For some reason I was really thirsty tonight. I blamed it on the hamburgers we made for dinner.
I kept thinking another glass of water would fix it.
Still thirsty.
It wasn't until tonight, a little after midnight I realized why I'd needed it.
I needed it to feed the tears, sweat, and spit of another terrible cry.
Mike and I were talking about having kids.
Logistical stuff, planning.
We talked about how some things you just have to pick a date and go from there, like our wedding.
"Remember how I kept wanting to change the wedding date to November? It's a good thing we didn't because at least my dad was there..."
Then I lost it.
flood deluge wave drown
To describe the overwhelming sick sad hateful fucking feelings that ensued.
I needed that water tonight.
Thirsty
The New Other in My Life
There is a time to say goodbye to old things. I said goodbye to my old boyfriends a long time ago. I don’t keep in contact with any of them, except for one I dated in high school, who stayed good friends with my family.
Otherwise, the sordid love affairs of my past are going to stay that way, in the past. They were that way long before I settled into married life. I only reference them briefly because I’m deepening my exploration of the whole Lost Dad thing and trying to break apart little pieces for observation.
And upon observation let’s just say this: I compare every man to my dad. My father had to be my measuring stick, because he was the first other man I got to know and the base line I used to pick all my other ones.
In the book I'm reading, it talks about this issue with other women who survive their dads. It talks about how they finally stop comparing their mates to their fathers after they pass away. This thought both enlivened me and crushed me deeply.
It’s just that in his absence, things become more clear. Goddamn it – I hate that it should be this way, and yet I'm still grateful for the gift he has given me in his parting. In a way – he is giving me a relationship with my husband I may not have been able to grow into for a long time from now – he is giving me a fresh start to my marriage. It’s all bittersweet, trust me.
I have realized that in the past I was either looking for a man like my father, who were not necessarily good choices, or a man nothing like him (equally not so good). It wasn’t until I met Mike that I bothered to question what kind of man was good for me. It turns out he has some of the qualities my dad had and some that he didn’t. I’m actually sort of jealous of Mike. Or jealous of myself with Mike. For having the kind of husband my father wasn’t. Is that convoluted or what? Don’t get me wrong. I love love love my mom and dad. Their DNA and choices helped make me who I am today and I’m not complaining.
What I’m getting at is…I know Mike will be the kind of husband who will get out of bed to fill up my humidifier, feed and walk the dog in the bitter cold. I know Mike won’t be the kind of dad who will still snuggle with his kids when they are past their teens, like my father did. We’ve talked about this, so this is not slander. I know I will never have to wonder if he is coming home some nights or having problems with alcohol. I know he will not be the kind of dad who will let his first grader stay up late on a school night dancing with a bunch of Yugoslavs, or give carte blanche permission for just about anything.
I need to talk about Mike. Not just because he keeps nagging me for more cameos in my blog – since he seems to be my main audience so far, it seems reasonable for him to make such requests. No, it is not that. It is because he is the new “other” in my life. In our marriage ceremony we committed to lifelong unity. That's no small thing. But, that doesn't mean I know exactly how to make him family yet.
I keep looking at him as I type, smiling. He keeps looking back saying, “What’s up?”
I snap at him for interrupting me.
Ah, wedded bliss.
I love him.
Day Is Done
Okay - coming home from work is when I seriously feel like an off-version of Mr. Rodgers. Mrs. Slightly Irregular. I feel like I cannot wait wait wait to get out of my Corporate Regalia.
Okay, secretly I LOVE blazers, swayzers (the sweater-blazer hybrid), control top pantyhose, and 3/4 inch heels because they are the kind of apparel that help balance my body shape (Thank You "What Not To Wear") but they are not comfortable.
I slip on my gigantor sweat pants, and moth-hole-ridden alpaca sweater. I sneer towards the bedroom window, as just beyond it are the pulsating, incessant and ridiculousy banal "beats" coming from my neighbor's house. I really hope he is learning to be a DJ, because the rhythmic repetition of his musical tastes are going to give me a seizure in my sleep sometime. They are all in 4/4 time. Has no one heard of compound meter??
But I sit back and smile a bit. Dog. Husband. Life. Love. Blog.
I am so happy to be home.
Life Will Be Great
Sometimes I get stressed out and then I think,
"Life will be great."
This is a confidence I only recently developed. As I'm shedding old beliefs and easing up on myself. I begin to mean it.
"Life will be great."
I used to clean houses. I used to scrub floors. I used to work work work work work. Work = survival for me and has been ingrained in me as a safety mechanism.
"If you work hard enough you won’t turn out like your parents."
