On November 30th I planned to go to mass at 12pm. I didn't want my day to pass without recognizing that three years ago my dad passed away. I thought attending a Catholic service would be a good way of honoring him. Life got in the way of my plan.
My washing machine broke the week before. I had been ignoring the piles of laundry that had accumulated in our closets. A part to fix it, a small black hose, was supposed to be delivered by the end of the week. I was going to wait it out and deal with the laundry when the part arrived. However, the kids rooms, especially Jake's, started to smell like stinky boy B.O. My mom was flying in that night from Chicago to celebrate Jake's birthday. I felt like I had to do laundry or else mom would think I was a slob. I figured if I went early enough to the Laundromat I would still have time for mass. I was wrong but I think my excuse for missing it was valid.
I trekked up to superlaundry in La Mesa. I had three full baskets to do. After dumping them in the machines and feeding my quarters in the dispenser I heard persistent barking from outside. I peered out and saw two men with tattoos holding German shepherds. I was confused. Were the dogs fighting? Had there been a dog attack on the sidewalk in front of the Laundromat? What was going on?
That's when I saw the guns. The men with the dogs were cops. Nearby there were five, maybe six, police officers with their weapons pulled. It seemed pretend. Maybe there were camera crews and a TV show was being filmed. The weapons looked like my boys B.B guns. I couldn't imagine they had capability of blowing heads off.
A woman stood next to me holding a dirty pillow case to her chest as she watched the scene outside. The young twenty-something employee of the Laundromat stopped what he was doing. We all instinctively walked towards the window to get a closer look.
"Look at the parking lot!" the Laundromat worker said. "It's crawling with cops!"
Outside, which seemed so quiet a minute ago, was lined with police cars and undercover cops. Men in bullet proof vests and others in suits and ties stood, looking very official, outside.
"Where did they all come from?" the woman asked
An officer was taping off the area with that yellow crime scene tape. We were inside the tape.
A man with a mustache and a tie came inside
"Get away from the windows" he yelled.
The three of us stepped back. The Laundromat worker jumped on top of one of the bigger machines to get a bird’s eye view. The woman with the pillow case stood next to me. She nervously grabbed onto my wrist.
Meanwhile the laundry employee was taking pictures with his iPhone. He started giving us a play by play:
"The guns are pointed at a parked car. There are two guys in the car. Wait, no, one of them is a woman. They're just sitting there. They're not getting out. Wait... there are kids in the car too, three of them, I see a baby."
The suit and tie officer comes in again, "Stay in here," he warns, "Don't leave."
After some time the two people get out of their car. The officers put their guns down. The two are handcuffed.
"Geez--look at him," the woman whose hand is still on my wrist says, "He even looks like a criminal! Will you look at those pants! Those are the kind of pants criminals always wear."
His jeans were baggy and their waist low. I want to say something condescending to the woman but I don't.
We watch as police officers remove the children from the car. A cop picks up an infant carrier with a baby inside.
"What am I supposed to do with this?" he asks the officer next to him. Shrug. He places the infant in its seat down on the sidewalk. The two other kids are escorted inside the Laundromat where there is a plastic play structure.
"Is it okay for them to be here?" the officer asks the employee.
"Sure." he says
The boys are left unsupervised to run wild in the Laundromat. My first instinct is to hug them. I expect them to be terrified or crying but they aren't. They run towards the plastic play structure. The oldest one is laughing. The little one follows him.
"Let's play!" he tells the other one. “Climb up the slide!"
"I guess they're used to this kind of thing." The wrist grabber says to me while making a sour looking face at the boys.
I'm annoyed by her. I ask the boys if they would like to pick out something from the vending machine. They do. They run over to me.
The boys pick out mini Oreos. They do not say thank you. They ask me for more money. I expect them to be thanking me while at the same time crying. My expectations are ridiculous I realize. I am being silly. Kids are kids, they just want to play and eat snacks and look for the good in a terrible situation. They appear completely unphased that their parents just had guns pulled on them.
A pillow explodes in a nearby drier, the wrist grabber opens up the door and fluffy white feathers shoot up into the air. It looks beautiful. It makes everything seem even more surreal, the guns,the kids, the feathers, the police, all of it seems like a dream. Mozart should be playing. Is this my father's way of saying hello, I wondered?
I place two quarters in a video game machine. I play it with one of the little boys who tells me he is ten. When I say "really!" in disbelief, he says, "Okay, I am 8." I'm still not buying it. "Okay I'm really seven." he admits.
"Were those your parents in the car?" I ask.
He shrugs. I don't know if that means yes or no.
"Are you okay," I ask. "Are you scared?" He doesn't answer.
A police officer outside has finally picked up the baby from its infant seat out on the sidewalk. He walks into the Laundromat.
"Is this your sister? Where is her diaper bag?" He addresses the seven year old.
"We don't have one," the boy says.
"Well how are we supposed to change her diaper? Don't you think you should have a diaper bag for her." his tone is gruff.
The little boy looks down.
The officer walks out with the baby. I want to take the infant from him. I want to take all three kids to my house and make them lunch and let them sleep in Jake's bunk beds.
Soon the parking lot that was once thick with law enforcement is empty. the yellow crime tape is gone. As quickly as the cops appeared they have disappeared. But the kids are still there. My laundry is finished. I can't bring myself to leave.
"Is someone coming for them?" I ask the guy that works there. The Laundromat guy points outside. There is a car parked where the other car with the criminals had been.
"That lady in the car is with them." he says
I wait until she comes in before I get ready to leave.
While standing in the laudromat doorway, she asks the younger boy who might be four, "Why are you playing video games!?"
He is holding two quarter in his tiny fist. He points to me. She grabs the change from his hand.
"Get out to the car now!" she shrieks at the boys. They follow her outside and get in the car.
I go back to my laundry. I neatly place my clothes in their baskets. Before walking out I see a man on the other side of the Laundromat. He is with a skinny older woman that has bleach blonde hair. She is tan and wrinkly. A red scrunchy is holding up her stringy hair in a thick ponytail.
The man has a scar running the length of his skull. It starts on the left side under his earlobe and runs up his scalp. He is bald. I stare at him. He stares back. It looks like the scar my dad had after his first surgery. I suddenly picture my dad in the pink chair in the living room of my childhood house. It's right after he has come home from the hospital after having surgery to remove his tumor. He is watching wheel of fortune. His face is puffy and his scar is still new to me. I hate looking at it. It makes me angry. It makes me wish that I had the scar instead of him. I'm nineteen and convinced that I am terrible person deserving of brain tumors. I wish my dad would wear a hat. I am ashamed that I feel that way.
My eyes are glued on the bald man in the Laundromat. Where did he come from, I wonder? Was the man with the scar in the Laundromat the entire time? Was he there during the guns and the arrest? Again I feel like I am dreaming. The leathery lady with him looks at me. She looks tired. She is used to him being gawked at. I wonder if she wishes he would wear a hat. I have an urge to sit with them and help them fold their laundry. Instead, I leave.
I walk past the car with the kids whose parents have just been arrested. The woman in charge of them is on her cell phone. She looks haggard. I wave at the boys. They wave back
When I get to my car I can't help wonder if all of the strange situations in the Laundromat meant something and if so what? Was I supposed to learn something? Was my dad talking to me in some odd symbolic language or was I just looking for it to mean something? Was the man with the scar an odd coincidence?
I drove home without going to mass because it was already 1:13pm. Once again November 30th wasn't what I expected but it was much like years past where I had expected it to go one way but instead turned out so completely different and oddly perfect. In the end I think I did honor my dad.
Showing posts with label cancer is a bitch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer is a bitch. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Home Again Home Again Clickety Clack
Every time I get on an airplane there is always a moment during the flight where I become convinced that I will die. I don’t panic. I accept my fate calmly. However, I do search the plane for someone to clutch on to that will have their shit together when our plane crashes.
