I had a dream last night. Dad wanted me to get an apartment on my own. He actually thought I had and was angry when he still found me living at home. I was going to school and had no job, so I explained that I thought he meant when I finished school and had a job. He informed me I had it wrong - he meant now.
Is it time to move on in some way? Time to start taking ownership of my own life and stop looking up or over my shoulder and hoping (mom and) dad would approve? How deeply rooted the voices of our parents can be in our lives.
Funny how I feel all grown up, but have yet to fully proclaim and own my independence.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Comfort in an Old Coat
Life has thrown me a curve ball these past couple of months. There has been lots of uncertainty, leading into insecurity, leading into more than a couple of meltdowns.
I've found a sense of security in putting on dad's brown coat. Fortunately, the summer weather cooled enough so I don't look too ridiculous wearing it. But why, dad? I dreamt last night of mom, not dad. I always dream of mom around times like this. She's alive and cured. Her cancer is gone and she is healing. But she is always separate from dad. In fact, in one reoccurring dream, she is actually separated from dad and getting a divorce.
But during the day, it is dad. Maybe because dad was pragmatic. His coat symbolizes that. On the outside, it looks uncomplicated and very simple. Who would know that there are so many pockets and hidden pockets? It looks suede, but is faux; people warn me not to wear it in the rain, but I can. It is warm, but not too hot. It is the closest thing to family that I have.
And maybe that's it. This silly coat brings me the closest to family that I can get right now. Times like this can leave us feeling very much alone. No one wants to talk of illness; no one wants to plan or anticipate or speculate or fear or dread or hope. And perhaps therein lies another reason I wear this coat.
Where was I when dad had no one? Where was I when he was full of fear and alone? Where was I when he was confused and frightened by what the doctors had to tell him? He did that all alone. Who did he talk to? Where did he go?
I am trying so hard to not repeat the same mistake with the people in my life now, as I did with dad. But it's hard. And made harder by being in an environment where full disclosure is not allowed. Where you can talk to people but only about so much. Where you can talk to some people, but not others. It is a topsy-turvey world in which knowing is relative, literally.
I am fearful of what lies ahead. I'm questioning my ability to get through it. It's hard to do when you can't speak your truth or can only speak it in certain environs. I am tired, frustrated, anxious, scared, depressed, worried, fearful, angry, alone. So I wear dad's coat. And I hope.
I've found a sense of security in putting on dad's brown coat. Fortunately, the summer weather cooled enough so I don't look too ridiculous wearing it. But why, dad? I dreamt last night of mom, not dad. I always dream of mom around times like this. She's alive and cured. Her cancer is gone and she is healing. But she is always separate from dad. In fact, in one reoccurring dream, she is actually separated from dad and getting a divorce.
But during the day, it is dad. Maybe because dad was pragmatic. His coat symbolizes that. On the outside, it looks uncomplicated and very simple. Who would know that there are so many pockets and hidden pockets? It looks suede, but is faux; people warn me not to wear it in the rain, but I can. It is warm, but not too hot. It is the closest thing to family that I have.
And maybe that's it. This silly coat brings me the closest to family that I can get right now. Times like this can leave us feeling very much alone. No one wants to talk of illness; no one wants to plan or anticipate or speculate or fear or dread or hope. And perhaps therein lies another reason I wear this coat.
Where was I when dad had no one? Where was I when he was full of fear and alone? Where was I when he was confused and frightened by what the doctors had to tell him? He did that all alone. Who did he talk to? Where did he go?
I am trying so hard to not repeat the same mistake with the people in my life now, as I did with dad. But it's hard. And made harder by being in an environment where full disclosure is not allowed. Where you can talk to people but only about so much. Where you can talk to some people, but not others. It is a topsy-turvey world in which knowing is relative, literally.
I am fearful of what lies ahead. I'm questioning my ability to get through it. It's hard to do when you can't speak your truth or can only speak it in certain environs. I am tired, frustrated, anxious, scared, depressed, worried, fearful, angry, alone. So I wear dad's coat. And I hope.
Friday, June 19, 2009
A Letter from Dad's Sister
I received a letter from Aunt Betty today. She's dad's sister. At age 78, she's still been working full time. However, the firm she worked for shut its' doors last month and now she is home. Can you imagine spending all those years working, then suddenly having nothing? She feels so lost. I'm not sure that, at that age, I'd want to be re-inventing myself, trying to figure out my role, how my days will go....
She also gave me an update on her tree in the backyard. Some of dad and my Uncle Allen are scattered under the tree. Aunt Betty says there have never been so many flowers on the tree! I believe it. Dad loved to be out in the garden and yard: he trimmed the grass almost every night. Aunt Betty has a gorgeous yard, right at the foot of a big hill.
It's father's day this weekend. And the anniversary of dad's death in a couple of weeks. Am I ready?
She also gave me an update on her tree in the backyard. Some of dad and my Uncle Allen are scattered under the tree. Aunt Betty says there have never been so many flowers on the tree! I believe it. Dad loved to be out in the garden and yard: he trimmed the grass almost every night. Aunt Betty has a gorgeous yard, right at the foot of a big hill.
It's father's day this weekend. And the anniversary of dad's death in a couple of weeks. Am I ready?
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Color of Sympathy Cards
I was putting away all the sympathy cards I received after dad died. I wonder if the greeting card industry gets together and sets a 'color of the year'? They were all the same shade of this pale blue. Maybe psychologists have studied that it's a color that is most soothing. I know that blue, in general, is supposed to be soothing - that's why the IRS uses that color on tax forms.