This message was burned into my brain at 13 or 14, and as soon as I was 15 years old I found the first legit job I could, one that took taxes out and everything. I loved it. I loved the control it afforded me over my life, the autonomy, I loved having a PAYCHECK. I loved having a bank account. I loved the idea of compound interest. I loved the idea that one day. One glorious fucking day, I’d no longer struggle – and neither would my parents. I’ve been doggedly working toward that goal since I was young. Since the day Tommy Kazmerski informed me the police raided my house as we disembarked the school bus together. Hardly together. And hardly the police, more like the FBI.
Yeah, Tommy. He stuck his hand down my shirt without asking. He forced. I laughed at him and called him a liar. He taunted, “Go ask your mom then!” I did. She confirmed what the shitty little mini-molester said. I had never heard of such a thing. I couldn’t even imagine why they’d want our stuff! Was it just a terrible government regime? Like in Russia? Did they seize without warning?
I mean, that’s cool. “Mom, are they going to take my stuffed animal collection?”
I’d recently become a big girl and put all my stuffed animals in one location in the basement, for safekeeping. Realizing I might be looked upon as selfish for wanting to maintain the sanctity of my personal goods, I offered, “They can have them if they need them.” Does the FBI really need my Teddy Bears??? Not when they have the convenience of pointing a gun at my mom's head. Nice. And how about paying for my family's groceries. I’ll admit this only happened once. And my mom probably paid me back, but imagine. I’m young, 14, 15, maybe. I’m paying for the family groceries. The lump in my heart and throat formed back then, and quite frankly, never left. I’ve been fighting that damn lump for years. And only now that my father is dead and I’m challenging some of the stupidity I’ve grown up with and created within myself do I see it. I see how my delusions and fears that created this very real monster are looking so faint and stupid now.
“My life is a sham.” I feel like saying.
It’s not – that would be a gross exaggeration, and a bit silly. But what is not silly is the way I mentally enslaved myself for no real purpose. I lived in an upper middle class community, attended a Big Ten university, graduating with class honors every year. I currently work in one of the top financial service firms in the country, and I excel at my job, no matter how irrelevant it is to my dreams. I also somehow manage to get a 4.0 in my graduate degree, and while it is not the top business school, it's highly regarded. I managed to pull off a beautiful wedding to a man I love and didn't go broke in the process.
I have managed to gracefully handle my father’s death. I don’t feel like being graceful, and at times I’m anything but.
But, I get out of bed each day, walk upright, and I am doing my damn best.
The First "Other" In My Life
I've just started reading "Fatherless Women" by Clea Simon. It was sent to me by a good friend. I've only just made it past the first 20 or so pages, but I'm finding it poignant and helpful, if not frightening. Being so close to the brink of my father's death, Clea's book comes 8 years following her own father's death. I'm wondering if I'm too "young" in the process to be reading it, to be able to fully absorb it. We shall see.
There was a perfect description in the book that has been ringing with me all weekend. The concept that the father is the first "other" in a young girl's life. It never occurred to me that way before, but truly, my dad was the first other person in my life. Clearly I was well-connected to my mother. Even though a pun is not intended, the literalness of the umbilical cord connection is hard to ignore.
My mom was clearly first. And my father was the first other person I met, the first other person who also loved me unconditionally, the first other person who was there for every major event. I'm sure I saw that big old moustache every day of my babyhood. I heard his voice, his music. I smelled his breath, his sweat. I avoid being around smokers, but I still like the smell of Winston cigarettes.
After the funeral, at my mom's house, I ran up to my old bedroom, where my dad had spent his last functional days, frantically smelling the pillow and his clothes hanging in the closet. The cold air had long drawn out any of his scent. Illusions were all I had left. I cried into the arms of his myriad jean shirts. Fucking A.
He looms large. And larger still with each passing day. I'm interested to explore this book more. I'm hoping to brings me closer to him and closer to the point of all this crap I'm feeling. I wish I had more to say, but I'm here. I'm tired, drained really, and just happy enough to be typing.
Thoughts on pain
I just woke up from a dream where I was hugging my dad. He was warm. He said he was worried about me. That’s it. He wanted to know the truth about stuff. I don't understand what that means. It was weird. I cannot remember what we were talking about. I get excited when I see him in a dream, but I also don’t. It might as well be a movie. Because it is. And then I wake up and the heartache is strong.
