DNR&R

There is a lot to be said for the distraction of the arts. I am beginning to appreciate why tortured souls gravitate toward the creative. It's an outlet, a distraction, it's something besides the terrible shit you are feeling inside yourself. 

This, for instance, is Coke poured on paper, as captured by Andy Warhol.

Andy was weird.

We took Yoda with us, on loan from my friend Allison, and had many fine adventures at the High with him. For a while, I forgot the adult things weighing on me, the loss of my mom, the pending loss of my dad, the grief that is swirling around. 

There has been a lot of types of Coke bottles. WHO KNEW? 

We went into a little hidden alcove and found lots of fancy porcelain objects, of various ilk.  According to the placard this next one is a sweetmeats dish. What the hell is a sweet meat.

According to Google it's candy or confections. Ok fine. CANDY DISH. Got it.

The truth is, as much as I want to lay in bed and stop existing for a while every night that's not a luxury I have. Yoda would tell me there is no TRY as we all know, so while I like to lay in bed and cry and say I'm trying to get over it all really I just have to keep getting up and living.

Do, or do not. There is no try.

My brother did the hard thing but the right thing of doing the paperwork for dad's DNR and some hospice paperwork and we chatted about it like it was normal. It IS normal, it is NOT normal. We're imminently adult orphans. Not yet, but probably soon.

So I watched my food all day, and I didn't have the fucking apple pie in the machine, and I worked out when I got home, and I'm thinking of trying planking because Christa says she thinks I can do it and it's good for my core where I have zero strength. 

And as for me, I am thinking about my brother facing the grim reality that is my dying father face to face. I am thinking about my mom is who is gone and lost to me forever. I am thinking of the family vacations we took before Matt was born, when my dad was still spending time with us. I am thinking of the lost days and years that my dad's mental illness kept me away from the people I love. 

Mostly though, I am thinking about how everything ends, and I feel so sorry that some day my children will have to go through this - no matter how natural this is. I regret so much that I'm going to die and make them this sad.

Do no resuscitate. Let him go. 

Mom was right, he went to hell. He's there now, desperately trying to follow her.

DNR&R

There is a lot to be said for the distraction of the arts. I am beginning to appreciate why tortured souls gravitate toward the creative. It's an outlet, a distraction, it's something besides the terrible shit you are feeling inside yourself. 

This, for instance, is Coke poured on paper, as captured by Andy Warhol.

Andy was weird.

We took Yoda with us, on loan from my friend Allison, and had many fine adventures at the High with him. For a while, I forgot the adult things weighing on me, the loss of my mom, the pending loss of my dad, the grief that is swirling around. 

There has been a lot of types of Coke bottles. WHO KNEW? 

We went into a little hidden alcove and found lots of fancy porcelain objects, of various ilk.  According to the placard this next one is a sweetmeats dish. What the hell is a sweet meat.

According to Google it's candy or confections. Ok fine. CANDY DISH. Got it.

The truth is, as much as I want to lay in bed and stop existing for a while every night that's not a luxury I have. Yoda would tell me there is no TRY as we all know, so while I like to lay in bed and cry and say I'm trying to get over it all really I just have to keep getting up and living.

Do, or do not. There is no try.

My brother did the hard thing but the right thing of doing the paperwork for dad's DNR and some hospice paperwork and we chatted about it like it was normal. It IS normal, it is NOT normal. We're imminently adult orphans. Not yet, but probably soon.

So I watched my food all day, and I didn't have the fucking apple pie in the machine, and I worked out when I got home, and I'm thinking of trying planking because Christa says she thinks I can do it and it's good for my core where I have zero strength. 

And as for me, I am thinking about my brother facing the grim reality that is my dying father face to face. I am thinking about my mom is who is gone and lost to me forever. I am thinking of the family vacations we took before Matt was born, when my dad was still spending time with us. I am thinking of the lost days and years that my dad's mental illness kept me away from the people I love. 

Mostly though, I am thinking about how everything ends, and I feel so sorry that some day my children will have to go through this - no matter how natural this is. I regret so much that I'm going to die and make them this sad.

Do no resuscitate. Let him go. 

Mom was right, he went to hell. He's there now, desperately trying to follow her.

An Elephant Never Forgets

What I write about often ends up being very different from what I planned. My family went to the circus this past weekend. I love the circus. I love how terrible and campy it is. I love the animals. I love the elephants even though I'm glad Ringling is going to STOP using them. I love all of it.

My children do too. We have our traditions, which treats we get, toys AFTER the circus, family photo with all of us.

I want to make memories with my children, so that one day when I'm gone they'll remember these days and these moments. 

That's what my mind is on, memories.

My Dad has had an issue with his memory for some time. He's gotten things wrong, he's been just more than a bit off now and again. Since his heart attack he was more so, and my brother and I have been so very worried.

They assured us at the hospital that very normal people can be a bit wacky after heart attacks. He forgot how many daughters he had. He thought I was a twin, he thought my twin and I were lawyers. He got confused on time and date and the details of his life. After his bypass we learned that dementia post ICU was also a thing. Very common, don't worry, it's very stressful.

