Connections

Recently I attended a funeral for my last remaining uncle, a trip entailing a 36-hour round trip flight to Cincinnati, a trip I almost did not take because I really did not "know" any of the other relatives. Uncle Rob spent most of his life traveling the world, then settled in California in the 60s; he never married or had children, and he and my dad (his brother) were too much alike to tolerate each other's company for too long--they only recently reconciled about two years before my dad died. Me? Over the years Rob and I kept in touch through letters, emails, phone calls, and random trips to visit each other; more recently, he had been a huge source of comfort to me during my dad's and stepmom's illnesses and deaths. Sadly, we had not connected since April, and recent emails and phone calls to him went unanswered. Right  before Thanksgiving, he called me but hung up after one ring; I called him back. He sounded horrible, and he said "Barbara, I think this is it;" we talked briefly, and that was it--I meant to call him back later that month, but you know, I would get busy, or it would be too early or too late, and then the first week of December came and went, and finally, when I did call, that horrible sterile recording, "I'm sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed, that number is no longer in service." A quick search on the internet confirmed my fear: Robert W. Koenig, age 94, Sonoma California, October 18, 1927-December 6, 2021. Sleuthed a bit more, and noticed there were going to be two funerals: one in California, and one Cincinnati; I called the Ohio funeral home and asked to have whoever was handling his arrangements to call me. While I was waiting, I sent a couple of messages to two relatives I found on FaceBook (by looking up their names from an old family tree Rob had given me).

A few hours afterward, I got a call from Cincinnati--it was Suzanne, a cousin I had never met, the woman who was handling the service. Rob had talked often about a Suzanne, a Jerry (her husband) and a Kathy, as well as many others, people with whom he enjoyed close connections, a link back to Cincinnati. Most of them were the grown children of his cousins (my aunts and uncles, who had long passed.) Suzanne shared with me how sick Rob had been that month or so before he died, and that she spoke to him frequently during those weeks; listening to her put to rest that nagging twinge of guilt I felt for not rushing out to see Rob after that awful phone call before Thanksgiving. Anyway, after chatting for a bit and getting past the basic social niceties, I had all the details for the funeral and the burial, and promised to get back to her to let her know either way if I was coming. Mind you, I was not even sure I wanted to go to the funeral. I had never met anyone who would be there, I would have to go by myself, it was a long way to go, airlines were having all kinds of issues with delays and cancellations and COVID quarantines, it was the post Christmas rush...I had a million excuses. In my heart, though, was this persistent ache, a sense of loss, and an overwhelming feeling of grief of reliving the death of my parents, especially my dad, who, by the way, also died at age 94, on December 6, three years earlier. So I booked my flight, hotel, and rental car for a quick 36-hour round trip. 

And oh how glad I am that I went! The funeral was beautiful, meaningful, and cathartic. Driving through the neighborhood where ghosts of my grandparents and parents and aunts and uncles seemed so tangible, and seeing the church and school I attended as a little girl, familiar street signs and landmarks, and I knew I had made the right decision. As soon as I walked into the church, Suzanne came up to me, said "you must be Barbara!," hugged me, and then introduced me to everyone else. Meeting a whole new branch of the family tree, making connections with cousins and their children, I shared in their grief and loss of someone we all knew and loved. These people I had never met went out of their way to make me feel welcome, including me in the celebration of Rob's life, even asking me to help place the pall on his coffin. Then, riding in the funeral procession to the familiar cemetery I visited every Sunday as a little girl, a flood of emotions and memories came rushing back, and I felt more connected to that spot, that area, than anywhere else. I felt I was home, that somehow, if I drove down the block to my old street, I just might catch a glimpse of Nana, or hear the kids playing Red Rover in the street, waiting for the Mister Softee truck. Powerful connections, connections I thought no longer existed were now restored. Finally, seeing my parents' gravesite, the stone that Rob and my daughter and I designed now in place, I knew I had made the right decision. 

Most of the relatives had to leave, but Suzanne and Jerry took me to lunch at a brand new restaurant in the incline district, an up and coming trendy area with a playhouse, condos, and hangouts where beautiful old buildings used to be. We shared so many memories, good and bad, and talked for so long the waitress gave up on taking our order. After lunch, they then invited me back to their house for coffee and snacks, where we talked and shared stories, making those connections. Familiar names--Joann, Celsie, Bernice, Frank, Theresa, Ginny and Ed--names I had not really spoken in ages, all of them connected to our lives. Memories of late night poker games held on weekends, rotating among each of their houses. Clarifying who was married, who had children, where everyone was living, grandkids, even pets. But mostly sharing each others' memories of the man whose life we gathered to celebrate, each of us with different, yet similar, connections. Making new connections with each other. I had been worried my memories of Rob would fade away because everyone who I knew, and who knew him, was gone; I was wrong. At the ripe old age of 66, I can still establish new connections, new roots, and form new relationships, keeping the past and those precious memories alive.