Thanksgiving was a huge success. I had a nice party with my friend and my sister, my mother and her friend joined us later for dessert. The table was set so beautifully with linens and a vase from our wedding, it made me so happy. It also made me so sad to see the whole thing come together to learn what the behind-the-scenes of my mother’s life as my father's wife may have been like. I hate to think of all the mixed up stuff that went on. I hate to think of the night where she prepared a beautiful party and things went terribly wrong. I hate to think of it and yet I still do. I’m sure I’ll be haunted by these memories forever. I hang on and wonder – WHY? It hurts so badly: you have the dreams, the nightmares, the dwellings of thought. You feel like you will die at any moment, and sometimes you pray that you do. You are hurting, you cannot, in the stillness of your heart forget these things, these sad and tenderly hurting things. They are not dying away. They are infants of pain. They will be nursed into monsters of pain if…if what? I don’t know! I don’t know how to treat my pain so it doesn’t take me over. I don’t know how to tame my pain and anger so that it doesn’t lash out at someone else. I don’t know how to pull the pain from that hollow in my chest, from that depression in which it lies and feels so safe and secure. I don’t want to give my pain a home. But I also fear that if I don’t, if I kick it to the curb, it will come back one day to haunt me. How do I deal with my pain? Do I “process” it, like one does their weekly garbage, placing it in a receptacle for a bit and trusting someone will take it away, forever? Do I learn to use it positively? Like doing something creative with it? Blogging, art? Do I let it fester? What is the successful measure of dealing with pain? Are you fully functioning? In what way? Have you forgotten? Do you let the feelings wash over you and wash away? I suppose this is the best thing. You cannot force them away, they will fight.
You have adopted this pain, whether you wanted to or not. And spiritually, it is part of you, as much as your limbs are. It is a frightening thing for most people to feel their pain. They are scared and uncertain what to do with it, much like a newborn child, but you must not fear this. You, like so many others before you will learn of what it is to carry pain. You will see successful people, you will see this bit of brokenness in them, and you will finally understand. You will see those who created a monster and still, you will understand. You will see those who ignore the rage inside, or have left it for dead, you will see their blank eyes, and empty hollowness. You will understand them too. You will, because you will have seen all these choices, as they had been laid before you and you did not take one or the other of them. You chose, and perhaps only for today, to carry the pain, nurse it, and teach it to obey you. You are learning to be in charge and not to let the pain overwhelm you. You will let it teach you too – to help others in their time of need. You will keep the pain and you know it was born in the moment your father took his last breath and for this, you don’t mind. Your cross to bear? Your memory of him. Your love of him. Your strength and vision of him. The pain is a deep and sweet reminder of his life, at times. At times you will be overwhelmed by unbearable force. Sinking down. And you will not sink, but rise again. You will rise again and you will not suffer forever. Can you find some solace in this at least? Can you find the strength and will of God inside of you too? For where there is pain, there is also comfort, if you cannot manage your pain, if you leave it out, if you ignore it, so too, will comfort never be found. You cannot be comforted for that which you ignore and disown. You cannot reach a state of peace, rest, without the pain first. This is just how it goes, no matter how much you think it sucks. There is more pain to endure, and this is just a primer. This is not a threat, this is just life and the why’s and what’s of it all are useless to find out and understand. Sometimes. You will be fine. You will be okay, you will remember him, and in your dreams, he is again warm, and smiling, and having that way about him. You will remember him best when you have celebrated him most.
Thanksgiving is for Turkeys
Gobble Gobble.
This is the hardest and the best day yet...since...
I wake up feeling like crap-o-la.
I go through the day, pick up my dad's ashes.
He's in three containers so we can all have some.
I place him in the living room, invite the imaginary him to dinner, set the Thanksgiving table with beautiful linens and dishes from my wedding.
I smell the smells. I take a shower, put on perfume. I feel like my mother. I miss my father.
I smell the smells. The hot kitchen and scents, I remember the same thing from when I was a kid.
I remember the hot house and the front door letting drafts of cold November air in; women in fur coats ushering children first, dish-to-share in hand.
I'd be lucky if they brushed past me. The perfume again.
Older men crouch down and smooch - their moustaches scratching my face. They walk in, loud, scratching bellies.
My mom, fire in her eyes, eager, exhausted, beautiful.
My dad already setting up the pool table in the basement. Music is playing. I'm stealing food. Hiding so I don't have to do work. My dad gives me the crispiest pieces of turkey, informing me that they are the best.
I'm so happy and sad today.
Amen.
Daddy Daughter Dance
Daddy Daughter Dance came to mind today. I always called him "Daddy." Never dad or father. No matter how old I was. I could always cuddle with him. I was still sitting on his lap last year. Once I got engaged it seemed time to stop, but I'd still snuggle with him. A very un-American thing to do. Nothing against America. I get the no hugging, no touching thing. It's just not me. My dad was a surprisingly affectionate man, when it came to his daughters, dog, or cats. Otherwise he was pretty hands off.
The very American connotation of "Daddy Daughter Dance" calls to mind his uprooting to this country. Even though my father and I never went to such a dance, the closest we got was a Daddy-Daughter Skate (at Skate World in Troy), where I insisted he put on rollerskates. Seeing his tall and graceful frame turn to wobbly Jell-o was hilarious until he almost immediatly fell backwards and broke his wrist.