I think we both knew though, it wasn't the heart attack, it wasn't the ICU. There's been a thing looming with my dad. We knew what it was, but today I heard him say it on the phone.

"I told my therapist," he said to me. "That I've got dementia so I'm sorry if I say something out of line."

That is now tied with "Our baby died" as the most heartbreaking thing I've ever heard my dad say. My dad is still here. And today he knew he has dementia. His mind is unraveling. I wonder what that feels like, inside his head. I find it terrifying to consider, and it's happening to my dad. He won't remember his life correctly. I don't know what he'll lose, what he'll keep. I don't know how this works. How DOES this work? I guess we'll get a diagnosis with a neurologist, and we'll learn more.

My dad wasn't always a good guy. In fact a lot of the time he could be a real son of a bitch. But he was always the guy who took me to see Cinderella when I was three, and all of the Grizzly Adams movies. He took me to ride my big wheel at the college, he took me to feed the horses at the fair grounds. We'd ride around in his Satellite and sing American Pie loudly with the windows down, while he drank beer. I'd hold them for him sometimes. For some reason that memory doesn't even horrify me.My dad was the guy who lost me in the Gulf of Mexico under a wave and I never saw such terror on his face as when he pulled me from the water gasping for air. My dad was who I wanted to come home when I was sick, even though it was always my mom who took care of me.

I'm making memories with my own family that I hope that some day they'll look back on, even despite my own failures, and realize how much I love them. I take them to the circus, and sometimes a 12 year old gets an elephant he coveted since he was a very, VERY little boy. Even though it's stupidly expensive.

I can't buy love but I can add a little cement on the memories maybe. I remember so many of their days, I can't imagine that in my life it could happen that some day I'll start to lose the details. This is unthinkable. I can't lose the thread and let all this magic slip away.

I've always believed that your children are your immortality.

I feel like my brother and I are being called to now be our dad's. It should be hard to forgive such a large catalog of asshattery but I'm finding it's not. I just remember, as my brother well knows, that R is for Race, and D is for Drag, and I feel sad that maybe my dad doesn't remember our joke and I forgive him everything.

An Elephant Never Forgets

What I write about often ends up being very different from what I planned. My family went to the circus this past weekend. I love the circus. I love how terrible and campy it is. I love the animals. I love the elephants even though I'm glad Ringling is going to STOP using them. I love all of it.

My children do too. We have our traditions, which treats we get, toys AFTER the circus, family photo with all of us.

I want to make memories with my children, so that one day when I'm gone they'll remember these days and these moments. 

That's what my mind is on, memories.

My Dad has had an issue with his memory for some time. He's gotten things wrong, he's been just more than a bit off now and again. Since his heart attack he was more so, and my brother and I have been so very worried.

They assured us at the hospital that very normal people can be a bit wacky after heart attacks. He forgot how many daughters he had. He thought I was a twin, he thought my twin and I were lawyers. He got confused on time and date and the details of his life. After his bypass we learned that dementia post ICU was also a thing. Very common, don't worry, it's very stressful.

I think we both knew though, it wasn't the heart attack, it wasn't the ICU. There's been a thing looming with my dad. We knew what it was, but today I heard him say it on the phone.

"I told my therapist," he said to me. "That I've got dementia so I'm sorry if I say something out of line."

That is now tied with "Our baby died" as the most heartbreaking thing I've ever heard my dad say. My dad is still here. And today he knew he has dementia. His mind is unraveling. I wonder what that feels like, inside his head. I find it terrifying to consider, and it's happening to my dad. He won't remember his life correctly. I don't know what he'll lose, what he'll keep. I don't know how this works. How DOES this work? I guess we'll get a diagnosis with a neurologist, and we'll learn more.

My dad wasn't always a good guy. In fact a lot of the time he could be a real son of a bitch. But he was always the guy who took me to see Cinderella when I was three, and all of the Grizzly Adams movies. He took me to ride my big wheel at the college, he took me to feed the horses at the fair grounds. We'd ride around in his Satellite and sing American Pie loudly with the windows down, while he drank beer. I'd hold them for him sometimes. For some reason that memory doesn't even horrify me.My dad was the guy who lost me in the Gulf of Mexico under a wave and I never saw such terror on his face as when he pulled me from the water gasping for air. My dad was who I wanted to come home when I was sick, even though it was always my mom who took care of me.

I'm making memories with my own family that I hope that some day they'll look back on, even despite my own failures, and realize how much I love them. I take them to the circus, and sometimes a 12 year old gets an elephant he coveted since he was a very, VERY little boy. Even though it's stupidly expensive.

I can't buy love but I can add a little cement on the memories maybe. I remember so many of their days, I can't imagine that in my life it could happen that some day I'll start to lose the details. This is unthinkable. I can't lose the thread and let all this magic slip away.

I've always believed that your children are your immortality.

I feel like my brother and I are being called to now be our dad's. It should be hard to forgive such a large catalog of asshattery but I'm finding it's not. I just remember, as my brother well knows, that R is for Race, and D is for Drag, and I feel sad that maybe my dad doesn't remember our joke and I forgive him everything.