Happy Birthday Dad

Yesterday was Dad's birthday. He was surprised, last year, that he made it to 70. "I made it," he whispered hoarsely into the phone when I called. 

My dad used to like to tell this story of how when I was 9 months old he sat holding me on his knee, in his own house, watching men walk on the moon on his birthday. He'd say "I was just thinking man, the whole world has changed."

I always liked that story, and it's always been the "Dad Birthday Story" in my brain. They walked on the moon for his birthday. How nice of them, what a lovely thing to do.

However in my musings yesterday I was combing my memories for OTHER dad birthday memories and I can't remember any. I feel pretty terrible about that. I can't remember going anywhere or doing anything special for my dad. I can't remember getting him anything. It's like - Dad's birthday didn't matter. I know that isn't true but still, I'm blank.

It makes me feel pretty awful. I want to have these good, happy memories of those days and I don't. I won't ever get to make new ones so that's clearly an opportunity I let slip away from me in this life. I didn't know I didn't have it until I tried to remember.

I can tell you though, about a NOT birthday memory. Before Matt was born, one summer day, my Mom said "OH MY GOD WE MISSED YOUR FATHER'S BIRTHDAY!" in a panic.She asked me repeatedly WHEN was his birthday but as I was probably around 8, I didn't really know. So we bustled into the kitchen to whip up a cake before he got home. We were somewhere in the process of making the icing when I asked her why we just didn't call grandma to make sure the date was right.

So she called my Grandma B, and shortly got off the phone laughing. It was June 21st. She was a month off.

Dad came home and we had a cake just for fun and mom & I grinned across the table at each other.

I like to think we actually made a cake again the next month, but I actually have no idea. Surely we did.

Happy Birthday Dad.

Happy Birthday Dad

Yesterday was Dad's birthday. He was surprised, last year, that he made it to 70. "I made it," he whispered hoarsely into the phone when I called. 

My dad used to like to tell this story of how when I was 9 months old he sat holding me on his knee, in his own house, watching men walk on the moon on his birthday. He'd say "I was just thinking man, the whole world has changed."

I always liked that story, and it's always been the "Dad Birthday Story" in my brain. They walked on the moon for his birthday. How nice of them, what a lovely thing to do.

However in my musings yesterday I was combing my memories for OTHER dad birthday memories and I can't remember any. I feel pretty terrible about that. I can't remember going anywhere or doing anything special for my dad. I can't remember getting him anything. It's like - Dad's birthday didn't matter. I know that isn't true but still, I'm blank.

It makes me feel pretty awful. I want to have these good, happy memories of those days and I don't. I won't ever get to make new ones so that's clearly an opportunity I let slip away from me in this life. I didn't know I didn't have it until I tried to remember.

I can tell you though, about a NOT birthday memory. Before Matt was born, one summer day, my Mom said "OH MY GOD WE MISSED YOUR FATHER'S BIRTHDAY!" in a panic.She asked me repeatedly WHEN was his birthday but as I was probably around 8, I didn't really know. So we bustled into the kitchen to whip up a cake before he got home. We were somewhere in the process of making the icing when I asked her why we just didn't call grandma to make sure the date was right.

So she called my Grandma B, and shortly got off the phone laughing. It was June 21st. She was a month off.

Dad came home and we had a cake just for fun and mom & I grinned across the table at each other.

I like to think we actually made a cake again the next month, but I actually have no idea. Surely we did.

Happy Birthday Dad.

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.

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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It Even Comes With A Free Shovel

Being the adult is sometimes more aggravating than the literature suggested. I think we were supposed to be able to stay up as late as we want and eat whatever we want and no one can tell us we can't. Life was supposed to be carefree and full of nonstop fun right? I think there were supposed to be flying cars.
What adult life actually is, is best summed up by Steve Martin in PARENTHOOD. "My whole life is have to."
Yesterday my sweet girl had her last soccer game. She was the TEAM CAPTAIN. She was ecstatic. The girl who will volunteer to sit out whenever they will let her played three straight quarters, and even tried to play a few times (she's still more enamored of running around a field with a bunch of little girls than playing soccer).

Afterward was the requisite team party and little trophies for participating. I smiled and cheered.

Inside I was a ball of stress. You see, my dad might be dying. When he had a heart attack, it wasn't surprising. He's been over 300 pounds most of my life, and if I'm honest has horrendous eating habits. A heart attack for my dad seemed like the normal course of events quite frankly. It's not that I wouldn't grieve and be sad, it's just that - I've been mentally ready for this for 30 years at least.
But he didn't die.
He had a massive bypass surgery and he lived. He recovered. He went to rehab, but then moved into a care facility because his dementia is creeping up and he needs more help than my mom can give him. However, things were going pretty ok. I'd call him a few times a week, on my way to the airport when flying out, from a far away place and tell him all about it, from work, just wherever and my dad and I would talk. Sometime's he be confused and we'd talk about things from a long time ago. Sometimes though, he'd be himself and it was kind of wonderful.