When I flew back home from Chicago on Sunday I decided that the pint sized Japanese kid in the dirty Asics next to me would not be the person to rely on during a crash. He looked like a crier. Instead, I decided that the man two seats over with the tattoo sleeves might be a good option, only he was traveling with his wife. I moved on to the lady who looked like a mean grandma down the aisle from me. She would probably yell and scream and tell me to stop acting like an infant if I attempted to panic during a plane crash. I was certain she was the type of woman that would convince me everything would be fine right before our plane inevitably nose dove into the ocean. These are the inflight thoughts I always have. Sometimes it is overwhelming to be me.
I flew home to Chicago to surprise my mom for her 60th birthday. My sister, brother, and I did the same thing for my dad 6 years ago. My aunt Claudia set it up so that we would meet at her house and randomly show up, one by one, to surprise her. I was the last to arrive. When I came in my mom was upstairs in the bathroom. She came back down, sat next to my brother, and proceeded to chat with Claudia who I was sitting next to. She looked great. Her red hair has greyed and faded into a pretty blonde. She looked so petite and stylish. It took her a couple of minutes to realize that I was there. It was hysterical. Apparently my mom is not one to scrutinize her surroundings.
There is sadness involved in returning home. I thought it would be easier this time because it has been three years since my dad passed but his absence is so palpable. He was such a calming presence that without him the dynamic of our family has shifted. I missed him so much that my 4 day trip became a bit of an emotional drain. It made me feel out of sorts and little bit grumpy. I’m glad I went home because I love spending time with my mom. I got to really know my nephews,Seamus and Anthony, and spend lots of time with my sister and friends and brother. I am thankful for that.
When I miss my dad I can remember what his shoulders felt like. I had a habit of leaning my head on them. It doesn’t really make sense but the whole time I was home it felt like my head was resting on his shoulder. I could even imagine the feel of his soft gray sweater that he wore often. When I walked through Midway airport on the way to my flight home, I remembered taking the same escalator with the small steel bird sculptor hanging overhead with my parents and the kids. It was years ago when Andrew, Jacob, and Amelia were a handful to manage. I remember mom and dad walking me to the security check and hugging us all goodbye. The memory was so vivid that I could feel their hugs. It made me unbelievably sad. I wonder when I will learn to stop missing my dad so much.
The best way to explain my visit back to Chicago is to compare it to entering your neighborhood grocery store after it’s been remodeled. You’re excited to check it out only to find out that it’s the same but foreign and completely frustrating. It's going to take some getting used to.
When I flew back home from Chicago on Sunday I decided that the pint sized Japanese kid in the dirty Asics next to me would not be the person to rely on during a crash. He looked like a crier. Instead, I decided that the man two seats over with the tattoo sleeves might be a good option, only he was traveling with his wife. I moved on to the lady who looked like a mean grandma down the aisle from me. She would probably yell and scream and tell me to stop acting like an infant if I attempted to panic during a plane crash. I was certain she was the type of woman that would convince me everything would be fine right before our plane inevitably nose dove into the ocean. These are the inflight thoughts I always have. Sometimes it is overwhelming to be me.
I flew home to Chicago to surprise my mom for her 60th birthday. My sister, brother, and I did the same thing for my dad 6 years ago. My aunt Claudia set it up so that we would meet at her house and randomly show up, one by one, to surprise her. I was the last to arrive. When I came in my mom was upstairs in the bathroom. She came back down, sat next to my brother, and proceeded to chat with Claudia who I was sitting next to. She looked great. Her red hair has greyed and faded into a pretty blonde. She looked so petite and stylish. It took her a couple of minutes to realize that I was there. It was hysterical. Apparently my mom is not one to scrutinize her surroundings.
There is sadness involved in returning home. I thought it would be easier this time because it has been three years since my dad passed but his absence is so palpable. He was such a calming presence that without him the dynamic of our family has shifted. I missed him so much that my 4 day trip became a bit of an emotional drain. It made me feel out of sorts and little bit grumpy. I’m glad I went home because I love spending time with my mom. I got to really know my nephews,Seamus and Anthony, and spend lots of time with my sister and friends and brother. I am thankful for that.
When I miss my dad I can remember what his shoulders felt like. I had a habit of leaning my head on them. It doesn’t really make sense but the whole time I was home it felt like my head was resting on his shoulder. I could even imagine the feel of his soft gray sweater that he wore often. When I walked through Midway airport on the way to my flight home, I remembered taking the same escalator with the small steel bird sculptor hanging overhead with my parents and the kids. It was years ago when Andrew, Jacob, and Amelia were a handful to manage. I remember mom and dad walking me to the security check and hugging us all goodbye. The memory was so vivid that I could feel their hugs. It made me unbelievably sad. I wonder when I will learn to stop missing my dad so much.
The best way to explain my visit back to Chicago is to compare it to entering your neighborhood grocery store after it’s been remodeled. You’re excited to check it out only to find out that it’s the same but foreign and completely frustrating. It's going to take some getting used to.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
It's just a mug
The other day when I was rushing around to get myself and the family ready to leave for a graduation party I managed to break my favorite mug. It wasn't just any mug, it was the mug I gave to my dad on one of my last visits to Chicago when he was still fairly healthy, the mug I handed to him when he was sitting at the old wooden farmhouse dining table in my parent's kitchen. He was sitting in his usual spot at the head of the table with a thick slice of bread on a paper towel waiting to greet us upon our arrival. I took Amelia with me on that trip. I have so many great memories of her and my dad on that visit. He adored her. They would sit at the table and play cards with one another or giggle about silly things over breakfast. My dad even hop scotched with her out on the driveway despite his balance being a bit off.
The broken mug was a Starbucks one featuring the San Diego skyline. It was a last minute impulse buy purchased at Lindberg Field. I bought it for him because he was such a tea fanatic. After he died I took it out of my mom's kitchen cupboard and brought it home with me. It's been my preferred mug ever since.
I was so pissed off at myself over breaking it. I tried not to cry about it. Afterall it's just a mug. Despite myself I cried a little. When Aaron asked what was wrong and I explained what had happened it made me cry more. From the backseat of our car Amelia piped in, "Mom, look at my watch." She held up her slender pink wrist and pointed at her ladybug watch. "Remember how Grandpa always wore a watch? We still have his watch. Before I go bed I hang my watch on grandpa's picture in my room."
I have seen her watch on his picture but I never realized that she hung it there because her watch made her think of him. That was all I needed to hear to feel better. I don't need a mug to remember my dad. It's amazing how my daughter has such wisdom at age 6. She reminds so much of my Dad. She is a mini Seamus.
The broken mug was a Starbucks one featuring the San Diego skyline. It was a last minute impulse buy purchased at Lindberg Field. I bought it for him because he was such a tea fanatic. After he died I took it out of my mom's kitchen cupboard and brought it home with me. It's been my preferred mug ever since.
I was so pissed off at myself over breaking it. I tried not to cry about it. Afterall it's just a mug. Despite myself I cried a little. When Aaron asked what was wrong and I explained what had happened it made me cry more. From the backseat of our car Amelia piped in, "Mom, look at my watch." She held up her slender pink wrist and pointed at her ladybug watch. "Remember how Grandpa always wore a watch? We still have his watch. Before I go bed I hang my watch on grandpa's picture in my room."
I have seen her watch on his picture but I never realized that she hung it there because her watch made her think of him. That was all I needed to hear to feel better. I don't need a mug to remember my dad. It's amazing how my daughter has such wisdom at age 6. She reminds so much of my Dad. She is a mini Seamus.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
An epic rant
A family that I do not know is now occupying my childhood home. This bothers me more then I liked to admit. They moved in during early May just two weeks after purchasing it.
