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.

Beneath An Angry Star

Visiting my dad this past weekend was surreal. I knew what to expect. He's in the part of the nursing home where the people are most invalid. It stinks. It reeks of poop and pee, and other non-descript yuck no matter how much air freshener they try to spray. There is moaning and indistinct sounds of pain and suffering.

What can be hard to quite fathom is that those things are coming from your dad.

Matt said it would be the worst part of my trip home. I'm not sure if visiting dad was the worst, it was the hardest in ways I didn't expect. I wasn't prepared for the bewildered but somehow also expressionless look on his face that either stroke or dementia had created. Being there in person was in many ways exactly like being on the phone. We talked about the kids. I said lots of cheery, positive things.

Then his mind took a turn. He told us he couldn't wait to show us Aunt Ruth's farm. We both said yes we'd like that.

Aunt Ruth's farm, the mecca of my childhood tales, was the best place in the world. They had an orchard and cows and chickens. There was a fruit cellar. Bread was baked. Everyone worked hard. They rose with the sun and went to bed with the sun. On Sunday Night they listened to old timey gospel on the radio. There were small metal heaters that were put into the bedrooms when it was cold. It was a place of Rockwellian perfection, with a wrought iron fence out in front of it. Peace and plenty were in great supply there, and Dad wants to take us there.

He doesn't recall that I've been there. The white clapboard house that needed painted, the three trees that don't quite constitute an orchard I don't think, the scraggly front yard, all of these things were a great surprise to me as a child. The fence was leaning and in disrepair.

There is a great secret about Aunt Ruth's farm, however. A reason it is so magical to him that I didn't divine until I was an adult, having listened to tales from Aunt Ruth's farm for my entire life.

My father was a child born to a teenager and a young man shipping out to war. Unwanted doesn't cover it. My grandmother actually left the hospital WITHOUT HIM when he was born. My great aunt had to go back and get the baby. The way the stories go, my great aunt actually took care of him as a small baby.

My grandparents would dump him off starting when he was a toddler at Aunt Ruth's farm, for months at a time. When he entered school he'd spend whole summers there. It was a place where no one drank nor smoked. He was cared for, fed well and most importantly - he was loved. He was safe and they loved having him there. My spinster great-great aunt Ruth, who was never allowed to marry, and her brothers lived together. One worked in town and the rest of them kept their little farm going. It was the best place he ever was growing up. In many ways it's a tragedy they didn't just leave him there. He probably would have had a much better life all around.

It's no surprise then, as his mind makes it slow and painful exit, that it wanders back to his happiest place. A place where there is no pain, and he's free and loved.

When I left him for the last time, after reminding him repeatedly that no, I had already seen Aunt Suzie I wasn't going to miss her that evening all was well, I took his hand and promised I would be back soon. I took his hand, that was motionless due to stroke and squeezed it, and told him I loved him. He answered, "I love you more."

Now that I'm a parent, I know what he means. He looked me right in the eye when he said it, he was himself at that moment. He meant what Cersei said to Tommen, "I would burn cities to the ground for you." We never really know what I means to love someone so fiercely until we have our own children. My dad hasn't been big with the I Love You's ever.

If that's the last one I ever get, it will also stand as the best one I ever get.
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Beneath An Angry Star

Visiting my dad this past weekend was surreal. I knew what to expect. He's in the part of the nursing home where the people are most invalid. It stinks. It reeks of poop and pee, and other non-descript yuck no matter how much air freshener they try to spray. There is moaning and indistinct sounds of pain and suffering.

What can be hard to quite fathom is that those things are coming from your dad.

Matt said it would be the worst part of my trip home. I'm not sure if visiting dad was the worst, it was the hardest in ways I didn't expect. I wasn't prepared for the bewildered but somehow also expressionless look on his face that either stroke or dementia had created. Being there in person was in many ways exactly like being on the phone. We talked about the kids. I said lots of cheery, positive things.

Then his mind took a turn. He told us he couldn't wait to show us Aunt Ruth's farm. We both said yes we'd like that.

Aunt Ruth's farm, the mecca of my childhood tales, was the best place in the world. They had an orchard and cows and chickens. There was a fruit cellar. Bread was baked. Everyone worked hard. They rose with the sun and went to bed with the sun. On Sunday Night they listened to old timey gospel on the radio. There were small metal heaters that were put into the bedrooms when it was cold. It was a place of Rockwellian perfection, with a wrought iron fence out in front of it. Peace and plenty were in great supply there, and Dad wants to take us there.

He doesn't recall that I've been there. The white clapboard house that needed painted, the three trees that don't quite constitute an orchard I don't think, the scraggly front yard, all of these things were a great surprise to me as a child. The fence was leaning and in disrepair.