I felt horrible, but he wasn't mad at me. He didn't care that I made him do it. Dancing on skates with me is what he wanted too. Dance is what brought him to this country, and is one of our connections. While I came to love music and singing more than dancing, my sister Sasha continued to study and is an accomplished dancer. Our childhood was a huge party, where there would be musicians and dancing until all hours. I kid you not. Think back to first grade. Did you have trouble sleeping because a Tamburitza Band was playing in your backyard? As much as I like them, Slavic Soul Party has nothing on those bands, but go to their website, and you may get a taste of what my childhood felt like. : )
I think this kind of background is why for years throughout high school and college I always said I wanted to open a World Music and Dance Institute - to study these arts and present them. It was in my blood. Why was it I would hear Serbo-Croatian music and hear something beautiful when my more American friends would ask me to turn off my "Lederhosen Bier Garden Music" I never understood why no one loved the music like I did. Why did I seek to learn as much as I could about the music, the culture, attending barn dances during college, when most students were attending frat parties? Why did I take Serbo-Croatian lessons when I'd already completed my language requirement in Italian. Why was I digging up old records and signing up for Slavic film and music classes? I wanted to be close to him, close to his culture, his people. My father was a mystery to me my whole life. I loved him. I wanted to be like him. I wore his clothes in high school. A 6 foot 2, 200 lb man's clothes on my 5 foot 71/2, 130 lb frame. I asked him to give a presentation to my class in 2nd or 3rd grade. The kids thought he was cooler than a basketball star - he made his life sound…no, his life WAS that cool. He talked about jumping off bridges, and riding sleds tied to trucks, and swimming lengths of rivers, finding dead bodies. I mean, he was like the Serbian Paul Bunyan, a crazy mythical character, but with a way cooler moustache! Dance he did. Dance in conversations - you could ask him about any topic and he could dance around it for hours. Hours. I'm not kidding, his photographic memory and simple eloquence made him an ideal story teller. It was almost as if you asked him a question, and a fire lit up behind him and soft Mozart began to play - he was entrancing.
I would ask him to show me traditional Serbian and Croatian dances sometimes, we'd put on some music and dance in the kitchen. Even though he was very weak, we danced at my wedding, before he died I showed him some of my hip hop dance class moves to cheer him up, and after he died, I find that same class is a God-send.
The last word: Dance on.
My Dad's vocabulary
Anger and righteousness were not in it. At least not with me. I'm not vouching for his other relationships.
I can count the times he became angry with me on one hand. Same with the times he told me what to do without my asking him.
He got angry at me when:
1. ran away at the age of 4 to talk to truck drivers on a street corner
2. when I told him to move out of the house and I never wanted to speak to him again in 6th grade
3. When I ruined two TV sets with a knife.
He told me what to do when:
1. He found me leaving my bedroom with my high school boyfriend
2. When I graduated college and was loitering around my alma mater's town for no good reason
Otherwise, I cannot remember much else. I'm sure there were some minor reprimands here and there, but we didn't fight, we didn't disagree. Neither was I forced to do things I didn't want to, nor was I told I couldn't do something. He was always supportive. Even when we had no money he busted his behind to send me to Italy to study opera. He always told me not to worry, that everything will work out. He said not to get mad at other people, they will eventually get what they deserve. I am only now taking those things to heart. I don't know why I didn't while he was alive. For some reason now his words have so much more weight.
My dad wasn't always physically around during my childhood. But what he lacked in that department he made up for in other ways. He had his own problems. I can't say he did no wrong, but I can say there is nothing I didn't wholly forgive him for.
The last word: Don't let anything eat away at you, not even death.
Normal as Can Be
It feels like death is framing everything I do.
Brushing my teeth: I remember something about how regular flossing and using an electric toothbrush can extend your life for up to 3 years. Flossing.com boasts "...may even save your life."
Reading Women's Health: Almost every article mentions cancer. How coffee can prevent certain types. Well, my dad's trips to Starbucks didn't seem to help. Okay okay, that's a low blow. I'm feeling low.
Watching a documentary on longevity: Gary Null is a lunatic who peddles his wares on unsuspecting people. Deluding them into thinking he can help them live to 130 years of age and beyond. Okay, even if this is true, what makes him think living to 130 has an advantage to dying at a "normal" age? At 130 - everyone you've ever known is dead because you were probably the only one crazy enough to go through so much rigamarole to eat and exercise according to Gary's plan while everyone else was out drinking and eating cherry pies. Yumm!
Searching for blogs about grief: inexplicably sad or creepy. Am I one of those people now?
Why is everything I do suddenly shadowed by death? It's not as eerie as it sounds. I'm not miserable all the time. I mean, I break down crying here and there and I feel like a piece of my heart was torn out forever...but I'm back working full time, go to the gym, still doing my hair and makeup, buying cute dresses at Anthropologie, planning home improvements, hanging out with my husband. Doing all the things I thought were important before my dad died. And oh yeah, blogging incessantly about his death.