As I age and lose more loved ones, these tendrils connecting me to the important people of my life, connecting me to this fragile life here on earth, become frayed or stretched or even broken, and I’m sometimes left with a sense of loss and pain. That relationship is no longer there, and I can feel the part of me that is connected to that person leaving, like air leaking out of a hole in a balloon. I try to hold on to it, to hold that part of me close, the part of me defined by that person I just lost, but it's no use. But just when I think it is lost forever, serendipitously, God shows me new connections to replace those I thought I lost, making my life fuller and richer, and strengthening those connections to the past through our shared, but different, recollections. 

I see more trips to Cincinnati in my future 

Did I do enough?

Rosalyn Carter once said, "There are only four kinds of people in the world: those who have been caregivers, those who are currently caregivers, those who will be caregivers, and those who will need caregivers."  Seems I have been a caregiver for quite a long season, most recently for my stepmom.  Losing her has been, and continues to be, extremely difficult and painful and raw.

Two moments I cannot seem to erase from my memory:  Sheila sobbing and exclaiming "I don't want to die!" in her hospital room June 12th, and the very vivid way she died in hospice three days later.  

She'd been sick for 15 months before she finally went to the doctor, and I don't mean "sick" in the sense of "not feeling well."  She had lost over 30 pounds in less than 5 months, could not control her bladder function, was in severe pain, and routinely had large amounts of blood in her urine--and I mean LARGE amounts.  By the time I convinced her to go to the doctor, the outlook was grim--three to six months, he said, if she did nothing.  I saw his eyes...he really meant to say, "three to six months, regardless of what you do."  We still made the effort though; she went to a specialist in Nashville, got pep talks from various medical staff, survived some scary hospital stays, and finally agreed to move in with us and go to the hospital in Asheville.  I knew the cancer had spread, and so did she, if truth be told, but we were betting on a few more years, hell, even one more year, with a halfway decent quality of life, even if it meant chemo and radiation and surgeries.  She would be with us, her family. So, the day after my birthday, on June 3, Alex drove to Knoxville and brought her here.  Her level of pain was so severe she could barely walk, so we gave her our room.  After two days, we went to the ER, and from there, she was admitted to the hospital.  Tests, tests, and more tests--the staff was incredulous as to how she had been managing on Tylenol alone--and we discovered the cancer had spread--to her pelvic cavity, to her spleen, and to her lungs.  Surgical removal was no longer an option.  Even more challenging, her right kidney had not been working for over 6 months because of the tumor encroaching on it, but the urologist and oncologist were hopeful they could get it going again, at least enough for her to survive some very toxic chemotherapy.  Six hours after that procedure, our hopes were crushed...again.  Her kidney function was not improving, so the only option left was for her to endure five grueling weeks of targeted radiation--and then the radiation oncologist added, "palliative care radiation" to the treatment plan, stressing that it was in no way to be perceived as curative.  None of the treatments were.  

That was a dark night, and one of the night shift nurses sat with me in the family waiting room, holding my hand, offering me coffee, and watching me struggle with my thoughts, with the reality of it all, with the decision I would have to help Sheila make in a few short hours.  That morning, at 7 am, I crawled into bed with this woman who was more of a mom to me than my biological mom, and told her we needed to talk.  I explained what the doctors and said, reviewing and summarizing the whirlwind events of the past 7 days.  I held her hand, and tried not to cry, and told her what the options were--6 weeks of hell she may not even survive, or palliative hospice for whatever remaining hours she had left.  She cried harder than I have ever seen her cry before, and my heart just broke into a zillion pieces, and then, when the orderly came in with a gurney to take her to her treatment, she abruptly said, "Get out.  No more damn treatments."  Then she turned to me, and told me to start dialing the numbers of every member of our immediate family, and she would tell each one, in turn, how sorry she was...that the news was not good.  Family came and family went, and I was just going through the day like a robot, no emotion, no feelings, just completely shell-shocked.  She moved to hospice on Friday, more family came to visit her there, and by Monday evening, she was "actively dying," as the staff told me.  Don't misunderstand: the staff was wonderful, personable, empathetic, compassionate, and just stellar.  They explained what we would see, what she would experience, each step along the way, and never kept us waiting longer than 30 seconds when we pressed her call button.  I have watched people die before, in all manner of sorts, but I have never actively participated in the death of someone I love.  

Her last few hours with us, she was pretty much out of it--not just from the morphine; her body was truly shutting down.  She held my daughter's hand about 9 pm, told her she loved her, and that was the last thing she said.  The next 90 minutes we watched hopelessly as her body pretty much just sank and shriveled up; her breathing became more irregular, her skin grew mottled, her cheeks became sunken in, and she had this horrible rattle in her throat.  The nurse explained it was her lungs giving out and gave her something to loosen the secretions--secretions that were filling her throat and her mouth, and I grabbed an oral swab and kept clearing her mouth, talking to her, telling her to go, to be with dad, to go to Jesus.  I was only dimly aware of anyone else being in the room, but could hear my sister Nancy talking and my daughter Becky crying.  Then, suddenly, it was over, and she was gone.  Dead.  No longer there.