3 days ago my brother and SIL texted me that dad was being taken to the hospital and he was unresponsive. He had sepsis. It wasn't good.

Two days ago he started telling us he was dying and telling us who he would like us to tell, including his parents who he told me he hadn't seen in 20 years. They're dead.

This was turning and turning and turning in my brain, watching my girl play, watching her eat her treats excitedly. There were treats for the twins too, who liked the fruit kabobs best.

When you're the adult, you have to smile and cheer and take pics like a good mom (or dad) while your heart is splitting apart because someone you love is suffering and you can't fix it. Worse than that, the experts aren't sure they can fix it either. My brother and SIL are manning the ship, having the conversations with doctors and nurses and talking about what we'll do after he recovers/if he recovers. I want to shake my dad and say GET BETTER MATT IS GOING TO MAKE SURE YOU ARE IN A NICER PLACE. But honestly he can't. I sit at a distance and worry, and cry intermittently when I remember something wonderful. I worry so much that I forget everything I hate about him.

You learn who cares and who doesn't when crappy things happen, and you learn how strong you are and how strong you aren't. And you keep moving, drinking coffee, putting on foot in front of the other and going on. Because this is how life works.

As we walked to the car Julia gushed over the goodie bag/bucket she got as a gift. "It even comes with a FREE SHOVEL MOM!"

Indeed. Life should.



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It Even Comes With A Free Shovel

Being the adult is sometimes more aggravating than the literature suggested. I think we were supposed to be able to stay up as late as we want and eat whatever we want and no one can tell us we can't. Life was supposed to be carefree and full of nonstop fun right? I think there were supposed to be flying cars.
What adult life actually is, is best summed up by Steve Martin in PARENTHOOD. "My whole life is have to."
Yesterday my sweet girl had her last soccer game. She was the TEAM CAPTAIN. She was ecstatic. The girl who will volunteer to sit out whenever they will let her played three straight quarters, and even tried to play a few times (she's still more enamored of running around a field with a bunch of little girls than playing soccer).

Afterward was the requisite team party and little trophies for participating. I smiled and cheered.

Inside I was a ball of stress. You see, my dad might be dying. When he had a heart attack, it wasn't surprising. He's been over 300 pounds most of my life, and if I'm honest has horrendous eating habits. A heart attack for my dad seemed like the normal course of events quite frankly. It's not that I wouldn't grieve and be sad, it's just that - I've been mentally ready for this for 30 years at least.
But he didn't die.
He had a massive bypass surgery and he lived. He recovered. He went to rehab, but then moved into a care facility because his dementia is creeping up and he needs more help than my mom can give him. However, things were going pretty ok. I'd call him a few times a week, on my way to the airport when flying out, from a far away place and tell him all about it, from work, just wherever and my dad and I would talk. Sometime's he be confused and we'd talk about things from a long time ago. Sometimes though, he'd be himself and it was kind of wonderful.

3 days ago my brother and SIL texted me that dad was being taken to the hospital and he was unresponsive. He had sepsis. It wasn't good.

Two days ago he started telling us he was dying and telling us who he would like us to tell, including his parents who he told me he hadn't seen in 20 years. They're dead.

This was turning and turning and turning in my brain, watching my girl play, watching her eat her treats excitedly. There were treats for the twins too, who liked the fruit kabobs best.

When you're the adult, you have to smile and cheer and take pics like a good mom (or dad) while your heart is splitting apart because someone you love is suffering and you can't fix it. Worse than that, the experts aren't sure they can fix it either. My brother and SIL are manning the ship, having the conversations with doctors and nurses and talking about what we'll do after he recovers/if he recovers. I want to shake my dad and say GET BETTER MATT IS GOING TO MAKE SURE YOU ARE IN A NICER PLACE. But honestly he can't. I sit at a distance and worry, and cry intermittently when I remember something wonderful. I worry so much that I forget everything I hate about him.

You learn who cares and who doesn't when crappy things happen, and you learn how strong you are and how strong you aren't. And you keep moving, drinking coffee, putting on foot in front of the other and going on. Because this is how life works.

As we walked to the car Julia gushed over the goodie bag/bucket she got as a gift. "It even comes with a FREE SHOVEL MOM!"

Indeed. Life should.



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