Normal as can be.
Blogs About Grief
There aren't any. At least, not any I've found. Mostly they make me uncomfortable, are super psycho-analystical, or overtly religious in nature. Some make you feel quite crappy, some make you feel sorry for the other guy, and some make you feel like you are being patronized. I don't know if my blog is about grief. It's about me and my family, my father as the centerpiece, and how his death has propelled me to write about him. Finally.
I'm Not Feeling Like Myself Lately
When someone dies or another tragedy happens, you tend to start doing things you wouldn't normally. You become more honest w/ yourself and others. Either because it matters so much or because nothing matters at all anymore.
You start telling your dad's girlfriend how much he loved her, when before you didn't really ever want to see her, much less speak to her. You asked him not to bring her to your wedding. Now, you look at her with eyes of love, like he must have. You love her for making him happy.
You start telling your mother to stop talking gibberish, you get mad at her for telling people her "husband" died. They had been divorced for 10 years. And living together ever since. He in the basement, she in the master bedroom.
You start telling people things "Like it is." Like it matters. If they ask you how you feel you say, "Well, crappy. Pretty horrible, but what are you going to do." They either understand, or shuffle off confused. My cousin Annie wrote a moving post shortly after my dad died. Along with her blog and the comments (Thank You) my experiences of the conversations that ensued were echoed: the people you talk to are quickly sorted into "People Who Knew Death" and "People Who Didn't", as described by one commenter.
You also start caring about exercise for the first time since the long days spent seated next to a hospital bed. Not just because you want to become skinnier, but because you are actually concerned with your health, so you don't get cancer too. Although you begin to fear just about anything can cause it, pre-disposition or not. Your dad went in under 4 months from time of diagnosis. Boom.
And then you are suddenly thinking about where to store ashes (jewelry is kind of nice, or a paperweight?), how to close down a dead man's checking account, or who is going to wear all his jeans and t-shirts, imagining yourself wearing them to bed, and you wonder if you should take up wood-working since he left behind so many tools and you start to have these crazy crazy thoughts that seem so normal considering who you've been forced to become.
You start to work through your lunches and not really care all that much about eating like you used to. You realize that your craving for chips as a distraction is really just that, you can wait. You waited all day to eat when your dad was dying.
Things become frighteningly clear. You learn the real definitions of things. My mom told me of when she lost her father that a friend asked her what it was like to lose her dad. She replied, "I've learned the true meaning of the word never."
Even though you get some insight you may not change your actions or have the power to change all that much. It's not necessarily about that. I know people do crazy things after an epiphany, quit their jobs, have affairs, spend all their money, eat cookies all day. They are running away. My best friend said after I told her I wanted to try to run away from my problems, "You aren't just going to be running away, you are going to be running towards something."
The last word: Keep runnin'.
Cheating on Homework
I was driving to Bally Total Fitness yesterday after work, to go to a Powerflex class (Which I loved by the way) and remembered that my father used to have an office in a building off of Big Beaver Road in Troy. This could be considered fairly prime real estate, and reminds me of how successful a businessman my father was. Back in the day he owned the now defunct "Grubor Enterprises" and sold gasoline. He owned gas stations too and was the top seller of oil in the midwest one year. I'll have to find out when that was. He even garnered the honor of throwing out the opening pitch at a Tiger's game. He was one of those men, successful, strong. My memories of my dad's office come from times my mom would take me there to stop by or if I was home sick from school, sometimes I'd go hang out at the office. I didn't understand what a job really was and never noticed my father being particularly occupied while I was there. He allowed me to run about the office. I found the "globes" he had around the office fascinating - like toys and didn't understand why I couldn't play with them or why he didn't bring them home. Eventually he did. (link to business ending) But it wasn't necessarily for my benefit.
I also remember when I was older and in math classes, I'd call my father for help with story problems. He was very intelligent. I mean, I don't think I could do a sixth grade level story problem right now if you slapped one in front of me. However, if he couldn't figure it out, he'd get the rest of his employees to work on the problem. I'd read the problem word for word and they'd try to solve it for me. My dad was just like that. It's not that he was trying to encourage me to find shortcuts, it just seems that he wanted to help. I don't think it occurred to him as cheating. I mean, maybe that's why he'd forget to pay his taxes sometimes - it wasn't that he was interested in breaking the law…I think he just thought it was optional. And his own family didn't get special treatment. He was never "in it" for himself. When our neighbor's kid had the task of building a bridge out of balsa wood (didn't everyone have to do that??) My dad constructed on the kid's behalf. Nevermind that his career at the time was finish carpenter. I don't know if the kid's bridge won or not.