Since that day, not an hour goes by that I do not relive those last 12 days, that morning on her hospital bed, and the final hour of her life, and I second-guess everything, every single act, every decision, every delay, every "oh well, she will be okay" and every moment I spent with her (and also the ones I was not with her).  I beat myself up for not forcing her to take care of herself last year, for not being a better, more demanding patient advocate, for not grabbing her by the arm and making her go to the oncologist as soon as we got that dreadful diagnosis.  I want someone to explain it to me, to tell me why no one told us until the last few days that our hope was futile, why no one could be honest with us and just tell us to prepare for death.  I regret making her cry one day when I was tired and frustrated and I yelled at her for not going to the doctor sooner--before we knew how really bad it would get.  I want to shake the stuffing out of her friend for not making her go to the emergency room before she lost so much blood, for not calling me or any of my sisters and telling us how sick Sheila truly was.  I am mad at myself for letting my daughter witness her grandmother's last few moments on earth, because it is not at all like TV or the movies; she will have that horrible moment forever engraved on her mind, as well.  Mostly, I am angry and pissed at myself for not being able to save her, or at least to have brought her home to die here, instead of in a strange place (even though the hospice house was absolutely wonderful to us).  Did I do enough?  Could I have done more?  Why didn't I just move in with her after my dad died in December?  Or move her in with us?  

Did I do enough?   

Yes, my faith is intact, and yes, I am well aware (and grateful) that God controls all things, and works all things for our good for those who love Him.  I am at peace with that, and with her time, manner, and place of death.  I know this guilt, this constant merry-go-round of shouldas and couldas and wouldas will not change the outcome.  I do not have that kind of power, to change the future, to change God's plan.  So, intellectually, yes I know I did what I could, and I loved her, and the guilt that I feel is a normal part of loss, especially for a caregiver.  But the human part of me, the emotional side, the critical, nagging, "I will never be good enough" part of me just keeps asking the same question, over and over again.  

Did I do enough?  Did I do enough?  Did I do enough?

There's a song by Warren Zevon, "Keep me in your heart for a while," the song the hospice music therapist recorded Sheila's heartbeat over.   Perfect, simple, and beautiful song.  

Shadows are falling and I'm running out of breath

Keep me in your heart for a while

If I leave you it doesn't mean I love you any less

Keep me in your heart for a while

When you get up in the morning and you see that crazy sun

Keep me in your heart for a while

There's a train leaving nightly called, "When all is said and done"

Keep me in your heart for a while

Sometimes when you're doing simple things around the house

Maybe you'll think of me and smile

You know I'm tied to you like the buttons on your blouse

Keep me in your heart for a while

Hold me in your thoughts, take me to your dreams

Touch me as I fall into view

And when the winter comes, keep the fires lit

And I will be right next you

Engine drivers headed north to Pleasant Street

Keep me in your heart for a while

These wheels keep turning but they're running out of steam

Keep me in your heart for a while

Celebration of A Life

Celebrate a life.  Prepare for death.  But celebrate life.

Too many times I celebrate me, or things, or achievements, and I forget to celebrate life.  I get all bogged down in life’s distractions and details and I forget to celebrate life.  About a month before she died, Sheila told me "Barb, I just don't want a big formal mass like your dad had, with everyone all awkward and sad and crying and all quiet.  I want everyone to be together, to remember me and your dad, to be joyful.  I want it to be a beautiful, happy occasion.  We have had way too many sad moments over the past couple of years".  And that is why we’re all here.  To celebrate a life well lived, to rejoice in our sadness and loss because it means we loved deeply.    And perhaps, hopefully, to stop and breathe and celebrate this gift of life our God has bestowed on us.

About a month after my dad died, Sheila finally acknowledged she was really, truly sick, and had been for some time.  Over the next five months, I spent a lot of time with her, nearly weekly in person, and at least twice a day on the phone.  I was there with her when she got the awful diagnosis of cancer, and held her hand as the doctor told her "if you do nothing, you have 3-6 months to live."  He was wrong.  She’d already lived her life.  Fully and without reservation. Now, she had the chance to prepare for the end of her life--he was just too much of a coward to say it.  He knew it.  I knew it.  And I know now that Sheila knew it.   For the next 12 weeks Sheila and I handled minuscule details and talked about the past, and how much we missed Dad.  And although she was frightened, and in a lot of pain, and trying to hold onto life, in actuallity she was relieved and looking forward to being with her husband again.  We would go out for dinner and margaritas and not even think about calories, and we would eat ice cream for lunch and consume an entire box of chocolate covered cherries while we watched Pawn Stars or Animal Planet.  We would cry, and laugh, and get angry, and fret, but all along, we both know what was coming.  We spoke about God and family and forgiveness and heaven and sins and holiness and if we would be found wanting when it was our time to be judged.  All facades and silly trappings fell away, and if I brought up anything about past hurts or misunderstandings, she'd bluntly tell me, in her own straightforward way, "Bullshit.  Let it go."  I think that pretty much sums up how she lived her life for  78 years.  Letting all the trivial stuff go.  

