and holy grails -- oh and many thanks to mom rice, susan, karli, jb, and jen for meeting me in the castle, or was it the dungeon?  it was so nice to have your thoughts appear throughout the day!)

Since we went long last night, let's get right to the point today!

The guy's name is JOHN E. WELSONS.  For 25 years he has been counseling, teaching and lecturing about life's losses.  it seems he's trained with really smart people, one of whom is Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross (whoever she is).  that's enough for me; i'm sold: Death Expert seems about right to me.

anyway, JB, brother jonathan bruce, this one's for you! i loved your honesty in your comment response the other day so i'll bring it in to start off the conversation:

I can definitely relate to the desire to make the grieving process sterile and speedy. During the past week or so, I have found myself "annoyed" with the fact that dad had to pass just a couple weeks into an insanely busy first semester of engineering school. I stare at a physics problem for too long and before I know it, my mind wanders back to the mountains of GA, with dad as a highlight in every scene. As I struggle with the inconveniences of life, I quickly feel sheepishness and like a total selfish jerk. Obviously, there were eternal timelines in place here and I need to embrace "grief's primative rawness" and let it work it's course. Sometimes life happens quickly, but most often, it takes place gradually over time - like a well aged wine or cheese.

That's good stuff brother!!!  well written (always) and oh so honest.  the honest places are where we can really roll up our sleeves and get some stuff figured out.  with a little help from Mr. Death Expert himself.  tim and i discovered this little passage over breakfast this morning, and man did it bring up interesting conversation between us!  hope it will for all of us here too:

 Our cultural conditioning has been to close our hearts when we experience "emotional overload".....when we close our hearts just when we most need them to be open, we stop the flow of love just when we need it the most.  And we don't even realize that we're doing it!

The result is that we become numb.  We feel as if just beneath the surface lies this terrifying, raging, monstrous beast of feelings that will devour and obliterate us if we so much as let one claw out of the cage.  We sit on our feelings like a gargoyle guarding the gates of hell.  We shove them down and shove them down because we're afraid they'll destroy and overwhelm us.  We're afraid there's no way out.

OK NOW HERE'S WHERE IT GETS GOOD

(ok well the gargoyles guarding those gates are pretty cool too)

the way out is the way through...to find the place in ourselves that watches the process like a impassive observer...to find that tiny little part of our awareness that sees everything we go through without judgement, sometimes with bemusement.  It's that part of us that sees our relief when a loved one has died after a long debilitating illness...the part of us that sees our guilt about feeling relief....the part that wants laugh just at the moment we are most angry. That's the part of our awareness with which we must become more familiar, which we must learn to trust.  That's the part of ourselves that can see it all without panic. 

So , bro...i feel your pain, whether its a sense of relief or annoyance.  what do you think of this guy's advice?   what would you say to yourself if you were an IMPASSIVE OBSERVER -- a type of neutral third party -- ready without judgement to give yourself some advice before your Dad Weekend begins? 

QUESTION for the GANG

(that's you, dear reader!!)

stepping outside yourself to become an IMPASSIVE OBSERVER is one way to work through grief.  have you ever tried it?  any other strategies you'd like to recommend?  personal stories welcome!!!  

_______________________________________________________

tomorrow mom's family arrives, auntie sandi and auntie donna.  quite excited for this!
xoxo k.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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? 

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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.

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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.

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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.