Aaron, the kids, and I will be in Chicago on June 5th. The thought that we will not be driving down the familiar tree lined streets of my youth, over the rickety wooden bridge in Hinsdale, past Spring Rock Park, past the place that was once Hippie Hills and is now a hideous townhome development, before parking in front of my sturdy brick house that my dad spent years remodeling, depresses me. I don't like being depressed. I am more of the type to shove it all down and try hard to think of rainbows as opposed to the dark stuff. I am a little annoyed with cancer right now. I just want my dad back. I am starting to feel like his death is total bull shit.
After my dad died it was hard going home. Everything seemed outplace. There were no crossword puzzle books placed on the ottoman near his comfy TV chair, he wasn't sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea waiting to greet me back home, and his garage full of tools was eerily empty. Every visit home since he passed, there was moment in which I would forget that he was gone. For a second, a minute even, I would expect to see him emerge from his upstairs bedroom, or hear his van pulling up the drive. Even though he is long gone it was comforting that his memory was still in that house. He wasn't there but it felt like he was.
For some reason the idea that my childhood home is gone makes my dad's death real. I have had a year in a half to accept his death. Still it is hard to fathom that I don't get to call him up on the phone or sit in the living room of my childhood home with him anymore.
As much as I try to rationalize what happened him, to convince myself that there was a reason behind his sickness, that it all part of god's plan for our family, I can't help but feeling angry. I have moments of complete peace over his passing but there are other times where I am heavy with rage. I miss him at random moments like during my neighbor's son’s birthday party where his father kneeled down and tied the shoe of 5 year old Eli, or when we attend my best friend’s family functions and both sets of grandfathers are there, proud and loving on the little people in their lives. On my Birthday I miss his voice, and the funny little pictures he would draw on the kid's birthday cards. I miss his dumb jokes and gentle presence.
I don’t think I have given myself the chance to miss him. I try to remind myself how blessed I am. I am so very blessed to have had him as a father. Some people never have the opportunity to know their fathers, or worse they have a terrible one. I had a great dad, and I got to be his daughter for 29 years. I have no right to complain.
In 10 days I will be confronted with the idea that he is really gone. I have a feeling that arriving at my aunt’s home from the airport will be harder than dad’s funeral. The house is gone; his garage where he spent countless hours building and creating things is now, more likely than not, occupied by a minivan and bikes with training wheels. The shelves are no longer lined with jam jars housing various nails and other carpentry tools. A different man and woman are sleeping in my parent’s upstairs bedroom and their young children have taken over our other bedrooms. I wonder if they will love that house the same way we did. I will be south of Chicago instead of west, and everything will feel ass backwards. The whole thing makes me feel sad.
Aaron, the kids, and I will be in Chicago on June 5th. The thought that we will not be driving down the familiar tree lined streets of my youth, over the rickety wooden bridge in Hinsdale, past Spring Rock Park, past the place that was once Hippie Hills and is now a hideous townhome development, before parking in front of my sturdy brick house that my dad spent years remodeling, depresses me. I don't like being depressed. I am more of the type to shove it all down and try hard to think of rainbows as opposed to the dark stuff. I am a little annoyed with cancer right now. I just want my dad back. I am starting to feel like his death is total bull shit.
After my dad died it was hard going home. Everything seemed outplace. There were no crossword puzzle books placed on the ottoman near his comfy TV chair, he wasn't sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea waiting to greet me back home, and his garage full of tools was eerily empty. Every visit home since he passed, there was moment in which I would forget that he was gone. For a second, a minute even, I would expect to see him emerge from his upstairs bedroom, or hear his van pulling up the drive. Even though he is long gone it was comforting that his memory was still in that house. He wasn't there but it felt like he was.
For some reason the idea that my childhood home is gone makes my dad's death real. I have had a year in a half to accept his death. Still it is hard to fathom that I don't get to call him up on the phone or sit in the living room of my childhood home with him anymore.
As much as I try to rationalize what happened him, to convince myself that there was a reason behind his sickness, that it all part of god's plan for our family, I can't help but feeling angry. I have moments of complete peace over his passing but there are other times where I am heavy with rage. I miss him at random moments like during my neighbor's son’s birthday party where his father kneeled down and tied the shoe of 5 year old Eli, or when we attend my best friend’s family functions and both sets of grandfathers are there, proud and loving on the little people in their lives. On my Birthday I miss his voice, and the funny little pictures he would draw on the kid's birthday cards. I miss his dumb jokes and gentle presence.
I don’t think I have given myself the chance to miss him. I try to remind myself how blessed I am. I am so very blessed to have had him as a father. Some people never have the opportunity to know their fathers, or worse they have a terrible one. I had a great dad, and I got to be his daughter for 29 years. I have no right to complain.
In 10 days I will be confronted with the idea that he is really gone. I have a feeling that arriving at my aunt’s home from the airport will be harder than dad’s funeral. The house is gone; his garage where he spent countless hours building and creating things is now, more likely than not, occupied by a minivan and bikes with training wheels. The shelves are no longer lined with jam jars housing various nails and other carpentry tools. A different man and woman are sleeping in my parent’s upstairs bedroom and their young children have taken over our other bedrooms. I wonder if they will love that house the same way we did. I will be south of Chicago instead of west, and everything will feel ass backwards. The whole thing makes me feel sad.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Because of Dad
The blog I wrote about my dad was published in last weeks San Diego Reader. I am really happy that I won for this particular piece. It was hard for me to write about my dad without coming across as whiney or too sentimental. Anyway, Here's the link:In memory of Seamus Feely.
I had three goals in terms of writing this year
1. To make my Journalism Professor's student success page on his website (silly I know!)
2. To win 1st place in the San Diego Reader's Neighborhood blog Contest.
3. To have a Reader cover story.
I am really pleased to have accomplished all three. I don't really know where to go from here. I need some new goals for 2010. I think I would like to secure an internship and a local paper or magazine and this is a really, really huge long shot but.... I want to have an article in the New Yorker by the end of the 2010. It'a a far cry from our little local paper but I think it's good to make insane goals.
I had three goals in terms of writing this year
1. To make my Journalism Professor's student success page on his website (silly I know!)
2. To win 1st place in the San Diego Reader's Neighborhood blog Contest.
3. To have a Reader cover story.
I am really pleased to have accomplished all three. I don't really know where to go from here. I need some new goals for 2010. I think I would like to secure an internship and a local paper or magazine and this is a really, really huge long shot but.... I want to have an article in the New Yorker by the end of the 2010. It'a a far cry from our little local paper but I think it's good to make insane goals.
Monday, November 30, 2009
In memory of
When I woke up this morning I had an idea of what I would do to remember my dad on the anniversary of his death. I imagined it to be the kind of day straight out of a movie as if I should have a voice over that narrated the events. I imagined Don LaFontaine’s voice booming “In memory of her father she set of for the beach house where he passed away peacefully surrounded by loved ones.” Only things didn’t go quite the way I imagined.
Today was one of those beautiful San Diego days where I could get away with wearing a light sun dress and thin sweater. I got to the beach house at around 9:45. When I neared the house I saw a shirtless guy on the porch. I paused in front of him straining to see inside the tiny rental unit. I don’t know what I thought I would see, maybe a small memento from our time there, the small pink sand shovel Amelia used or a shell that one of the boys had picked off the beach. Nothing seemed familiar. Standing there trying to recall the day that seems like a lifetime ago brought it back swiftly.
All at once I remembered what it felt like during my dad’s final days. I remembered when he stopped eating all together and the quiet panic we all felt. I remembered his freshly shaven face the day my brother spent an hour gently applying shaving cream and working a razor across his unusually stubbly face, my kids cheerfully sitting by his bed while singing songs and laughing, my sister’s warm hearted humor and the artful way she made my dad fell so at ease, my mom’s strength and beauty and the way she loving washed his body after he passed. It all came back heavy and hard like a fresh sadness not one that I have carried with me for the last 365 days.