There is a great secret about Aunt Ruth's farm, however. A reason it is so magical to him that I didn't divine until I was an adult, having listened to tales from Aunt Ruth's farm for my entire life.

My father was a child born to a teenager and a young man shipping out to war. Unwanted doesn't cover it. My grandmother actually left the hospital WITHOUT HIM when he was born. My great aunt had to go back and get the baby. The way the stories go, my great aunt actually took care of him as a small baby.

My grandparents would dump him off starting when he was a toddler at Aunt Ruth's farm, for months at a time. When he entered school he'd spend whole summers there. It was a place where no one drank nor smoked. He was cared for, fed well and most importantly - he was loved. He was safe and they loved having him there. My spinster great-great aunt Ruth, who was never allowed to marry, and her brothers lived together. One worked in town and the rest of them kept their little farm going. It was the best place he ever was growing up. In many ways it's a tragedy they didn't just leave him there. He probably would have had a much better life all around.

It's no surprise then, as his mind makes it slow and painful exit, that it wanders back to his happiest place. A place where there is no pain, and he's free and loved.

When I left him for the last time, after reminding him repeatedly that no, I had already seen Aunt Suzie I wasn't going to miss her that evening all was well, I took his hand and promised I would be back soon. I took his hand, that was motionless due to stroke and squeezed it, and told him I loved him. He answered, "I love you more."

Now that I'm a parent, I know what he means. He looked me right in the eye when he said it, he was himself at that moment. He meant what Cersei said to Tommen, "I would burn cities to the ground for you." We never really know what I means to love someone so fiercely until we have our own children. My dad hasn't been big with the I Love You's ever.

If that's the last one I ever get, it will also stand as the best one I ever get.
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Caught Between The Scylla and Charybdis

Lately it feels like it's a nonstop conversation about which of our parents is in the hospital, between my brother and I. Now it's Mom, again to have fluid drained out of her, again to have batteries of tests. She was weak and unwell again, so back in to the IU Med center she went. Liver failure is one hell of a thing.

My mom is trying to get on the transplant list, and I'm cautiously hopeful it can happen. When they've had her in the hospital and gotten her drained, she sounds like herself, like my mom. When she sounds like my mom, relief washes over me. Things are better. I continue to hope.

My dad though, my dad is a different story. If liver failure is one hell of a thing, dementia is it's drunk, bastard uncle. He can be belligerent. He can be childlike. He's sad a lot. He almost seems to be in a fog, I wish I knew what was in that fog with him. I'm hoping it's not despair and loneliness. I talk to him nearly daily, probably every three days is the longest stretch I ever go unless he's in the hospital. Add to it a host of medical problems of varied, nebulous nature. It's not a good combination.

Our conversations are often very short, but usually I can engage him in at least one or two real things. He likes to hear about my kids, and I tell him the simplest version of whatever we are talking about as he struggles with his attention span. He asks me about my pool. He is enamored of the fact that my brother and I both have a pool, this was always a dream of his. He asks me if I am traveling, he likes to hear about where I am. I tell him if we are doing anything special. I tell him happy things.

Today I talked to him about Mom being in the hospital, and I assured him I had JUST talked to her and she sounds great. I tell him they drained a liter off her lung and she feels much better. He agrees that this is good, but his voice is weak, distant. I ask him how he is today, and he says "I'm pretty far down." I ask if anything is going on that's wrong and he says no. I tell him I have a flight to come home next Friday and I will be coming to see him, and he says "Ok we'll see if I have time."

Ominous portent or dementia? Or both?

I'm glad I made up with my dad. Over five years ago we had a terrible confrontation. I realize now that even then, dementia was taking hold of him, as he was irrational. He had told me I was dead to him, my children weren't his grandchildren and other sundry, horrible things that no parent should ever say to their child. It was so crazy that I was terrified for my mother at that time. That was his response to being asked not to say racist stuff. That was actually the second time we'd had that SAME confrontation with him, and each time after being asked not to say racist stuff he would explode in this absolutely insane rage, exploding with hatefulness at me and kicking me out of my own family.

I forgive him because as I look back, and see how irrational it all was, I see it as steps on the path to where we are now. I forgive him because when I was little he took me to ride my Big Wheel at the college where they had huge long sidewalks. I forgive him because when I was 5 and inside the Jaycee's Haunted house, I became afraid and went and hid - and they had to shut it down and send my dad inside to fetch me - and he did & wasn't mad. I forgive him because he would go on Brownie day trips with us, and sing "Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley" loudly in the back of the bus. I forgive him because he was the President of the PTA, and made sure we got new playground equipment. I forgive him because he punched a guy in the face who called my grandpa a crook the week after he died. I forgive him because he's the one who told me our baby died, and he's the one who told me my grandpa died, and he's the one who told me Grandma Daisy died. I forgive him because my entire life he felt bad that he didn't let me go see Shawn Cassidy when I was six like I really really really wanted to.

