What Time is This?

Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is? Does Anybody Really Care?
- from a good song by one of my hometown groups, Chicago. Oh, how I loved the trumpet section...back in the days when I played coronet.

This is dad's watch. It's set to London time. He bought it on the streets of New York almost ten years ago. He said he'd never replaced the battery. Go figure.

He left the watch on his nightstand when he went to hospital the last time. I carried it home in the chest pocket of my jacket. I forgot it was there for a couple of weeks until I put it on one Saturday.

What is time? A marker, like a road sign? No...too static. A noun? It's very active...time is too short. Or too slow. Or too long. Time flies. Time passes. Time idles. What is time? We always want more of it...can never find enough of it...wonder where it went....

Allen and I must have bought dad a few watches in his lifetime. But this was the one that stuck. This sidewalk bought, $5 Casio with the battery that has never stopped. Nothing personal. Not a gift. No meaning. No intent. But it's the one that stuck. And it's still going.

"Time keeps on ticking, ticking, ticking...into the future"

Twas the Day Before Christmas and...

...where is the joy? What are you supposed to feel during the holiday?

Yesterday I must have spent about 2 hours walking around the neighborhood doing errands: dropping off cards at the post office, looking for fresh basil, picking up packages, finding Hanukkah paper....

Through it all I could feel myself going through the motions. I tried humming holiday tunes in my head, taking deep breaths of frigid air, kicking chunks of icy snow...but something was missing.
It was joy. This year I am missing joy. That stuff that makes me all excited when I pick up boxes at the mailbox. That makes me sit in front of "How the Grinch Stole Xmas" and sing along (instead, I went into the kitchen to bake). The joy that wakes me up early and keeps me up late (in bed by 9:30pm). The joy that makes me count the hours until Christmas morning and plan the hours afterward so I have plenty of time to read my books!

I feel like I'm experiencing Christmas through someone else's eyes. I just can't find the emotional connect. Not that I don't cry...oh, I'm doing that. Or that I'm not angry...it doesn't take much to set me off and big time! But the joy? Nada.

Living the Dash

We're Born - We Die. How do we live the dash?

The dash is all the time between when we are born and when we die. The other week, Fr. Murphy asked us how we live the dash. Do we make our time worthwhile: for ourselves and for others? Do we waste the time we're given?

And how do you live the dash when you are watching someone you love approaching death? Are we less attentive or more? Less authentic or more? Do we slow down when the one we love is approaching the end of the dash? Or do we stay the course, because we are still living the dash, even when those we love are nearing the end?

There's a lot of life to live in the dash, God willing. Living the dash.

How Do You Prepare for the Inevitable?

When you know that a parent is going to die - how do you prepare?

• What is the "right" thing to do: death-watch vigil or keep moving?
• Say everything and bare your soul, even when you've never talked that way to your parent before? Or keep living your 'real' relationship, warts and all
• Continuousl play out the final days in your head so you can live it like in the movies? Or just live it as it really happens?

Do you cry...laught...sing...pray...curse...love...lash out...make love...rage...write...retreat...dance...drink...sleep...sob...think..?

Do you blame everyone and everything...doctors... siblings... stress...your parent...food additives...yourself...fate...God?

When you're an orphan, whose fridge do you hang your report card on?

Do we still continue to make our parent(s) proud?

Remember when you were little and got a good report card? Or a good grade on a test? Mom used to hang our simple stories of success on the fridge.


As I got older and became a young adult, the days of report cards and tests past and were replaced by performance reviews. I always sent mom a copy. Silly, huh? But I lived to make them proud. I worked to make them proud. I wanted them to be proud of me...the person they raised.


Do I continue to make my parents proud? Or do I do it only for myself?

Sometimes I Forget You're Not There

Do you ever forget he's dead?

Sometimes my mind jumps to an idea and I think, "oh, dad would enjoy that," or "we should take dad to see...." Then I remember. There is no dad. And I feel very sad.

Sometimes I see him. A quick glance up or coming around the corner...And a half a heart-beat later I remember he is gone. And I miss him.

This is typically the week we would be starting to get ready for dad's visit. This weekend I found myself strolling through the house thinking that I needed to get the guest towel rack out for dad...and before I complete the thought I remember he won't be back. And I feel relieved.

A Simple Thank You

Did your parent praise you - or even thank you?