Before he died I had an idea of what it would feel like when he passed. I thought about it. I even imagined it. When it happened it was nothing like I expected. I felt guilty for being so sad. It must have something to do with my catholic upbringing. I felt ashamed of my grief. I didn’t allow myself to mourn. It felt wrong, selfish to be upset.
I was almost robotic in my actions. The day after his death I got the kids ready for school as usual, I icily told their teachers that their grandfather had died and we would be leaving for his funeral within a few days. I attended my 9:15 anthropology class and behaved as if it were just another day until my teacher took out the skull of a monkey and pointed out the different areas of its scalp. I thought about my dad’s brain and the tumors that spread everywhere. I imagined the tumors bumping around in his brain and I started feeling woozy. I stumbled out of class and threw up in the bathroom. I sat like a stone on the bench outside of my anthropology room for the next hour waiting for the students to filter out so I could get my stuff. On the car ride home I allowed myself to cry. I cried big gulping sobs until my face was red and swollen. I didn’t send my kids to school the following day. I gave myself permission to let the sadness in.
For awhile I dreamed about him nightly. In my sleep we would spend the day together. We would go to the zoo, or he would push Amelia on the swing at the park, or play with my boys. In my dreams he was healthy. It’s been awhile since he has made an appearance. Now when I dream of him it’s always vague or only the idea of him. Recently I dreamt that I was playing softball and he was in the bleachers way in the back covered up by a blanket. I could only see the dim outline of his profile.
It’s been a year since I have last touched his hand or spoke with him; it’s been a year since I told him how much I loved him. Today I realized that I don’t remember the sound of his voice. I can picture his face and even remember the way his chin felt after a shave, I know that the lines running across his palms are almost identical to mine with wide sweeping indents that create an upside triangle on the underside of his hands, that he had a scar running half way up his leg from a glass window that fell on him. I recall the softness of the gray sweater he often wore, and what it felt like to hug him. But I can’t remember the staccato of his voice. For a long time I had a recorded birthday message from him on my phone but I carelessly erased it one afternoon. The machine was full and in an effort to get rid of the many voices of telemarketers and dental appointment reminders I erased the only memento of his voice.
***
I am uncertain how long I stood before the beach house but I think the dude on the porch thought I was flirting with him. He smiled a big toothy smile. I blushed embarrassed for losing myself in the moment and walked on.
I decided not to sit on the beach in front of the house figuring shirtless man may think it was some sort of invitation. Instead I found a bench nearby and watched the waves. On the balcony behind me was a pale faced red head in a dingy tank top with another shirtless man.
“Dude, I am so hung over.” He told the red head
She laughed while I tried to block them out. I cursed them for ruining my moment! I expected a little more decency today. The world should know that someone important passed away today and they should behave accordingly, I thought to myself. I wasn’t asking for porch dwellers with violins but I had been hoping for a little peace and quiet.
“I miss that Bitch!” I heard the man behind me say
“Who? Your ex-wife?” the red head asked
He grunted yes
“It’s okay to miss her.” She said
“You know I still have our wedding pictures.” He replied
Today was one of those beautiful San Diego days where I could get away with wearing a light sun dress and thin sweater. I got to the beach house at around 9:45. When I neared the house I saw a shirtless guy on the porch. I paused in front of him straining to see inside the tiny rental unit. I don’t know what I thought I would see, maybe a small memento from our time there, the small pink sand shovel Amelia used or a shell that one of the boys had picked off the beach. Nothing seemed familiar. Standing there trying to recall the day that seems like a lifetime ago brought it back swiftly.
All at once I remembered what it felt like during my dad’s final days. I remembered when he stopped eating all together and the quiet panic we all felt. I remembered his freshly shaven face the day my brother spent an hour gently applying shaving cream and working a razor across his unusually stubbly face, my kids cheerfully sitting by his bed while singing songs and laughing, my sister’s warm hearted humor and the artful way she made my dad fell so at ease, my mom’s strength and beauty and the way she loving washed his body after he passed. It all came back heavy and hard like a fresh sadness not one that I have carried with me for the last 365 days.
Before he died I had an idea of what it would feel like when he passed. I thought about it. I even imagined it. When it happened it was nothing like I expected. I felt guilty for being so sad. It must have something to do with my catholic upbringing. I felt ashamed of my grief. I didn’t allow myself to mourn. It felt wrong, selfish to be upset.
I was almost robotic in my actions. The day after his death I got the kids ready for school as usual, I icily told their teachers that their grandfather had died and we would be leaving for his funeral within a few days. I attended my 9:15 anthropology class and behaved as if it were just another day until my teacher took out the skull of a monkey and pointed out the different areas of its scalp. I thought about my dad’s brain and the tumors that spread everywhere. I imagined the tumors bumping around in his brain and I started feeling woozy. I stumbled out of class and threw up in the bathroom. I sat like a stone on the bench outside of my anthropology room for the next hour waiting for the students to filter out so I could get my stuff. On the car ride home I allowed myself to cry. I cried big gulping sobs until my face was red and swollen. I didn’t send my kids to school the following day. I gave myself permission to let the sadness in.
For awhile I dreamed about him nightly. In my sleep we would spend the day together. We would go to the zoo, or he would push Amelia on the swing at the park, or play with my boys. In my dreams he was healthy. It’s been awhile since he has made an appearance. Now when I dream of him it’s always vague or only the idea of him. Recently I dreamt that I was playing softball and he was in the bleachers way in the back covered up by a blanket. I could only see the dim outline of his profile.
It’s been a year since I have last touched his hand or spoke with him; it’s been a year since I told him how much I loved him. Today I realized that I don’t remember the sound of his voice. I can picture his face and even remember the way his chin felt after a shave, I know that the lines running across his palms are almost identical to mine with wide sweeping indents that create an upside triangle on the underside of his hands, that he had a scar running half way up his leg from a glass window that fell on him. I recall the softness of the gray sweater he often wore, and what it felt like to hug him. But I can’t remember the staccato of his voice. For a long time I had a recorded birthday message from him on my phone but I carelessly erased it one afternoon. The machine was full and in an effort to get rid of the many voices of telemarketers and dental appointment reminders I erased the only memento of his voice.
***
I am uncertain how long I stood before the beach house but I think the dude on the porch thought I was flirting with him. He smiled a big toothy smile. I blushed embarrassed for losing myself in the moment and walked on.
I decided not to sit on the beach in front of the house figuring shirtless man may think it was some sort of invitation. Instead I found a bench nearby and watched the waves. On the balcony behind me was a pale faced red head in a dingy tank top with another shirtless man.
She laughed while I tried to block them out. I cursed them for ruining my moment! I expected a little more decency today. The world should know that someone important passed away today and they should behave accordingly, I thought to myself. I wasn’t asking for porch dwellers with violins but I had been hoping for a little peace and quiet.
“I miss that Bitch!” I heard the man behind me say
“Who? Your ex-wife?” the red head asked
“It’s okay to miss her.” She said
“You know I still have our wedding pictures.” He replied
“It’s important to hold on to memories as long as you don’t hold on too tightly.” She told him
It was as if she was speaking directly to me. I wanted to shout out thank you and maybe even sorry for judging you so quickly. It may not have been Don Lafontaine, or a lady with a violin but the red head and her alcoholic friend made sense and spoke exactly what I needed to hear. My day remembering my dad may not have turned out exactly as I would have expected but it nonetheless it was perfect. I sat quietly on the beach taking in the sound of the water and the murmur of a hung over dude and his rebound girlfriend while thinking of my dad. I couldn’t have asked for more.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Why my kids should not be around the grieving
My dad is in the hospital only it’s not a real hospital it’s a hospice center. I had never heard the word Hospice until recently. It reminds me of a spice, like I should be asking for someone to please pass me the hospice. It’s actually a hospital for the dying. Everyone there is one second away from croaking. My dad is in way better shape then any of them. He was having a hard time swallowing his food so his nurses suggested the hospice center for a few days so that he can be surrounded by doctors while he stabilizes.