My father wasn't a cheat. I mean, I guess he was. But not in his mind. I don't think it occurred to him he ever did anything wrong. Even when he got in trouble with the law, which I won't expound on here, he didn't seem to think much of it. Although, he was very private and I cannot know what was going on in his mind. I loved him anyways and for some reason never held anything against him. Or rather, I held things against him, but forgave him very quickly and completely - because for some reason I innately understand his motivation. Perhaps some psychologists would love to grab that one and run with it. I don't really care. My father was not a saint, but that doesn't change my love for him.
It Is Better For Him
The priest at my church is from Croatia. His name is Father Josip, or Jozo for short. He has a thick accent with heavy rolled "r's". Sometimes I am not sure if he even remembers me. On the other hand, I'm often surprised by his thoughtfulness and attention to detail when I'd least expect it. For example, he had been gone in Croatia for several weeks, and was not able to preside over my wedding, which he didn't seem to concerned about. In retrospect, I know it was because he was confident he had a more than suitable replacement in his stead. However, when he returned and I saw him after service for the first time, he greeted Mike and I warmly and said, "I thought of you when I had the ice cream!" and laughed uproariously. It took me a few moments to realize he was picking up a conversation we'd had during our meetings preparing for my Confirmation and Marriage. We talked about the delicious ice cream only found in Croatia. Better than Italy. I picked up his cue, smiled and nodded in agreement, "The ice cream in Croatia is the best in the world!" He, still laughing, "Oh, I know it is!"
After my father was admitted to the hospital from suffering multiple strokes due to complications of his cancer, I had called Father Jozo to give my father the Anointing of the Sick. He assured me it was the absolute best thing I could do. He said it would absolve him of any sins and ensure his entrance to Heaven. "It is by far the best thing, oh yes." He kept saying. Despite my fears and doubts, his confidence strengthened me. He said, "You will cry. You are human and this is natural. But you will be happy he is going to be in a better place. My father died of the lung cancer, you know. I actually was praying for him to die. He knew the day he would go. He ate a very nice dinner and went to bed and then he died. It was very sad, but it was better, you know."
There was a woman there who prayed with my sister and I, and suggested fasting for spiritual strength with us one Friday. I fasted from morning until night, as did this woman and my sister. I only had coffee in the morning (otherwise I'd have lost all functionality) and water to prevent dehydration. I fasted and I prayed and I hoped and I cried and I suffered and wondered if I wouldn't be able to help with all that. The day my father died, the nurse called another priest to see us. He was also reassuring me that it was okay to stop the feeding tube, that I wasn't actually killing him. That I wasn't committing a sin. It wasn't so much that I was afraid of sinning, but afraid that I simply hadn't done enough. I hadn't done enough in the weeks leading to his death, in the past few years, working all the time, too busy to see him. After my trip to Italy when I didn't bring him a souvenir. When I'd forget his birthday since he'd forgotten some of mine. When I didn't steal enough of his packs of cigarettes when I was younger and tear them up. When my love for him didn't practically pierce space and time and just fix things. Fix everything.
I missed church the weekend after my father's funeral. It was daylight savings time, and the church was empty because we were an hour early and didn't realize it. We went to the front pew, prayed, read the bible verses to ourselves. I cried a bit and we went to get dog food. Even after realizing the time change I didn't have strength to go. I was sort of angry at God for taking my father.
I returned yesterday for the first time and the priest had heard of my father's passing. He called me into the robing room and held my hand tightly, with sad eyes he just said, "I'm so sorry to hear about your father. It is better for him. (Pause) It is better for you too."
Of course I gained comfort hearing these words again. And believed him. And oddly enough, the mass that day spoke of death and the importance of prayer for the souls in purgatory.
Thinking of my father in a better place is incredibly hard to bear because if you asked me - right here, right now would be a much better place. Without the cancer. Teaching me to build something.
I'd say The Problem lies in my belief system. If my father has indeed entered eternal ecstasy with God - then Hallelujah - and I'll work towards recovering from the loss. If not, I'm mortified, angry, depressed, debilitated. And I fluctuate between the two states. Belief and Disbelief. Either you think Jesus was right, and I mean 100%, or you think he was a raving lunatic. I mean, there is not much room in between. It's not like you can say, "Well, Jesus said he was human the son of God. I can believe that. But when he talks about Heaven? Not so much." I'm no theologian. I've explored all sorts religions in search of truth - and ultimately have rested in Catholicism. And now, when I'm to put those beliefs to the test I'm failing miserably. My doubt has never been heavier. Or have so much at stake.
Sometimes I think I can feel his presence. Sometimes I feel emptiness. Sometimes I'm happy with memories. Sometimes I'm sad with regrets. My primitive and basic expressions of "happy" or "sad" emotions stun me. There is nothing complex going on here. Things just suck. Or they are okay. He is either in heaven or he is somewhere inexplicable.