Sheila was quiet but had a way of getting your attention when it was important.  She was the most honest person I've ever known, and would never compromise her beliefs or her values for expediency or popularity.  And she loved with her entire being.  She had a way of getting along with anyone and bringing out the best in people, and helping others see themselves how she saw them, and, more importantly, how they could grow.  She married the love of her life, and never wavered in that love, and took on a ready-made family of five children without even a moment's hesitation.  She was devoted to her mom, her siblings, and all of us, and she was the glue that held us all together.  She saw through every crazy teenage lie I told her, and let me know that she knew the truth without saying a word, and without blowing my cover.  She helped me through trials, rejoiced with me when I rejoiced, and was always there to offer common-sense advice about marriage, parenting, grand parenting, and life.  Sheila was just the kind of mom who you wanted to please, who you wanted to make smile and laugh, and above all, the person you wanted in your corner for every step along the way.  She loved all her step kids as if they were her own, and adored her grandchildren and later her great grandchildren, and she made all of us feel as if we were her "favorite."  (Of course, everyone knows that I am THE favorite).  She impacted our lives in so many ways. I’ll miss her always, and I’ll love her always.  And I celebrate her life.  Today. Tomorrow.  Always.  Till I can join her in eternity to celebrate eternal life   

Taste and See

Taste and see the goodness of the Lord.  Taste it. See it.  Feel it.  Bite it. Take a HUGE bite!  For He is good, forever good, infinitely good and wonderful.  He gives us this life as a gift, a gift with a purpose, to glorify Him in all we do.  To taste His goodness, and then to revel in the sensation, to feel every burst of flavor.  The sweetness of love, the bitterness of loss, the sharpness of pain, the mellowness of contentment.  All the myriad flavors, swirled together in a wonderful concoction of conflicting, yet somehow complementary, emotions.  These are my thoughts and my feelings as I struggle with yet another loss, the death of someone dear, and I find myself being sucked into the quicksand of self-pity and sorrow.  

First my father-in-law, then his wife, and two months later, my dad, and now, my stepmom, Sheila--my husband and I have lost all four parents in the space of 30 months, three of them within the past 8 months.  And during that same period, some dear friends of ours left this life, and suddenly I am feeling my mortality, and pondering the reason for my existence.  I try to immerse myself into tasks and checklists and the numbing comfort of busy-ness, stuffing the sadness back down every time it starts to bubble up.  I comfort others, and explain what happened, and try to make sense out of it for them.  Then, yesterday, there was this overwhelming pallor of hopelessness and sorrow hanging over me, smothering me, until I just had to get away.  I got in the car and drove and drove and drove, with no real destination, no purpose, trying to grasp my feelings and shake them until something would pop, so I would be able to see everything clearly.  Suddenly, I am driving down a dark road, and tears are streaming down my face, onto my shirt and my lap, and I am screaming "WHY?" at the top of my lungs.  The words come tumbling out, and all the feelings jumble together: confusion and anger and disbelief and guilt and sadness.  

And I realize there is no answer to my questions, none that can make the sadness go away, or make sense of it all.  Nor should there be.  As I sit on the front porch the next day and listen to the wind in the trees and the birds and the insects, and later as we drive down the road and I look up and see the sun shining through the tall trees and the mountains in the distance...that is when it becomes clear.  We are in this life to leave a legacy of actions that point to our creator, an inheritance of memories that evoke smiles and tears.  There is no shame in the tears, just as there is no shame in the laughter, for both are merely two sides of the same coin.  God created us in His image, to glorify Him, and we do that regardless of our emotional state at the time...or at least we should.  I don't always do a great job of that, because I get mired in my sufferings, and I fail to see the beauty of an experience just because that experience brings sadness or pain.  I get so damn stuck on the "why me?" and "why not me?" that I forget to thank Him for another day, another moment, another second.  I take shit for granted, and even worse, I waste more time afterwards bemoaning how I take things for granted.  Totally unproductive.  Because beating myself up (or anyone else) over what I didn't do or should have done does not get anything done, does it?  And fussing and cussing about how hard life is, how unfair it all is, also totally a waste of time.  Because none of that makes it any easier to swallow this bitter pill of loss.  

And yeah, I know a lot of this waxes really poetic and perhaps a bit high-brow, but I am feeling a bit poetic right now, as I listen to folk acoustic on Spotify and my husband of 28 years snore from across the room.  See, today was our anniversary, and it amazes me that 28 years have gone by so quickly, and I taste and see again how fortunate I am to still be in this life, to still be able to savor everything life has to offer:  the good with the bad, the happy with the sad, the joys with the sorrows, and the births with the deaths.  Because if it did not hurt so much to lose someone, wouldn't that be even worse?  Because hurting and yearning to see them again means we loved them, that they were something special to us, and that they added meaning to our lives.  Memories are always there for us to reach back into and taste that sweetness of their presence again.  And if we are sad when we taste that memory yet again, well, then we can count ourselves blessed for having known them.  

Like I said, today was our 28th anniversary, and I tried to taste and see it all, to taste and SEE the goodness that God has given me.  Sophie jumping on my bed this morning, the low pressure system that hangs over us all day, generating a  huge migraine, then the sudden thunderstorm that equalizes the pressure and blessedly releases me from the migraine, the delicious and delicate flavors of a homemade pad Thai prepared by my daughter as an anniversary gift, the evening air as we drive down the road, and the rich, creamy taste of Dolly's ice cream.  All of these tastes--tastes of the eyes, the ears, the tongue, the skin, the mind--reminding me that God is good, He is in charge, He is wonderful, and He does have a purpose.  To everything turn turn turn.  There is a season turn turn turn. And a time for every purpose, under heaven.