The first day I showed up to visit, my mom cleary told me that they were in room 104. Leave it to my mom to give us the wrong room number! Although the door to room 104 was closed, Amelia and I loudly made our entrance only to find the oldest woman I have ever seen snoozing rather loudly in what I had thought was my dad’s bed. “Is that a person?’ Amelia asked in a very terrified voice.
Amelia has become very obsessed with the old patients at the hospice center. None of them come out of their rooms but often their doors are left open and she likes to peek in, point, and yell loudly about how old they are. It’s like she is playing slug bug, but instead of yelling slug bug she screams “Another old man, or look at that Old lady.” I have pulled her aside more then once to comment on her rudeness. I am starting to worry that she has a mild case of tourettes.
There is a really cute playground and walk way that wraps around the building. There ia breathtaking view of the city and lots of colorful flowers. Amelia spends a lot of time at the playground on the tire swing located just outside my dad’s room. Often Amelia sees the spouses of the dying patients walking around the beautiful grounds near the playground. Loudly she will yell “look at that old person mommy.” “Look mommy that one has a cane!” She acts as if they are the colorful mechanically characters on the stage at chuck e cheese there for the sole purpose to wow her with their oldness. She gets such a kick out of the existence of the elderly!
There is a large open community area that the kids like to hang out in, last night I made a big dinner and the kids ate it in the community room. Per Amelia’s request I placed her plate on the small round table near her favorite pink chair. She sat and ate happily until she got up to use the bathroom. When she came back a very distraught woman had taken her seat and was sobbing on her cell phone to someone. Amelia situated herself in front of the poor woman and started pointing at her “look mama, she stole my seat.” “That lady right there stole my seat.” I am afraid my daughter has absolutely zero social grace!
There is always someone crying in the community room, there are groups of sobbing families clutching onto each other. My kids stare at them. They find it fascinating. I am not a crier. I cannot think of a single moment that I have cried in front of my kids. I think this display of emotion terrifies and perplexes them. They become highly uncomfortable and fidgety when confronted with criers. Amelia always wants to know how they hurt themselves. “Did they get a boo boo? Or my favorite “do they need to see the doctor.” When I explain that they are crying because they are sad Amelia always says “oh, they just need hugs.” “hugs will stop the crying.” I love how very simple everything is to Amelia.
The first day I showed up to visit, my mom cleary told me that they were in room 104. Leave it to my mom to give us the wrong room number! Although the door to room 104 was closed, Amelia and I loudly made our entrance only to find the oldest woman I have ever seen snoozing rather loudly in what I had thought was my dad’s bed. “Is that a person?’ Amelia asked in a very terrified voice.
Amelia has become very obsessed with the old patients at the hospice center. None of them come out of their rooms but often their doors are left open and she likes to peek in, point, and yell loudly about how old they are. It’s like she is playing slug bug, but instead of yelling slug bug she screams “Another old man, or look at that Old lady.” I have pulled her aside more then once to comment on her rudeness. I am starting to worry that she has a mild case of tourettes.
There is a really cute playground and walk way that wraps around the building. There ia breathtaking view of the city and lots of colorful flowers. Amelia spends a lot of time at the playground on the tire swing located just outside my dad’s room. Often Amelia sees the spouses of the dying patients walking around the beautiful grounds near the playground. Loudly she will yell “look at that old person mommy.” “Look mommy that one has a cane!” She acts as if they are the colorful mechanically characters on the stage at chuck e cheese there for the sole purpose to wow her with their oldness. She gets such a kick out of the existence of the elderly!
There is a large open community area that the kids like to hang out in, last night I made a big dinner and the kids ate it in the community room. Per Amelia’s request I placed her plate on the small round table near her favorite pink chair. She sat and ate happily until she got up to use the bathroom. When she came back a very distraught woman had taken her seat and was sobbing on her cell phone to someone. Amelia situated herself in front of the poor woman and started pointing at her “look mama, she stole my seat.” “That lady right there stole my seat.” I am afraid my daughter has absolutely zero social grace!
There is always someone crying in the community room, there are groups of sobbing families clutching onto each other. My kids stare at them. They find it fascinating. I am not a crier. I cannot think of a single moment that I have cried in front of my kids. I think this display of emotion terrifies and perplexes them. They become highly uncomfortable and fidgety when confronted with criers. Amelia always wants to know how they hurt themselves. “Did they get a boo boo? Or my favorite “do they need to see the doctor.” When I explain that they are crying because they are sad Amelia always says “oh, they just need hugs.” “hugs will stop the crying.” I love how very simple everything is to Amelia.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Taking things for granted
For the last week I have dreamt about high school every night. They have not been fun easy going keg party in the woods kind of dreams. They have been intense, wake you up in the middle of the night, kind of dreams. One involved my friend Stacey and I driving around in her grandfather’s boat sized car and running over a person who was crossing the road. Another took place at my friend Anne’s house and involved a screaming baby that no one could find. Yet another involved me being busted for smoking cigarettes in my parents back yard and my dad forcing me to eat the enitre pack as punishment. Something about having my parents around casues me to revert back into a teenager.
This week has been the toughest week of my life. I wasn’t expecting my parents move here to be so intense. When I tell people that my parents have moved to San Diego everyone says how great it is, how lucky I am to have babysitters. While I am so very lucky to have them here at the same time there is a terrible sadness intertwined with the happiness. I don’t feel like explaining that they are here so that my parents can be surrounded by family when my dad passes. The truth is my dad is dying which is not easily said during polite conversation.
When we picked them up at the airport I could barely recognize my own father. He doesn’t look like himself. When I left them with their bags to pull the car around I was gulping back tears. He cannot walk on his own anymore; it’s hard for him to speak. Sometimes he doesn’t know who I am. I had to help my 63 year old father use the bathroom. I think that was the hardest moment so far because he was so humiliated. I was not prepared for this. The first couple of days of their arrival were the hardest because I couldn’t recognize my own father inside his body; he just didn’t seem like him. He seemed like a stranger. Now I can carefully shove past, layer by layer, and see underneath the sickness and his confusion and find him there as always with the same dry sarcastic sense of humor. He is different but at moments his personality is back and he jokes and laughs as much as always. There are brief moments daily when I see the old him again. Those are the moments I cherish most of all.
What kills me the most is that I spent three weeks in Chicago this summer and I took for granted every moment. I wish I had realized then that in a few months he would be unable to walk to the park with us, That I would no longer have the pleasure of long leaisurely conversations with him, that He would no longer be able to thoroughly kick my ass at ping pong, nor would Amelia be able to demand that he play hop scotch with her in the back yard. Even though I spend everyday with him I miss him so much.
This week has been the toughest week of my life. I wasn’t expecting my parents move here to be so intense. When I tell people that my parents have moved to San Diego everyone says how great it is, how lucky I am to have babysitters. While I am so very lucky to have them here at the same time there is a terrible sadness intertwined with the happiness. I don’t feel like explaining that they are here so that my parents can be surrounded by family when my dad passes. The truth is my dad is dying which is not easily said during polite conversation.