And the sentiments. I think only people who have had someone die in the last 6 months should write the sentiments. It is so hard to find a sympathy card that isn't cheesy...or overly religious...or...sensless.
Most of them talk about how deeply someone will miss their "loved one". Well what if they won't? What if they weren't that close? Or what if their loved one has been dying a slow, painful death and it's all a relief? Where are those cards?
And the sentiments. I think only people who have had someone die in the last 6 months should write the sentiments. It is so hard to find a sympathy card that isn't cheesy...or overly religious...or...sensless.
Most of them talk about how deeply someone will miss their "loved one". Well what if they won't? What if they weren't that close? Or what if their loved one has been dying a slow, painful death and it's all a relief? Where are those cards?
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Living Thru the Death
When the pain of loss begins to fade
I've noticed that once the holidays ended and life normal resumed, the pain in my heart began to fade.
Last night, walking home under an almost full moon, I thought of dad and flinched, waiting for the accompanying feeling of being stabbed in the heart. But it never came.
Which leads me to wonder if I am 'getting over' the loss and the pain that rides alongside of it.
I think not. I think this is yet another shift or phase in the process.
Much of it is helped by a partner who is doing more to reach out to me and make me feel valued: spending more time together, and little things, like fixing breakfast on the weekends and bringing me a snack while we watch t.v. in the evenings.
Food. Nurturing. Caring. It's helped a lot.
I've noticed that once the holidays ended and life normal resumed, the pain in my heart began to fade.
Last night, walking home under an almost full moon, I thought of dad and flinched, waiting for the accompanying feeling of being stabbed in the heart. But it never came.
Which leads me to wonder if I am 'getting over' the loss and the pain that rides alongside of it.
I think not. I think this is yet another shift or phase in the process.
Much of it is helped by a partner who is doing more to reach out to me and make me feel valued: spending more time together, and little things, like fixing breakfast on the weekends and bringing me a snack while we watch t.v. in the evenings.
Food. Nurturing. Caring. It's helped a lot.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Nothing Happens by Accident
They say there are no accidents...
The last day I saw dad alive was January 2nd, 2008. I left for work early the next morning while dad was still asleep. Dad's flight wasn't until later in the day, so he the morning to pack and take a bath.
At 11:00am I received a call from home: dad had slipped getting out of the bathtub and bruised his arm. We didn't feel it warranted a trip to the hospital (nothing broken, he still had mobility in his arm and fingers): dad felt bruised and shaken. I checked back a couple of times and once past the initial shock, he felt fine.
Now I look back and think...he was trying to tell me then and there that he was sick and needed help.
The last day I saw dad alive was January 2nd, 2008. I left for work early the next morning while dad was still asleep. Dad's flight wasn't until later in the day, so he the morning to pack and take a bath.
At 11:00am I received a call from home: dad had slipped getting out of the bathtub and bruised his arm. We didn't feel it warranted a trip to the hospital (nothing broken, he still had mobility in his arm and fingers): dad felt bruised and shaken. I checked back a couple of times and once past the initial shock, he felt fine.
Now I look back and think...he was trying to tell me then and there that he was sick and needed help.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Unspoken Messages
What signs did your lost one leave behind?
Maybe it's dads. Maybe it's men in general (sorry guys). Certainly it was true with my dad: few words spoken.
Not that he couldn't talk a lot. In fact, with dad, 2,000% more after the head injury he sustained in 1984. A head-on collision with an 18-wheeler and dad's Nissan Sentra did it. Thank God for the firewall on that Sentra! The car's engine was reduced to about 16" but the firewall kept it from coming into the car and unto dad's lap.
The jolt bruised dad's brain (the right side), resulting in having to put a shunt in to drain off the fluid that was collecting. Dad lived with a little dent in his head from that day forward.
That and the ability to talk and talk and talk. But mostly to non-family people. He could chat with the best of them. And yet, with family, he remained a man of extraordinarily few words.
Mostly gestures.
When he as angry, he would sit with his coat on in the house 24/7. When he was sad, he went to his room and lay on the bed, sulking.
Talking about how he felt about his children...well, that was a whole other thing. Then dad remained relatively quiet.
So imagine my amazement when we went to the bedroom where my dad last lived. There, on the window sill, were 3 clay art projects that my brothers and I did when we were in...ohhh...1st or 2nd grade.
Who knew that they still existed? Yet there they were. Right above his bed.
Who needs words?
Maybe it's dads. Maybe it's men in general (sorry guys). Certainly it was true with my dad: few words spoken.
Not that he couldn't talk a lot. In fact, with dad, 2,000% more after the head injury he sustained in 1984. A head-on collision with an 18-wheeler and dad's Nissan Sentra did it. Thank God for the firewall on that Sentra! The car's engine was reduced to about 16" but the firewall kept it from coming into the car and unto dad's lap.
The jolt bruised dad's brain (the right side), resulting in having to put a shunt in to drain off the fluid that was collecting. Dad lived with a little dent in his head from that day forward.
That and the ability to talk and talk and talk. But mostly to non-family people. He could chat with the best of them. And yet, with family, he remained a man of extraordinarily few words.
Mostly gestures.
When he as angry, he would sit with his coat on in the house 24/7. When he was sad, he went to his room and lay on the bed, sulking.
Talking about how he felt about his children...well, that was a whole other thing. Then dad remained relatively quiet.
So imagine my amazement when we went to the bedroom where my dad last lived. There, on the window sill, were 3 clay art projects that my brothers and I did when we were in...ohhh...1st or 2nd grade.
Who knew that they still existed? Yet there they were. Right above his bed.
Who needs words?
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