Thank you, Daddy, Connie, Dad, Sheila, Steve, Ronshella, Tim, Patrick, Karen, Bill, and everyone else who has gone on to that great beyond. Thank you for adding to my life, for flavoring my existence, for leaving me with so many precious, wonderful, crazy, bittersweet memories.  

I will try to taste and see God's goodness in every moment.

Dying with Grace

Dear God:

Me again.  How do I do this?   This is not what I meant when I asked you to cut me some slack. It’s gone from bad to worse, and I’m going to have to make a very difficult decision soon.  People are offering suggestions and wanting me to give them some hope to cling to, some reassurance that we still have some time.  Others don’t trust me and I’m worried they will hate me for telling them the truth and for doing what Sheila wants.  Why is it so hard to do what someone else wants?  I want her to live!  I want to shirk this onerous duty.  But I also am glad to serve her and to be the one trusted to do what she wished, to let her pass into the next world with dignity and grace.  

How do you watch someone you love die?  What do you say to everyone?   What do you say to the person dying?   She’s not in pain. She’s at peace.  I feel such conflicting emotions. Part of me wants to hold onto her and keep her with us in this world.   And go on believing the doctors can fix her and that she’ll be with us for years to come, at holiday tables and great grandkids birthdays, reminiscing about past holidays with loved ones who’ve already gone on.  And then I won’t need to tell anyone she’s gone or break anyone’s heart.  And I won’t have to face her house or make phone  calls  or do all the planning that goes hand in hand with leaving this world.  

But part of me, most of me actually, knows the truth.  That I cannot keep her here with me because she’s already reaching for Christ’s loving arms, that she’s eager to go home, to be with her mom and her husband and her grandson and everyone else who has gone before her.  I see the peace in her face as she lies sleeping, the lines that only two days ago were creased into her face from the pain, now completely smooth, her breathing deep and slow and quiet, such a stark contrast to the rapid, loud gasps from last night.  I watch her bring her hands to her face and then gently down onto mine, and I look into her eyes, eyes that look right past me.  And when she speaks I strain to hear and understand what she says, to no avail.  She gets an exasperated look on her face,  shakes her head, and says never mind, dismissing me with a roll of her eyes, a slight smile, and a weak wave of her hand.  I hear her carry on conversations with people unseen, and she tells me in a brief, lucid moment she’s been thinking about Patrick.  And my heart breaks for her when, she asks about Dad, and then she suddenly realizes he is gone, and suffers the agonizing heartache of loss all over again; her face crumples and tears slide down her face as she remembers he’s no longer here.  

Watching someone you love begin to die is hard, inordinately hard, but also so very precious. To be here during this time, as all pretenses of being okay just fall away, is so humbling, so special.  To watch this woman, who has been more of a mother to me than my own mom, transition from fighting the cancer that is destroying her to accepting the inevitable, no, welcoming it, is something I will never forget and will always cherish.     

Sincerely and as always, with great thankfulness

Your child

My Father's Daughter

Dear Dad, 

I've worn many hats in my life--daughter, student, airman, wife, mother, nana, grandma, sister, veteran, retiree, Christian, and friend, to name just a few.  Some of those I still wear, others I have put away, and still others just plain don't fit anymore...but the one I miss wearing the most, the one that hurts every time I look at it, is being your daughter.  Not that I am no longer your daughter--that will always be a part of me.  And a very important part of me at that.  You helped make me who I am today, you shaped me and formed me, and you knew me.  

But now what?  Since you died just last month, I have experienced more emotions than I knew possible.  From raw, gut-wrenching pain, to numbness to disbelief and back to heartache.  I go through my days, my weeks, and think of you and talk about you and think I am fine, and then, BAM! I am awash in such an overwhelming sense of loss I can barely think.  I miss you, so so much--and at the weirdest, most random moments.  Today I was driving back from an appointment and was about to call you about a funny sign I saw, and to have someone to talk to (and to listen to me) on the ride home.  I activated the bluetooth and was about to press your preset speed dial on the car dash, and I stopped...suddenly realizing you wouldn't answer any more with your characteristic, sarcastic tone. No more phone calls from you telling me about your day, or how bored you were, or telling me you loved me and missed me and that my call made your day.  No more rolling my eyes at your mispronounced words and you asking over and over (and over) the same questions.  No more will I get irritated because you don't seem to understand what I am saying.  And no more swelling with joy when you'd ask me "how's my favorite daughter?"  

So yes, I am still your daughter, but now that you are gone, I feel lost, and the title of daughter just seems empty and pointless.  Because the part that made me your daughter...you...are no longer here.  And that makes me sad.  Someone once told me "you don't really feel completely grown up until you lose a parent."  True.  So very true.  Up until December 6, I was your child, your daughter, a part of you, and you a part of me.  I just never realized how important a part you were, or how much you defined me.  Until you were gone.  

A wife without a husband is a widow, a student finished with school is a graduate, but a daughter without a father?  An orphan?  

I was not ready to let go of you.  I am not ready to put away that hat, to stop being your daughter.  

I am not sure I will ever be ready.

I love you, Dad.  

