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?

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.

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.

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?

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.