When we picked them up at the airport I could barely recognize my own father. He doesn’t look like himself. When I left them with their bags to pull the car around I was gulping back tears. He cannot walk on his own anymore; it’s hard for him to speak. Sometimes he doesn’t know who I am. I had to help my 63 year old father use the bathroom. I think that was the hardest moment so far because he was so humiliated. I was not prepared for this. The first couple of days of their arrival were the hardest because I couldn’t recognize my own father inside his body; he just didn’t seem like him. He seemed like a stranger. Now I can carefully shove past, layer by layer, and see underneath the sickness and his confusion and find him there as always with the same dry sarcastic sense of humor. He is different but at moments his personality is back and he jokes and laughs as much as always. There are brief moments daily when I see the old him again. Those are the moments I cherish most of all.
What kills me the most is that I spent three weeks in Chicago this summer and I took for granted every moment. I wish I had realized then that in a few months he would be unable to walk to the park with us, That I would no longer have the pleasure of long leaisurely conversations with him, that He would no longer be able to thoroughly kick my ass at ping pong, nor would Amelia be able to demand that he play hop scotch with her in the back yard. Even though I spend everyday with him I miss him so much.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Parents
My parent’s are flying out to San Diego next Thursday. I am excited but at the same time very nervous about them coming. Due to a new round of Chemo and the progression of his tumors, my dad is now unable to walk on his own and he has lost all of his hair.
The last time we visited Andrew was concerned about grandpa's appearance. He commented on how different he looked. This time his appearance will be a ton more drastic. I am worried that the kids will be scared. I know it sounds silly but I remember the way children would look at him after his first round of chemo years ago. When we would go to the grocery store little kids would stare or get a look of panic on their faces when they would see him. I just don't want my kids to treat him differently or be afraid. Other then my fear of the kid's reaction to my dad, I cannot wait to spend time with my parents. Their plan is stay for good. My mom is having a hard time caring for my dad on her own and needs help. They are going to rent an apartment nearby. My mom tends to flip flop when it comes to decision making so I wouldn’t be surprised if she changed her mind and moved back to Chicago. I refuse to get my hopes up!
In response to my stress levels over my parent's upcoming visit, I rewrote an old journal entry I found on my computer about the first time we found out about my dad's cancer. My method of dealing with stress is to write, it saves money on shrink bills! Here it is (it's very long!):
My first experience with cancer occurred at the age of 18. After my sisters 4.0 grade point average startlingly plunged down to a 2.0, she decided to take a year off of college and head to Kansas to live near her boyfriend. Just graduating from high school, and not ready to enter head first into years of school and books, I decided to go with her. Our plan was for a year of relaxation and freedom. We lived in a small college town. Michelle and I were just about the only people in town who didn’t attend the university. We lived in a tiny yellow apartment that housed our vintage furniture. We both got jobs together at the Nordstrom outside of Kansas City. Michelle outsold everyone in our department. All the other sales girls gossiped constantly about her. Due to her ability to always overachieve, the two of us were basically shunned by our coworkers.
My sister managed the bills and I tried my best to have enough money to party and pay for my half of the rent. I drank too much and stayed out too late. Most of the time Michelle and I lived together she hated me. I found her to be bossy and judgmental. She found me selfish and irresponsible. We avoided each other at all costs. In the beginning we laughed a ton and eat dinner together but after a couple of months we could barely stand the sight of each other. She spent a lot of time at the kitchen counter, calculator in hand, tallying how much I owed her on recent bills. When I wasn’t at work I spent all my time avoiding our apartment. Apart from work we were living very separate lives. While our sisterly bond was deteriorating, unbeknownst to us, so was our father’s health.
In April our mom called. She had a tone of urgency and panic in her voice that was frightening. “You need to come home,” she said, “get on the first flight. Your father is very sick. Don’t drive here you have to fly, we are at LaGrange hospital.”
It’s amazing how slowly time ticks away while operating in a panic mode. Everyone moves at a snails pace. I wanted the cars to speed up and for people to speak in quick short sentences. Instead, everything seemed so drawn out. I just wanted to get home.
I can remember every detail from that night. I can visualize entire hours down to the chipped fingernails of my dad’s nurse. I remember the stillness of my apartment, and stuffing dirty clothes off the floor into a backpack. I remember how quietly Chris, my boyfriend at the time, stood by watching me. I wanted him to say something, anything to break the awful silence but he didn’t. He was wearing his dirty Nike basketball shoes, the ones with the red stripe. I hated those shoes and had told a friend that if it hadn’t been for his sense of humor, I would have never spoken to him due to those god awful shoes! Before leaving he hugged me tight and kissed my forehead. We were standing on my porch. Across the street some kids were playing basketball. He promised to call me everyday. I wished he would come with me.
I remember driving to Nordstrom’s before our flight. Michelle and I stopped in to tell our boss that our dad was seriously ill and we weren’t sure when we would be back to work. I remember the escalator we took down to the parking garage. That matt, Michelle’s boyfriend’s, shoes were untied. I imagined that they would get sucked into the escalator. He kept shoving his hands into his pockets as if there was a lost penny somewhere inside. When we got in his car he played a Big Head Todd tape. Michelle sang along. I remember thinking that no one should sing in a moment like this. I expected all cheerfulness to come to a halt.
On the flight we sat next to a woman who wouldn’t stop talking. Her face was familiar, like we had always known each other, as if she had been a neighbor or one of the lunchroom monitors at my elementary school. She had short cropped brown hair and red lipstick. She wore a white sweater and her presence was oddly comforting. I wanted her to hold my hand and tell me that everything was okay. Instead she told us about her daughter’s prom dress and college plans for the fall.
It was late at night when we arrived in Chicago. Stacey, my best friend, picked us up with her dad. I had only met Stacey’s dad one other time despite being friends with her since the 6th grade. Since we lived in a predominantly white neighborhood, he thought our friends wouldn’t want to hang out with Stacey if we knew she had a black dad. He always kept to himself and shut his bedroom door when her friends were over. When we got to the hospital he drove over a curb and came to a screeching halt in front of the ER. I decided right then and there that I loved him for his sense of urgency. Michelle and I thanked them for the ride. We braced ourselves with the heavy reality of our situation.
When we got to the waiting room we were surprised to see it filled with relatives and friends of my parents. Irish people know how to gather the troops! My mom was on the phone trying to a book a flight for my brother from Spain. She told us they were unsure what was wrong with Dad but the doctor doubted he would survive the week. I was told which room to find him in. Michelle and I headed in his direction. I wasn’t prepared for what I found. He was connected to tubes and his skin was a weird color. He looked half dead. The tears came quick. Before I knew it I as sobbing. Michelle stood stoic, as still as a statue. For a moment I wasn’t sure if she was even in the room with me. I bolted. I couldn’t stand to see him like that. I collapsed outside the waiting room, not wanting everyone to see me crying. My aunt Claudia came out and sat with me. She hugged me tightly while I cried. Before long she was making fun of the nurses and my dad’s friend with the long nose hairs. The two of us were laughing madly and inappropriately outside the waiting room. Due to that moment, To this day, I love my aunt Claudia more then any other aunt.
Later that evening Michelle and I were told to go home for my mom’s phone book, we shared an elevator with my dad’s best friend. Matter of factly he stated, “That man is not going to make it through the night.” That was the one and only moment in my life that I have ever felt complete hatred toward another human being. I wanted to punch his face or spit or scream at him. To this day when I see, or think, of Tom I get angry. I’m not sure why. I think perhaps all the fear and anger I felt that night transferred to Tom. I know it’s not fair but no matter how hard I try to forgive Tom every time I see him, I picture him in the elevator saying those words. In his defense years later when my dad was laid off due to his severe memory loss Tom gave him a job when no one else would. He worked as a bartender in Tom’s pub. He was a terrible bartender but Tom didn’t care. He has always been a great and loyal friend to my dad.