My Mind is Playing Tricks On Me
When I was y
ounger, around middle to high school age, I used to play with the Ouija board. My first experience doing so was after begging my mother for one. We sat down at the kitchen table and attempted contact with my grandfather . I don't remember what the board "said." I cannot claim what happened was real, but I was thrilled by the experience, and hooked for years afterwards. I had even tried to practice witchcraft with my best friend at one point. I know, I know - bad idea. It wasn't until a little Q & A session my school had with the Bishop where I inquired about the Ouija that I discovered just how serious it was for the Catholic faith. Seriously bad. The priest was was fearful for my immortal soul. He indicated that if I was a person who engaged in such activity I was putting my immortal soul in grave danger and the best recourse was to burn the board immediately. I can't remember when in the line of events I burned the board - but I didn't have problems making makeshift versions on scraps of paper, fashioning pointers with cardboard. I'd play with my friends during choir class when the teacher was running sectionals with other students. Eventually, I grew tired of trying to contact the dead or those in purgatory. I don't really remember why exactly. I suppose it's all part of growing up.
Last night my sister was recounting the Picture Frame Incident that occurred the day after my father's funeral. She found a picture frame that had been solidly hanging on our wall for years considerably titled to the right one day. Then the next day, she found it equally tilted in the opposite direction. Neither my mother nor Sasha's boyfriend indicate touching it. The eerie thing is that the frame has significance that could not be ignored. It was designed and created by Andy Lakey. He is a drug-addict-turned-artist who, after one of his most wretched nights, left himself almost dead, awoke to visions of angels that claims saved him from a life of degeneracy.
And the third incident, well, I think that was a response to Mike's challenge from last night.
Mike: I hate ghosts. They always come late at night after you've watched a scary
movie. I mean, come scare me in the middle of the day, or at my staff meeting at
work.
Okay, is 7:45 am day time enough? I mean, the things that are happening aren't exactly "scary." And sometimes ghostly things aren't meant to be scary, just a way to communicate. I was in the kitchen, getting my lunch ready. I hear the digital recorder I've been using to gather stories about my father's life beep twice. I think this is odd, and go to check the recorder, which cannot turn on without pressing a button. I call Mike, "Did you mess around with the digital recorder this morning?" Mike, "No, why do you ask?"
I know a lot of people might think, "Poor girl. She's really trying to cope with her loss." I'm actually OK with learning to grieve without all this stuff. I have completely considered these are figments of my imagination or delusions. But then I think, even if they are tricks of the mind, why wouldn't THAT be the way to communicate? How do we know that is not the way the communication is supposed to occur? Just because our human minds conveniently conceive of things in one way, doesn't mean it's right.
Um. I can't believe I'm touching this subject. Here's how I see it. I don't have the last word on this, no one does. But centuries of thought, philosophy, religion, and science have not explained away the paranormal with any real convincing arguments. People still believe in God, ghosts, magic, communicating with the dead.
You Don't Have to be the Best at What You Do - Just Consistent
I had the happy accident of meeting Philip Glass when I was in college. I was an intern for the arts presentation company there and I was asked to perform the task of picking him up from his hotel and walking him to the theatre where he would be working for a week, putting on shows and interviews.
The prospect of meeting a famous person was exciting and decided I was going grab the bull by the horns and do what all those self-esteem tomes say about meeting new people: Learn everything you can about them and show them you are interested, get them talking about themselves and they'll think that you are a great conversationalist. "How To Win Friends and Influence People" anyone? Anyone. Er.
Anyway, I was so psyched about this assignment, I decided to get his autobiography and stay up all night reading it, hoping to have some poignant things to discuss.
It turns out, there was plenty to discuss. It was only when I met him face to face I realized how weird it would be to say things like, "So, tell me more about your childhood." Or, "I'm fascinated by your creative process for Einstein on the Beach" do tell me more." As if picking up where we left off in a conversation we never had is normal. So I said nothing in particular.
We started down the main street in town to the theatre. Looking perturbed, he quickly motioned me off in a different direction saying, "I've been here before, and I know some shortcuts." I was mortified. As his "leader" I was failing considerably and due to a total lack of rapport he generously started interviewing me:
By that point, we were at the theatre, and I felt like slugging off down the alley and disappearing. I'm sure more small talk had transpired, I just know not much of it was very profound. But despite my lack of hard hitting questions to Mr. Glass, the experiences I read about did resonate with me. Now, I'm just going from memory, but two things in his book always come back to me.PG: What do you study here?
Me: Oh, I'm a singer. I'm a voice performance major.
PG: What do you perform?
Me: I'm in the Gilbert and Sullivan
show on campus, Utopia,
LimitedPG: Oh, I've not heard of that one, what's it about?
Me: I don't know. Really.
Wacky hijincks...you know. (Oh my god.)PG: My first gig as a musician was
playing flute in the pit of a Gilbert and Sullivan show.
Me: Awesome! (a: I think I
read that last night. b: Who says Awesome!
to Philip Glass?)