Barbara 

The Long Goodbye

A little over a year ago, you were celebrating Thanksgiving here in our home, and like every other year before, showing mock disgust at how Alex carved the turkey.  We shared a wonderful time with Alex's mom and brother, and talked about doing it again the following Thanksgiving.  But when we said goodbye that weekend, I knew in my heart it was the beginning of a long and painful goodbye, and I knew neither you nor my sweet mother-in-law would ever grace our table again.  Less than two months later, a panicked phone call from Sheila--you were in an ambulance enroute to the hospital.   I drove out and picked up David, moved him in with us, and then spent the next several weeks preparing myself mentally and emotionally for the final goodbye, spending time with you, laughing with you, praying with you, reliving so many memories--oh so many memories.  Memories that kept popping into my head at odd times, appearing more frequently every time I had to say goodbye.  Each time I left to go back home, I feared that goodbye would be my last. But then miraculously (or stubbornly), you seemed to get better--you were back up, walking around, cutting the grass, even imbibing in your daily "martini" by the summer.  We visited frequently, and there were a couple more scares, but when we would say goodbye I felt a little better about it.  Until two weeks ago--as soon as I saw you, I knew the final goodbye was not long off.

Memories...it would take a lifetime to capture them all--simple yet seemingly inconsequential moments.  A trip to Frisch’s Big Boy after I broke my arm riding my friend’s bike; eating cotton candy at the annual St Williams fall carnival.  The annual excursions to Coney Island, accompanied by your customary “oh no I forgot the tickets" and the wonderful picnic lunches we shared in the picnic grounds there--Sheila's awesome potato salad, fried chicken, and iced tea.  Dancing in the basement  to Mary Poppins.  Showing you my report card and beaming when you hugged me and said how proud you were.  Car rides to Florida every summer, visiting every tourist attraction along the way--and taking movies of every single one, panning the camera over the historic marker signs as if the camera was reading the signs, and perching all five of us kids precariously on the top of some rickety old monument to pose for photos.  Our weekend visits with you made more special by bakery treats from Aunt Teresa, and visits from Uncle Ed and Aunt Ginny, followed by the obligatory poker games in the basement.  The speeding tickets, and oh my the trouble I got into driving the car, you feigning belief in my cockamamie stories; the way you made my best friend Jenny laugh hysterically when you suggested we buy sheep to cut our grass.  You driving to Cleveland to help me move back home, towing my broken down car.   Advising against obviously bad decisions yet being supportive and understanding when I foolishly ignored your advice.  Taking inventory in your drugstore and being amazed that you could look at huge bottles of pills and accurately predict the quantities in each one. Walking me down the aisle at my wedding even though your knees were killing you.  The childlike wonder and excitement you showed whenever I would explain what I did in the Air Force, especially when you’d get to see, touch, and yes, even ride in the aircraft.  The overwhelming look of pride on your face and in your voice at my every accomplishment, your sincere interest in everything I did, your quiet understanding when I just needed to vent.  Sharing holidays and mundane moments with me and our family, your special bonds with my children, and my children’s children, accompanied by your perennial affirmation that you had never changed a diaper.   

Helping me through the hard times, the hardships, the trials and tribulations, moves across country and deployments and separations from family.  Listening, always listening--not always understanding, mind you--but always listening.  Letting me sort it out, letting me think out loud.  Asking the tough questions, the ones you knew I was avoiding.  Not always agreeing with me, or placating me, but respecting my individuality and my way of doing things (even if your way was the only "right" way).  Discussing money, finances, politics, and religion--nothing seemed to be off limits. And of course, the Sunday phone calls.  At 8:00 pm, every Sunday for so many years I've lost track.  Those phone calls were our lifeline to each other, so much so that if I could not call we both felt lost.  Heck, even if I just saw you Sunday morning, if we were in different area codes, a phone call the day before or a recent visit did not count as the Sunday call.  We would talk for 2 minutes or an hour--it didn't matter--as long as we reached out and heard the other's voice.  There were other calls during the week (especially since I retired), and some were quite humorous; you'd leave voicemails that you were bored, that it was sunny out, or tell me what you had for lunch.  Nothing though took the place of Sunday calls.  Yet over the past several weeks, you were too sick to talk, sometimes too sick to even hear me.  Sheila told me though that you would wake with a start on those Sundays, and sadly say, "Barbara didn't call...isn't it Sunday?"  Last Sunday I called--we spoke very briefly--and when I said goodbye, I love you, I felt a deep ache in my heart.  The next day, I was on my way to see you...this time, I knew it was for the last time.   You didn't even know I was there for two days, and by the time you realized I was there, it was time for me to go home.  You were sleeping peacefully, so I kissed your head and held your hand and whispered "Goodbye Dad.  I love you.  Talk to you next Sunday."

Such a long long goodbye...the past eleven months. From January 3rd until December 6, I have been struggling to say goodbye.  To let go and let you go to God.  

God be with ye....

Godbwye....