I forgive him because he's my dad. I forgive him because children of alcoholics accept the unacceptable,but also mostly just because he's my dad.

So I'm gonna fly home next Friday. I hope he's got time on his calendar to see me.


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Caught Between The Scylla and Charybdis

Lately it feels like it's a nonstop conversation about which of our parents is in the hospital, between my brother and I. Now it's Mom, again to have fluid drained out of her, again to have batteries of tests. She was weak and unwell again, so back in to the IU Med center she went. Liver failure is one hell of a thing.

My mom is trying to get on the transplant list, and I'm cautiously hopeful it can happen. When they've had her in the hospital and gotten her drained, she sounds like herself, like my mom. When she sounds like my mom, relief washes over me. Things are better. I continue to hope.

My dad though, my dad is a different story. If liver failure is one hell of a thing, dementia is it's drunk, bastard uncle. He can be belligerent. He can be childlike. He's sad a lot. He almost seems to be in a fog, I wish I knew what was in that fog with him. I'm hoping it's not despair and loneliness. I talk to him nearly daily, probably every three days is the longest stretch I ever go unless he's in the hospital. Add to it a host of medical problems of varied, nebulous nature. It's not a good combination.

Our conversations are often very short, but usually I can engage him in at least one or two real things. He likes to hear about my kids, and I tell him the simplest version of whatever we are talking about as he struggles with his attention span. He asks me about my pool. He is enamored of the fact that my brother and I both have a pool, this was always a dream of his. He asks me if I am traveling, he likes to hear about where I am. I tell him if we are doing anything special. I tell him happy things.

Today I talked to him about Mom being in the hospital, and I assured him I had JUST talked to her and she sounds great. I tell him they drained a liter off her lung and she feels much better. He agrees that this is good, but his voice is weak, distant. I ask him how he is today, and he says "I'm pretty far down." I ask if anything is going on that's wrong and he says no. I tell him I have a flight to come home next Friday and I will be coming to see him, and he says "Ok we'll see if I have time."

Ominous portent or dementia? Or both?

I'm glad I made up with my dad. Over five years ago we had a terrible confrontation. I realize now that even then, dementia was taking hold of him, as he was irrational. He had told me I was dead to him, my children weren't his grandchildren and other sundry, horrible things that no parent should ever say to their child. It was so crazy that I was terrified for my mother at that time. That was his response to being asked not to say racist stuff. That was actually the second time we'd had that SAME confrontation with him, and each time after being asked not to say racist stuff he would explode in this absolutely insane rage, exploding with hatefulness at me and kicking me out of my own family.

I forgive him because as I look back, and see how irrational it all was, I see it as steps on the path to where we are now. I forgive him because when I was little he took me to ride my Big Wheel at the college where they had huge long sidewalks. I forgive him because when I was 5 and inside the Jaycee's Haunted house, I became afraid and went and hid - and they had to shut it down and send my dad inside to fetch me - and he did & wasn't mad. I forgive him because he would go on Brownie day trips with us, and sing "Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley" loudly in the back of the bus. I forgive him because he was the President of the PTA, and made sure we got new playground equipment. I forgive him because he punched a guy in the face who called my grandpa a crook the week after he died. I forgive him because he's the one who told me our baby died, and he's the one who told me my grandpa died, and he's the one who told me Grandma Daisy died. I forgive him because my entire life he felt bad that he didn't let me go see Shawn Cassidy when I was six like I really really really wanted to.

I forgive him because he's my dad. I forgive him because children of alcoholics accept the unacceptable,but also mostly just because he's my dad.

So I'm gonna fly home next Friday. I hope he's got time on his calendar to see me.


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We Had to Do ALL The Things

But FIRST we had to do the important things. Important being hugs with Grandma and Grandpa - or Papa as Julia has decided to call him. We'd never been to their new place and it was an adventure of things to do, as Grandma's houses always are.

Grandma had COLORING BOOKS! Who KNEW other people could have things like COLORING BOOKS?? And she had lots of them.
We had dinner at one of our favorite chains from back when we lived there, and I swear I don't recall the food at all. Was it because it was just average or I was just so excited to see my parents? I don't know. It was Max and Erma's and we got burgers but eh, it's just a burger.

The twins thought Grandpa was awesome. We had to wait a while, which went really well, oddly. the waitress brought us sidewalk chalk to entertain little people.

We aren't good with waits usually, as Miles and Charlie won't tolerate them well but this time it all went well.
Of course the best part of any trip to Max and Erma's is the Sundae Bar. Right?

I wish my kids could've seen the OLD SUNDAE BAR because it was AWESOME. Max and Erma's has cheaped up the Sundae bar for sure, but hey, the kids didn't know the difference. It was still fun.

Julia thought it was awesome, obviously.