1. He wasn't necessarily the best talent in his class, but he knew he was the hardest working.
2. He trained his muse to come to him in the morning.
These two concepts rocked my world. I had never considered that my level of talent wasn't the most important factor in achieving my goals. I had never considered I could train my muse. He said that with composition, he treated it like any other job, would get up and work for hours every day. I don't know why this struck me as completely novel at the time. I suppose I had envisioned the artist's life as this:
This is not quite it. Glass treated his art like I do my corporate job. When he was done, he was done. Even if he was struck with a brilliant idea at midnight, he'd refuse writing it down, trusting that he would come up with an equally brilliant idea some other time. Eventually, he says, his best ideas came to him at his regular 9-to-5. Sort of unromantic, huh? I always imagined myself as a struggling artistic genius, drinking coffee, wearing designerly Salvation Army threads, staying up late, wandering the streets seeking inspiration. Why? Don't ask - I'm sure I could slip into that role at any time though! : )
I think Mr. Glass' professionalism regarding creativity shows clearly why he is successful. No one gets to the top without consisent work, but you don't need to be the best talent to get there.
What Not To Say
I'm going to get all the things I'm not going to talk about regarding my dad out of the way - so that I can just get on with what I want to do: Remember the good times. And no, this is not shallow of me. No, I'm not avoiding deeper issues about my dad and our relationship. He wasn't perfect. He was perfect for me. I just don't want to talk about them here, and maybe one day I will. Maybe I don't have a lot of processing to do. Maybe I got it all out of my system crying for three weeks. Maybe the worst is yet to come. But. These are things I don't know. What I do know is how deeply I love and admire my dad and his life. I can only guess he'd want me to do this. I can't say for sure.
But. There will be people who will think to themselves, "Hmmph, this is not the whole truth."
But I don't care what everyone thinks. As far as I'm concerned, I'm in charge of this ride.
Getting Older
Let's define "getting older." In my mind it has a lot less to do with actual age and more with life experience. I mean, you got a job, you are responsible, you have a mortgage, you got married, bought a kid-friendly car in anticipation of rug rats joining the crew, and most heart-wrenchingly...the people you love most in the world start dying.
Then, you start to get this feeling. The feeling I'm referring to is the sadness and frustration that comes with all these things you have to do to be responsible, and then the hope and apparent ease with sloughing it off and going about your business again. Your childhood and college dreams become less important, not because you are giving up, but because your priorities change. It's no longer that important to become famous, or have a hot body, or be everyone's friend. You become content to make a stew and take it to your mom because she is lonely, or dig up an old photo of your sister and dad that she's never seen and deliver it, you become content to start documenting your life and other's lives that have touched you. You cry. But somehow, you are sad in a different way. You are not despondent, you are not hopeless. It's almost like you are starting to weather, in a good way. Weather the storms of life, so when your husband collapses with the news of his favorite uncle's death, you are still steady, like he was when you collapsed in his arms after the death of your father.
I keep saying "you." I mean me.
Getting older is a journey that no one ever described to me. Not that I would understand or believe it anyways. It's the strangest, most terrifying, and most beautiful thing that's ever happened to me.
Funerals and Food
What is it about someone dying that makes people turn to food, to think about the food that will be eaten after the funeral, for friends to offer to cook for you, or in my own experience, to begin cooking homemade breads and cookies after my father's passing? I mean - sure - we all know the primal urge to eat for survival. Does it mean when someone dies, we all fear dying and food will sustain us? Is it that in the weeks leading to my father's death I would often forget to eat or be repulsed by food? Is the cooking and feeding that follows a funeral a biological urge?
I can't say I found cooking to be particularly therapeutic either. Although maybe some people feel differently. I felt compelled to cook. Not to eat necessarily, but to cook. It might have had something to do with the creation, fruition, and finality of something. Something tangible, real, warm, nourishing. When someone we love who was all those things is gone, we scramble to figure out what goes in it's place. I'm not saying the rye bread I made did much to ease the pain, but it was a distraction, and a pretty good recipe. I laughed to myself as I made it, recalling how I had first learned to bake bread with my grandmother, and after a weeklong stay with her, came home and decided I would bake bread for my father everyday.
I remember when I made my first loaf for him. I was so excited. I hoped it was just the kind of bread he'd like. I hoped it would carry him back to his own childhood when his mom made him bread. I almost desperately wanted the bread to be good. Not in a "I want my Daddy to love me." kind of way, but more like, "Damn, check this out!!" kind of way. Excited.
He loved it. He joked about me, "She will never go hungry because she'll always have lots of dough." I was too young to recognize how corny it was, and even now, knowing it came from my dad it couldn't have been corny. Everything he did and said was ridiculously cool. I laughed and laughed back then, and this weekend.
The best part was that I could share something with him again.
<