Goodbye

Until the eternal hello

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday--always has been--and possibly my parents' favorite as well. To me, Thanksgiving is synonymous with family, and all the baggage that comes with throwing 10-30 related but totally different individuals into a room with lots of carbs.  Of all my memories over the past 63 years, I have the most memories (good and bad, sad and funny) from Thanksgiving celebrations.  There was the time my crazy biological mother threw the turkey into the bowl of mashed potatoes because she was, well, unbalanced.  Another Thanksgiving found us in a Holiday Inn in North Dakota the day before Becky had a bone barrow biopsy during her cancer treatment, and more than a few when Alex was deployed overseas, and on a remote tour in Korea.  One year, my dad flew out to Minot, ND, alone--seems he was in the dog house again.  That was also the year Scruffy the cat walked all over my freshly baked sweet potato pies and I was so mad I threw the pies at her and got pie filling all over the kitchen.  And one year, we got a call to pick up a new foster daughter from the juvenile psych ward--an hour before we were to sit down for Thanksgiving dinner.  We've celebrated at our house, at our parents' homes, at the homes of our grown children, and once on the beach.

We have had smoked turkey, roasted turkey, deep fried turkey, brined turkey, and even just turkey breast one year--sometimes the cook even remembers to remove the wax-coated bag of innards from the inside before putting it in the oven (not naming names here, girls).  Cranberries are always the REAL kind, the whole berries, not canned, but the rest of the sides vary depending on who is hosting the meal and how receptive the hostess is to input.  Sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes with gravy are pretty much a sure thing, and of course there is the stuffing (although the stuffing ingredients and method of baking, i.e. in the bird or not in the bird) is variable.  Vegetables, however, are the wild card--peas, green bean casserole, beets, Brussel sprouts, and even squash with pecans have shown up.  Pies?  Too many to mention, but always yummy, with whipped cream or Cool Whip or ice cream or even plain.  The one constant, though, that makes it a day of giving thanks, is the presence of family, namely my dad and my stepmother.  If they are present, it is Thanksgiving.   

I've lost count of how many Thanksgivings we have shared with them--they are both so much a part of our Thanksgiving tradition that it doesn't really seem like Thanksgiving if we aren't together.  A week before each Thanksgiving, every year, you can bet my dad will ask me "what are you doing for Thanksgiving next year?"   Every year we watch the stupid Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on TV, followed by football.  Then, when all the food is presented on the table, of course someone must take numerous photos of the feast before we can even begin to eat--heck, he even used to take movies of our Thanksgiving dinner table...movies.  Of food.  That does not move.  It's a tradition.  Just as it is a tradition that he brags he is the only one who knows how to carve the turkey, or that someone will make a construction paper pilgrim hat for him to wear, or one of the children would make some crazy centerpiece out of Legos and dead leaves and sticks and we have to say how beautiful it is before we make room for all the dishes.   

A meal that took a year to plan, two weeks to shop for, and 48 hours to prepare, is gone in less than 30 minutes.  We talk about whether this year's turkey was the best, whether we should cook it upside down next time, and if speedy buns are better than crescent rolls.  We sit and pick at the little pieces of turkey on the platter and dream about that turkey sandwich with mayo that we will have in a couple of hours, and we protest how we couldn't eat another bite--until the pies come out.  Then we watch more football, kids go off to play, and we all sit around and talk or play cards or charades or fall asleep in recliners.  And we talk about the logistics of next year's Thanksgiving--where, who, what side, who is going to bring pie, etc.  

Last year, we had Thanksgiving at our log home in North Carolina--me and Alex, his brother and a friend, my mother-in-law, my brother, and of course, my parents.  Dad at the head of the table, and Alex at the other end.  During pie we planned for 2018--we will have it at our place again!  Same company!  Awesome!  A month later, my dad nearly died--took him four months to recuperate--and my brother moved in with us.  By spring, we planned tentatively to celebrate at our house, or even at their home in Knoxville.  Then my mother-in-law got too ill to travel, so we talked about having Thanksgiving at her assisted living facility.  

She died September 23rd.  

We did not even feel like celebrating Thanksgiving at all, not 60 days after a funeral.  But, we gingerly and cautiously started thinking about having my parents to our home--then, after he had a major setback, at their house.  A week before Thanksgiving, though, my dad fell, and could not get up--he was now completely bedridden, and they did not even feel like celebrating.   I arrived four days early to help care for Dad, who was now in a hospital bed in the living room, and Alex and David drove out Thanksgiving Day.  No one cooked a big turkey, or made cranberries the night before.  There were no arguments over which sides to make or whether stuffing should be traditional or cornbread, or if sweet potato pie was better than pumpkin.  Nope, we picked up a "feast for five" from a local BBQ restaurant--turkey with most of the trimmings, cranberries (canned), no sweet potatoes, and a pumpkin cheesecake.  I transferred all the food into real dishes to make it more like the real thing,  and, yes, my dad asked me to take a picture of it all. 

But this year, there was no kidding about carving the turkey (it was already sliced), or whether the Detroit Lions would actually win this year, or how great the house smelled all day.  And for grace, we held hands around my dad's bed, my brother said grace, and then three of us ate in the dining room alone, while Sheila fed my dad what could very well be his last Thanksgiving meal.  

