I dreamed last night, after thinking so much about the past, and what I've lost. In my dream, I lost my leg (don't know how) and was in a rehab living facility. Working through the exercises, making friends with other people in transition: there was a jock, a younger woman, and me...that kind of thing. I was working hard to get used to the new me and opening up to others there in a similar situation.
Late one afternoon, my father shows up. Smiles and hugs, but all business--he was there to do a job. He helped set up a system of checklists that would document our improvements and progress each week while at the rehabilitation facility. He then went about interviewing each of us (there were three), asking us questions, making notes. My mother popped in to see if she could help, but the force of my father's focus on the task at hand kept her hovering at the perimeter...but she was there.
The goal was getting us through the correct number of improvements so the rehab facility would allow us go to a football game by ourselves---our first independent outing as amputees.
My dad wore his old blue windbreaker; he'd had that thing since I was a kid. He came out to the garage, where the facility had put together occupational therapy exercises, and watched me go through the series. I was sweating with exertion, and he was smiling with pride.
Then I woke up. And had a realization. My dad is still here to kick me in the ass when I feel sorry for myself.
DAMMIT, I am a person in transition, working through this world that is different than before, with new characters, new flaws, new strengths. Much stronger than I was before, but still with sore places that deserve some attention.
I am taking today off from writing that textbook, and enjoying the sunshine. xo
- In this blog I have created a haven, a place I allow my deepest emotions to go and sit. I can write easily about what I’ve accomplished. This biography I can recite in my sleep. But I’ve always written poetry and in diaries since I was a teenager. I continued to write poetry in my journals, and not until 2006 did I show them to anyone. I generally write every day, at the present in memoir form. I haven’t written poetry since my mother died in January, 2007. I didn’t write at all between her death and the death of my father three years later in January, 2010. On my father’s birthday in March, 2010, I began this blog, to honor my father and to help me grieve. But I also desperately needed to write, and this stream of conscious style emerged. I needed to find my organic voice.