We decided that it wouldn't be right to come to Indy without heading for the Children's Museum, so we made that our plan for the next day.

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We Had to Do ALL The Things

But FIRST we had to do the important things. Important being hugs with Grandma and Grandpa - or Papa as Julia has decided to call him. We'd never been to their new place and it was an adventure of things to do, as Grandma's houses always are.

Grandma had COLORING BOOKS! Who KNEW other people could have things like COLORING BOOKS?? And she had lots of them.
We had dinner at one of our favorite chains from back when we lived there, and I swear I don't recall the food at all. Was it because it was just average or I was just so excited to see my parents? I don't know. It was Max and Erma's and we got burgers but eh, it's just a burger.

The twins thought Grandpa was awesome. We had to wait a while, which went really well, oddly. the waitress brought us sidewalk chalk to entertain little people.

We aren't good with waits usually, as Miles and Charlie won't tolerate them well but this time it all went well.
Of course the best part of any trip to Max and Erma's is the Sundae Bar. Right?

I wish my kids could've seen the OLD SUNDAE BAR because it was AWESOME. Max and Erma's has cheaped up the Sundae bar for sure, but hey, the kids didn't know the difference. It was still fun.

Julia thought it was awesome, obviously.

We decided that it wouldn't be right to come to Indy without heading for the Children's Museum, so we made that our plan for the next day.

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My Umbuh-rella

First off I hate that song.

This post is not about that song.

This post is about an umbrella. One I lost this week.

In 1996 my dad and I went to the Indy 500 together. We went with a couple of my friends and despite the fact that it rained, it was one of my favorite races I ever attended. My dad and I were just hanging out, having fun Indy 500 style and I remember it clearly, during one break of the race bcse of the rain - we were just sitting in the stands - getting wet - and he went to go to the refreshment stand.

He came back with two black and white Indy 500 log umbrellas. We sat under them and laughed about how much they cost - I think they were like $20 a piece in 1996! And we talked while we waited for the race to get going again. Sitting under those umbrellas with my Dad was one of those rare moments you get with your parent once you grow up. Talking to him like he's just a person and he's talking to you like you're a person and it's just good.

It was a great, if rainy day. I have no idea who won the race.

Since then I've carried that umbrella faithfully.

On Thursday, I set it down in the break room while pouring my morning coffee and walked into my office without it. By the time I realized I didn't have it (much later in the day) it was gone.

I was inconsolable.

I cried all the way home from work.

Over an umbrella.

The next day I put up SIGNS at work, begging for the return of my umbrella, pledging not to be angry that someone picked it up on a rainy day (secretly vowing to note that the person was a THIEF once I had identified them) and desperately hoping against hope that it would come back.

By 4pm I had given up all hope - and had decided that losing the umbrella wasn't the end of the world, it was just a material thing and the memory was what really mattered.

While pouring myself my end of day cup of Joe in the break room, our cleaning lady wandered in and said."Oh hey, I've been looking for you all day. I found your umbrella the other day and put it in the janitors closet so that no one would take it."

Thank you cosmos. Thank you very, very much.

My Umbuh-rella

First off I hate that song.

This post is not about that song.

This post is about an umbrella. One I lost this week.

In 1996 my dad and I went to the Indy 500 together. We went with a couple of my friends and despite the fact that it rained, it was one of my favorite races I ever attended. My dad and I were just hanging out, having fun Indy 500 style and I remember it clearly, during one break of the race bcse of the rain - we were just sitting in the stands - getting wet - and he went to go to the refreshment stand.

He came back with two black and white Indy 500 log umbrellas. We sat under them and laughed about how much they cost - I think they were like $20 a piece in 1996! And we talked while we waited for the race to get going again. Sitting under those umbrellas with my Dad was one of those rare moments you get with your parent once you grow up. Talking to him like he's just a person and he's talking to you like you're a person and it's just good.

It was a great, if rainy day. I have no idea who won the race.

Since then I've carried that umbrella faithfully.

On Thursday, I set it down in the break room while pouring my morning coffee and walked into my office without it. By the time I realized I didn't have it (much later in the day) it was gone.

I was inconsolable.

I cried all the way home from work.

Over an umbrella.

The next day I put up SIGNS at work, begging for the return of my umbrella, pledging not to be angry that someone picked it up on a rainy day (secretly vowing to note that the person was a THIEF once I had identified them) and desperately hoping against hope that it would come back.

By 4pm I had given up all hope - and had decided that losing the umbrella wasn't the end of the world, it was just a material thing and the memory was what really mattered.

While pouring myself my end of day cup of Joe in the break room, our cleaning lady wandered in and said."Oh hey, I've been looking for you all day. I found your umbrella the other day and put it in the janitors closet so that no one would take it."

Thank you cosmos. Thank you very, very much.