Yes, I said it.  Perhaps his last Thanksgiving with us.  Heck, it could even be mine, or Alex's, or David's.  But still, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, even this year.  It has been a rough eleven months--illnesses, broken relationships, arguments and conflict, and a funeral.   I am thankful, so very thankful, for every day, and especially thankful for all the memories of Thanksgivings past--some painful, when thinking back on what was and now is lost, and some poignant, like the ones with three or even four generations around the table.  But all of them, for all of them, I give thanks.  Because thanksgiving is not about football, or parades, or food, or Black Friday savings, or even health or good times, although for all those things I give thanks.  Thanksgiving is, by definition, giving thanks.  

Thank you, God, for all of the memorable Thanksgivings I have shared with my family.   And thank you, Dad, for teaching me how special this day can be.

A Matter of Life and Death

Life. The meaning of life. The gift of life. Life's lessons. Live life to the fullest. Life is too short.  Life in the fast lane. It's a wonderful life. Enjoy your life.  Live laugh love. The best years of my life. Living' loving' it's just a woman. Life's savings.  Life's work. A life well lived. Don't waste your life.  Today is the first day of the rest of your life.  Life without parole.  I want my life back.  Live out loud. Making a living. Happy wife, happy life. Life is an adventure. Life goes on. Get a life. It's my life.  

Life. Yes, it is a miracle, a gift, a wonder.  Life can be thrilling, boring, fulfilling, and disappointing. It can drag on, or pass quickly.  While we are living it, at times we barely notice it. We cling to life and all its trappings fiercely.  We spend so much time living our lives, watching other people's lives, and fitting more into our lives, we forget that life as we know it is not eternal. I know I have. Then, one day, it suddenly hits you--life does end, will end, for you and everyone else. And when that happens, everything else grinds to a halt.  

For some, life ends unexpectedly, suddenly, tragically, and with no warning. For others, life begins to fade slowly, gradually, almost imperceptibly, until one day, life is no more. Regardless, we are not used to facing the inevitability of death. We don't talk about it, even though we worry about it, and try to forestall death. We use euphemisms like "pass away," "kick the bucket," "buy the farm," "go to our eternal home"--anything so we don't have to say someone DIED. We stage illnesses to avoid saying anything like "terminal" or "end of life."  When someone is dying, or has died, the most talkative, understanding person becomes speechless, and it is all we can do to mumble our condolences, or nervously fidget and say "sorry" and then hurry off, back to our lives.  

My dad is almost 94 years old. He is an amazing, exasperating, frustrating, and at times a self-centered man. He has lived an amazing life, and is still full of life.  He has never really been sick, he still has all his marbles, and he is glad to give you a piece of his mind, even if you don't want it. Sometimes he makes me crazy, and sometimes he makes me laugh, but mostly he is a huge part of my life.  My family's lives. Together we've experienced births, deaths, weddings, divorces, birthdays, graduations, and baptisms. We have traveled around the US, to Italy, England, and to Niagara falls. We spend at least two holidays a year with him, if not more, and I have been calling him every Sunday at 8:00 pm since I can remember. Hell, we have shared so many memories with Dad and Sheila, they have become an integral part of the fabric of our life. I thought he'd live forever. I mean, I know that is impossible, but life, though it prepares you for many things, does not prepare you for the end of it.  

Thanksgiving, 2017, my parents were at our home in North Carolina, eating turkey dinner with all the trimmings, just another holiday memory for the photo albums and slide shows. Two months later, I am here with them, in their home, watching my dad die of lung disease.For the past four weeks, my world has been turned completely inside out and upside down, and my life before this is a distant, blurry other-world.  He is still my dad, still the same pain in the ass at times, but still the best father I could ever ask for. I love him like I love breathing--I take it for granted most of the time, but there are those precious moments, like now, when nothing else really matters except him. Days are extraordinary in their routine sameness.   We talk, eat, manage the mundane medical and hygiene tasks, and we are together.    I don't take care of him, or do a lot for him. I just bask in the honor of being here as his daughter, to share this very private and precious time with him and his wife.  We talk about dying, we talk about life, our lives, and we talk about life after death.  And while I do not know when his life will end and death come, I do know that I would not have missed the honor of sharing this time with him, not for all the money in the world.  

Taking the time to face our mortality, to prepare for death, to be with someone who is staring death in the face...such a precious, precious gift. Nothing else matters.  I have no fear, no regrets, no indecisiveness.  

It is a matter of life.  And death.  

  

No more suffering

"He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.”  Rev 21:4

My father-in-law suffered--melanoma, prostate cancer, broken bones, and Parkinson's disease. Yet he never complained. He lost the ability to keep his balance, to walk, to speak, and even to eat; at the end, he could barely even breathe. His muscles and his entire body betrayed him, gave up on him, yet he continued to fight to the very end. I watched as this quiet and gentle man, whom I loved and respected so much, wasted away to a cruel caricature of his former self. He took his last breath on August 29, 2016. And even though I know he is free from suffering, I selfishly want him back.   

Even though over the past three or four years, I helped him walk, fed him, prayed with him, and held his hands, I remember him most for how he helped me--with his humor, his strength, and his calmness. He was, as my husband said at the funeral, a rock. Always there to lean on. A quiet strength. Heaven is a better place with him there.  

And though I miss him terribly, I am so very grateful his suffering is over.  

And I look forward to the day when I can join him and that great cloud of witnesses    

 “O death, where is your victory?  O death, where is your sting?”

The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. 

 1 Cor:15:55-57