It was interesting to see the way everyone else handled their grief. My mom was constantly on the phone speaking with doctors or speaking with family and friends. She turned her grief into action. My brother never cried. He was the one that would announce to strangers at the grocery store that our dad might die. I remember on the way to the hospital one morning we were stopped at a red light next to our elementary school principal. Rog rolled down the window and waved hello, and shouted, “We are all home visiting our dad. He’s dying!” Mr. Alpalter was stunned and at a loss for words. When he drove away we were all cracking up. “Did you see the look on his face!?” rog laughed. As weird as it was, Roger’s mode of grief was making other people uncomfortable for a good laugh. It was his way of trying to be okay. Michelle was strong as always. She did her best to comfort everyone else. She made sure everyone had enough food to eat and that we picked people up on time from the airport. Most of all she was the only one capable of soothing my mom. I was the most scared and outwardly emotional. I was prone to crying and hated that I behaved that way.
After about week my dad was diagnosed with a brain tumor. When they told him he cried. That was the second time in my life I have seen my father cry. The first being the day he learned his mom passed away. When they operated to remove the tumor I was in the waiting room the entire time with my mom and my sister. We were unsure if he would live through and what kind of man he would be afterward. We were told that he may be a completely different person. We were uncertain if he would be able to speak or see or even walk after the surgery. Afterwards he was the same only a little bit more sentimental and his memory was a bit off. He had staples running down his scalp and his face was swollen. He looked like someone out of a horror movie. I remember the day he was released from the hospital. He was wheeled into the elevator and there was a small boy in there with his mother. My dad loves children so he was making jokes with the child and the boy hide his face because he couldn’t bare looking at my dad. That was one of the saddest moments in my life because I saw in my dads eyes that he knew he would never be the same again.
My dad’s sickness changed everything. Oddly I felt that in some ways the changes were for the better. It was as if everyone in our family woke up. We rallied together and became stronger. Through his tumor we learned to love each other more. We talked openly and deeply. Months before we discovered his tumor we were a broken family. I barely spoke to my parents and truthfully felt a lot of animosity towards them. Roger had moved all the way to Spain to escape us and rarely spoke or wrote to the rest of our family. Michelle and I could not stand the sight of each other. All of that changed. Not only were my bonds with my family stronger but I also came to realize who I could count on. Tragedy shows the character of those around you. I was able to revaluate some unhealthy relationships. Chris, the first boy with whom I had ever loved, called me just once while I was home with my family. When I had arrived back to Kansas he had found a new girlfriend. This is the guy I had spent every day of the last 8 months with. He officially broke up with me over the phone in an awkwardly short conversation. His explanation was that he had been lonely while I was away and met someone else at a party. While it was devastating at the moment, I am thankful I did not waste any more time on someone who clearly did not care about me.
While my dad’s sickness had been extremely rough on all of us, oddly there has been a lot of happiness as result. He has inspired strength and compassion in everyone who loves him. At moments I see his cancer as a gift. While I would rather a healthy father I know that we have learned and loved more then we could have ever imagined if cancer hadn’t entered our lives.
The last time we visited Andrew was concerned about grandpa's appearance. He commented on how different he looked. This time his appearance will be a ton more drastic. I am worried that the kids will be scared. I know it sounds silly but I remember the way children would look at him after his first round of chemo years ago. When we would go to the grocery store little kids would stare or get a look of panic on their faces when they would see him. I just don't want my kids to treat him differently or be afraid. Other then my fear of the kid's reaction to my dad, I cannot wait to spend time with my parents. Their plan is stay for good. My mom is having a hard time caring for my dad on her own and needs help. They are going to rent an apartment nearby. My mom tends to flip flop when it comes to decision making so I wouldn’t be surprised if she changed her mind and moved back to Chicago. I refuse to get my hopes up!
In response to my stress levels over my parent's upcoming visit, I rewrote an old journal entry I found on my computer about the first time we found out about my dad's cancer. My method of dealing with stress is to write, it saves money on shrink bills! Here it is (it's very long!):
My first experience with cancer occurred at the age of 18. After my sisters 4.0 grade point average startlingly plunged down to a 2.0, she decided to take a year off of college and head to Kansas to live near her boyfriend. Just graduating from high school, and not ready to enter head first into years of school and books, I decided to go with her. Our plan was for a year of relaxation and freedom. We lived in a small college town. Michelle and I were just about the only people in town who didn’t attend the university. We lived in a tiny yellow apartment that housed our vintage furniture. We both got jobs together at the Nordstrom outside of Kansas City. Michelle outsold everyone in our department. All the other sales girls gossiped constantly about her. Due to her ability to always overachieve, the two of us were basically shunned by our coworkers.
My sister managed the bills and I tried my best to have enough money to party and pay for my half of the rent. I drank too much and stayed out too late. Most of the time Michelle and I lived together she hated me. I found her to be bossy and judgmental. She found me selfish and irresponsible. We avoided each other at all costs. In the beginning we laughed a ton and eat dinner together but after a couple of months we could barely stand the sight of each other. She spent a lot of time at the kitchen counter, calculator in hand, tallying how much I owed her on recent bills. When I wasn’t at work I spent all my time avoiding our apartment. Apart from work we were living very separate lives. While our sisterly bond was deteriorating, unbeknownst to us, so was our father’s health.
In April our mom called. She had a tone of urgency and panic in her voice that was frightening. “You need to come home,” she said, “get on the first flight. Your father is very sick. Don’t drive here you have to fly, we are at LaGrange hospital.”
It’s amazing how slowly time ticks away while operating in a panic mode. Everyone moves at a snails pace. I wanted the cars to speed up and for people to speak in quick short sentences. Instead, everything seemed so drawn out. I just wanted to get home.
I can remember every detail from that night. I can visualize entire hours down to the chipped fingernails of my dad’s nurse. I remember the stillness of my apartment, and stuffing dirty clothes off the floor into a backpack. I remember how quietly Chris, my boyfriend at the time, stood by watching me. I wanted him to say something, anything to break the awful silence but he didn’t. He was wearing his dirty Nike basketball shoes, the ones with the red stripe. I hated those shoes and had told a friend that if it hadn’t been for his sense of humor, I would have never spoken to him due to those god awful shoes! Before leaving he hugged me tight and kissed my forehead. We were standing on my porch. Across the street some kids were playing basketball. He promised to call me everyday. I wished he would come with me.
I remember driving to Nordstrom’s before our flight. Michelle and I stopped in to tell our boss that our dad was seriously ill and we weren’t sure when we would be back to work. I remember the escalator we took down to the parking garage. That matt, Michelle’s boyfriend’s, shoes were untied. I imagined that they would get sucked into the escalator. He kept shoving his hands into his pockets as if there was a lost penny somewhere inside. When we got in his car he played a Big Head Todd tape. Michelle sang along. I remember thinking that no one should sing in a moment like this. I expected all cheerfulness to come to a halt.
On the flight we sat next to a woman who wouldn’t stop talking. Her face was familiar, like we had always known each other, as if she had been a neighbor or one of the lunchroom monitors at my elementary school. She had short cropped brown hair and red lipstick. She wore a white sweater and her presence was oddly comforting. I wanted her to hold my hand and tell me that everything was okay. Instead she told us about her daughter’s prom dress and college plans for the fall.
It was late at night when we arrived in Chicago. Stacey, my best friend, picked us up with her dad. I had only met Stacey’s dad one other time despite being friends with her since the 6th grade. Since we lived in a predominantly white neighborhood, he thought our friends wouldn’t want to hang out with Stacey if we knew she had a black dad. He always kept to himself and shut his bedroom door when her friends were over. When we got to the hospital he drove over a curb and came to a screeching halt in front of the ER. I decided right then and there that I loved him for his sense of urgency. Michelle and I thanked them for the ride. We braced ourselves with the heavy reality of our situation.