Dad didn't give praise verbally. He wrote checks. He made sure you had what you needed (not what you wanted). He rarely acknowledged how proud he might (or might not) be. Even if friends asked him directly, "aren't you proud of her? Do you know what your daughter has accomplished? Did you know..." and then proceeded with a listing of my achievement...even then, dad would just nod and smile and maybe mutter, under his breath, "yes, that's right...."

But you never knew if he was really proud of you. Or if he even had any idea what you did or who you were. It was hard to know if he was or wasn't paying attention. I interpreted his non-responsiveness and apparent disinterest as not caring. I think I may have been wrong.

I'm not sure dad knew how to be proud of us. He didn't know how to value himself, so how could he value his children and their accomplishments?

Last Christmas, the last time I saw dad alive, he was not feeling well. He was tired and struggling with his breathing in the cold air. But I knew that he would love dinner at the neighborhood Italian restaurant, Tonio's. So we went to Tonio's just before he left to return to England.

Somewhere between dinner and dessert, dad asked us to stop talking; he had something to say. He made a toast to me, acknowledging my efforts to make a nice visit for him. And he said, "thank you".

On my worst days, when I feel so deeply how I failed my dad...I hold on to that. I know, at the very least, that in that moment I did good. It may turn out to be the most significant moment in my life with dad.

A Just Anger? Or an Excuse to Not Feel Guilty?

If I'm angry - my feelings are directed at dad.
If I'm guilty - then I must have my own feelings.

Is there a better choice? Does one have a choice?

Suppose dad really knew he was going to die. And he either couldn't or wouldn't tell us? Then is my anger justified? Is that really what I'm looking for? Justification for my anger that he is dead?

Or do I want forgiveness? Forgiveness for...not being there...not being assertive enough to find out how ill he was? Forgiveness for not being affected enough?

What did you chose?

Denial...Is a powerful thing

What do you do with a parent who isn't honest about dying?

Denial. The gap between what dad didn't say and what I didn't want to know.

What dad didn't say about being ill and what I refuse to know created a scenario that served us well in the short run and is now something I can feel guilty about for the long run!

It's not that dad didn't tell us anything. He just told us very little and most of what he told us was prefaced with "I couldn't understand the doctor..." or "they never tell me anything," or "I don't know what they are saying".

My responses were worse:

• He knows.
• He just wants to play games with us.
• He's smart enough to find out what is wrong with him.
• He never asked about mom's health when she was dying...why should I care about his?
• He's lonely and just want attention.

Shortly after dad's first surgery, he came for a visit to the States. My brother and I had to trap him in the car with us in order to probe and put dad through an inquest. It was 2006. Dad said he had a bump on his back removed, but had been hospitalized because the bleeding wouldn't stop. Then he told us they had to cut so deep, they got too close to his heart. We asked if they thought he had cancer. He didn't know. And I didn't push.

Denial.

The Things People Say...or Don't Say....

What did people say when your parent died?

When someone dies in your life, the people around you don't always know what to say.

I guess the people I knew were somewhat lucky. My dad died in England. My brother and I had traveled there to try and see dad before he died: we missed it by about six hours. Dad died early on a Saturday morning (3:30am), so Al and I had to stay a few days to make arrangements and handle the death details. Nothing can get done on a weekend.

So I was out of the country for almost a week and didn't return to the office for a few days past that. So most of the condolences I received were via email. That's actually good. It's less awkward. I mean...really. What do you say?

Most thoughtful: when someone asks "how are you doing?" then actually waits around long enough to listen to my answer.

My Dad's Brown Coat

Dad died in July, 2008. When I went through his closet, he had about five coats/jackets. He only had three shirts and two pairs of pants. Why more coats than clothes?

I took a few things of dads after he died. His hat. His suspenders (he always wore them, usually under his shirt!) And a brown jacket that I had never seen before. All the other coats and jackets I recognized; he'd bought them when visiting my brother or I, or we'd given them to him as gifts. But I'd never seen this jacket before.

It was a little long on me, but actually keeps my butt warm when I pull it down. It's the perfect weight for those days between 40 and 65 degrees. The color is perfect for me - brown.

And the pockets...well...the pockets are the best part! Come to think of it, it's something dad and I had in common. We loved having lots of pockets in our jackets. Places we could hide things (or sometimes lose them). Pockets that held zippers that lead to hidden pockets. Pockets on the outside...pockets on the inside.

Yeah. Dad and I were alike in that way. And, as I'm beginning to learn, in many other ways, too.