When we got to the waiting room we were surprised to see it filled with relatives and friends of my parents. Irish people know how to gather the troops! My mom was on the phone trying to a book a flight for my brother from Spain. She told us they were unsure what was wrong with Dad but the doctor doubted he would survive the week. I was told which room to find him in. Michelle and I headed in his direction. I wasn’t prepared for what I found. He was connected to tubes and his skin was a weird color. He looked half dead. The tears came quick. Before I knew it I as sobbing. Michelle stood stoic, as still as a statue. For a moment I wasn’t sure if she was even in the room with me. I bolted. I couldn’t stand to see him like that. I collapsed outside the waiting room, not wanting everyone to see me crying. My aunt Claudia came out and sat with me. She hugged me tightly while I cried. Before long she was making fun of the nurses and my dad’s friend with the long nose hairs. The two of us were laughing madly and inappropriately outside the waiting room. Due to that moment, To this day, I love my aunt Claudia more then any other aunt.
Later that evening Michelle and I were told to go home for my mom’s phone book, we shared an elevator with my dad’s best friend. Matter of factly he stated, “That man is not going to make it through the night.” That was the one and only moment in my life that I have ever felt complete hatred toward another human being. I wanted to punch his face or spit or scream at him. To this day when I see, or think, of Tom I get angry. I’m not sure why. I think perhaps all the fear and anger I felt that night transferred to Tom. I know it’s not fair but no matter how hard I try to forgive Tom every time I see him, I picture him in the elevator saying those words. In his defense years later when my dad was laid off due to his severe memory loss Tom gave him a job when no one else would. He worked as a bartender in Tom’s pub. He was a terrible bartender but Tom didn’t care. He has always been a great and loyal friend to my dad.
It was interesting to see the way everyone else handled their grief. My mom was constantly on the phone speaking with doctors or speaking with family and friends. She turned her grief into action. My brother never cried. He was the one that would announce to strangers at the grocery store that our dad might die. I remember on the way to the hospital one morning we were stopped at a red light next to our elementary school principal. Rog rolled down the window and waved hello, and shouted, “We are all home visiting our dad. He’s dying!” Mr. Alpalter was stunned and at a loss for words. When he drove away we were all cracking up. “Did you see the look on his face!?” rog laughed. As weird as it was, Roger’s mode of grief was making other people uncomfortable for a good laugh. It was his way of trying to be okay. Michelle was strong as always. She did her best to comfort everyone else. She made sure everyone had enough food to eat and that we picked people up on time from the airport. Most of all she was the only one capable of soothing my mom. I was the most scared and outwardly emotional. I was prone to crying and hated that I behaved that way.
After about week my dad was diagnosed with a brain tumor. When they told him he cried. That was the second time in my life I have seen my father cry. The first being the day he learned his mom passed away. When they operated to remove the tumor I was in the waiting room the entire time with my mom and my sister. We were unsure if he would live through and what kind of man he would be afterward. We were told that he may be a completely different person. We were uncertain if he would be able to speak or see or even walk after the surgery. Afterwards he was the same only a little bit more sentimental and his memory was a bit off. He had staples running down his scalp and his face was swollen. He looked like someone out of a horror movie. I remember the day he was released from the hospital. He was wheeled into the elevator and there was a small boy in there with his mother. My dad loves children so he was making jokes with the child and the boy hide his face because he couldn’t bare looking at my dad. That was one of the saddest moments in my life because I saw in my dads eyes that he knew he would never be the same again.
My dad’s sickness changed everything. Oddly I felt that in some ways the changes were for the better. It was as if everyone in our family woke up. We rallied together and became stronger. Through his tumor we learned to love each other more. We talked openly and deeply. Months before we discovered his tumor we were a broken family. I barely spoke to my parents and truthfully felt a lot of animosity towards them. Roger had moved all the way to Spain to escape us and rarely spoke or wrote to the rest of our family. Michelle and I could not stand the sight of each other. All of that changed. Not only were my bonds with my family stronger but I also came to realize who I could count on. Tragedy shows the character of those around you. I was able to revaluate some unhealthy relationships. Chris, the first boy with whom I had ever loved, called me just once while I was home with my family. When I had arrived back to Kansas he had found a new girlfriend. This is the guy I had spent every day of the last 8 months with. He officially broke up with me over the phone in an awkwardly short conversation. His explanation was that he had been lonely while I was away and met someone else at a party. While it was devastating at the moment, I am thankful I did not waste any more time on someone who clearly did not care about me.
While my dad’s sickness had been extremely rough on all of us, oddly there has been a lot of happiness as result. He has inspired strength and compassion in everyone who loves him. At moments I see his cancer as a gift. While I would rather a healthy father I know that we have learned and loved more then we could have ever imagined if cancer hadn’t entered our lives.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Preparing them for the real world
Today has been unreasonably cold. I have been promising the girl's for the last two days that we will go to the beach. It has yet to happen. Today I told them we could go to the book store to play with the train table. Only the borders I went to did not have a train table. I could've sworn at one point it did. On the car ride there I kept going on and one about Thomas and Percy and all the other trains that we would play with. They were super excited. It was a big let down when the store was train table free. I am certain that they both think I am full of shit. The next time I tell them we are going to go somewhere they will be like "yeah, right!" They will remember the beach, the train table, and that at the zoo yesterday I told them they could go on the sky ride but decided against it after I saw the massive line. At least I am preparing them for the disappoint that is almost always life. They will be well equipped for it that's for sure!
Instead of the train table I read them a ton of books. They sat on the stage and pretended to be princesses while I read. They are such chicks! I am pretty sure that I was annoying most of the people in the store with my animated reading. There was a point in my life when I thought I would never be that person. Before I had kids I thought for sure that I would not lower myself to being annoying with my kid in public. That has changed. Some random kid even wobbled up to sit with us and listen to the stories. It was kind of embarrassing to do with an audience but the girls liked it! The random kid's mom probably thinks I bake a ton and speak to everyone in the world like they are kindergarten students.
On the way home from the book store, while stopped at a red light, the man in the car in front of us opened his car door and started dry heaving. He then shut his door and re opened it a few seconds later and proceeded to vomit. It was pretty much the most disgusting driving experiences of my 29 year life. I thought I might vomit myself. To make matters worse I had already picked up a bean and cheese burrito for lunch which has the look and consistency of vomit. That guy now owes my three bucks! The weird thing is that he was old. He had gray hair. At first I thought that maybe he was a drunk but I have a hard time believing that gramps was inebriated at 11am. I think I should give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he is undergoing chemotherapy treatments and always sick to his stomach. Poor guy! Still it was really, really gross!
In three more weeks the kids and I minus the husband, will head to Chicago. We are staying for most of the month of June. My dad is very ill. I haven't brought it up much because it annoys me when people make big deal about it. I know that the human population means well and are only being kind and thoughtful by asking about him but frankly I don't like it at all. I would rather keep things to myself and talk about it when I am ready to talk about it. I have issues. Talking about death and illness is always unpleasant. I always come off as a complete idiot basket case or way to calm and collected to the extent that it boarders on coldness/psychoticness. That's why I would rather avoid the subject all together until I learn how to discuss it like a rational person.
I am taking the kids to Chicago because I want them to know their grandpa. I want them to remember my dad dearly just in case. Also my mom has asked me to take care of him during the day while she is at work. He really doesn't need much taking care of but he does have a comical lack of memory and is prone to falling, otherwise he is completely the dad that I have always known and loved. I plan to squeeze so much in to my three weeks that I will be completely sick of Chicago. Every time I go home I worry that it will be the very last time and that before I will have the opportunity to get back my parents will have sold my childhood home right up from under my feet. Each time I am back I make sure to fit in all the local spots I frequented as a kid. This time will be no exception! I will take tons of pictures and bore you all to the death with the trivial details.
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