Pre Christmas Clarity

Hey, there. Loving the end of the semester, even with all the work yet to finish. Snow has fallen, temps have been hovering around single digits. Hot beverages, cookies, memories. I have had the most extraordinary semester, at times surreal, at others, heartbreakingly REAL.  My students kept me going this semester, truly, and it gave me some momentum, at least to get through the day, until I flopped on the couch at home.

What do other people do at this time of year? They stress, shop, prepare for parties, choose dresses, wrap presents. This year our Christmas is very , very low key, to keep the heavy grieving at bay.  It's been nearly a year since my dad passed away, and I am still having periods of inconsolable crying. Uncovered some more photographs today, ones with my parents smiling on their travels,with pride at a party thy hosted at the house. No baking here, no decorations. K has his holiday music on the nano.  I'm not mad it's Christmas, it's just not something I want to be part of this year.

Now that the dining room center is here, at the house, I hope the energy from it will infuse my house with the spirit of entertaining. I will send up prayers to the universe to allow this energy to flow into my house. And I hope this means a shift in energy will bring people back into the house.

A young friend (she'd hate that term) came over and helped me clean my bedroom. And she didn't judge, or make fun...We got about 10 huge garbage bags of clothes to donate and about 3 or 4 bags of garbage. Couldn't have made this step forward without her. I am sleeping in my bedroom for the first time since last Christmas. THere are things that need to be organized in a heathier way for my heart, but this I can take the time to do.

I took out pictures today, from the furniture/et. al. shipping. Very slowly opened, looking for pictures of my mother smiling. That was hard to do! Similing pictures of my father were much easier. such different personalities. The toll mental illness, and then alcoholism took on my mom..so sad. Her four year anniversary is coming up Jan 4. Dad's is Jan13.

I feel I am stuck. I cannot move forward. the lump that stays in my throat is ever at the ready to produce tortured tears. My father wouldn't want any of it, but to move on symbolizes something I'm not ready to do, I guess.

Have made some changes to accommodate the physical differences in my appearance.  Working toward the outside reflecting the inside. My newly small frame@ 104, made me think pixie, so I went and got a pixie haircut. Changing something about myself during a tough time always tells me I am beginning to see the "other" side. I feel a little lighter, like a girl.

Getting ready to mail gifts to my loved ones: K and T, my beloved peepsters. Tomorrow may put me in the Christmas spirit.  So far, nothing's really worked. It was at this time that my father was really close to death, and putting on a huge front for the family. A warrior. It was good, as long as the kids were there, but late afternoon, he was back on oxygen, in his bedroom. I don't think a re-telling is something I can or should do, but Christmas was the beginning of the end.  And so for us, it will always be the saddest holiday. When my mother was in the hospital, near death, it was also Christmas time. And now with my dad. It will be many years before Christmas means anything except for painful memories. Good think I don't have kids, so I don't have to put up a ruse. I know my sister is going to work hard to make Christmas nice for the kids--they adore her so--but she wants to ball up, too.

Our escaping to warmer climes may be the beginning of a new tradition. I hope the Universe sees fit to send us there for real.  The sun streaming down every morning, sounds of exotic birds,   the lush green tropical green, the beach--which united my father, sister, and I--would stand as a reminder of us.

Am I running away from the little family I have left? Maybe, a little, this year is different. I did send out about 50 handmade Christmas cards (first time in 4 years); I waited to see what I could possibly say that was honest but not maudlin. I am taking a vacation that falls over Christmas. K and I are looking forward to it, even though for only a few days.

The estate, as far as I can tell, is finished. Just waiting for the official word from the attorney --if there is such a thing--that it is "officially closed." Those files will be moved directly into a sealed box. I like the idea of the estate being closed. THis doesn't hurt me or upset me.  I'm surprised.

So, now, at holiday time, and the burgeoning new year, I will set new year's resolutions, based on the the claw that ripped out my heart, or rather the things that were ripped out by the claw of cancer.
I am still not myself, those people who think I'm grieving too long. I am much more reactionary, I take things more personally. I have many more new buttons to push. It's still very new. Let's get through Christmas and the New Year.  Let's see how a vacation with K helps.  I feel the universe calling me to Key West. I hope it speaks to K, too. We are ready to move on.

Evening Reflection

The past few days have been so puzzling. Used as I am to the tougher road, I floated along life’s groove yesterday, and the peace I had was so remarkable, I smiled and went with it. And I didn’t ask any questions. I went with the flow!  As a type A personality with a desire to diversify, going with the flow is a real aspiration. I am okay with this feeling, that I am part of the world in its greater spinning. It was a gentle confirmation that it does, indeed, spin without me. I find peace in this sweet revelation.  Being a recovering control freak is no easy feat! These moments, days in the flow of the universe are mysterious and magical. No highs or lows, just a gentle sususration, like tall grasses in a breeze. Beautiful.

Tonight one of my students presented her senior voice recital. It was wonderful.  She is a very talented young singer, but she is also an excellent student, scooping up information and processing it without having to be hit over the head with it.  She has grown into a motivated, spirited young woman who is growing into a confident singer. My equivocation about academia was stymied tonight as I heard her sing. I could stay longer if I had more students like her: naturally talented,  open to teaching and trusting the teacher’s knowledge; practicing regularly, listening to famous singers sing, watching her teacher perform. Taking her teacher’s notes seriously. Processing and producing. This is a job that uses my intellect. This is the kind of teaching I crave. 

I've had a few wonderful interchanges with my sister this week, after a frenzied exchange just before we closed on dad's house.  A bump in the road. A bump on a bumpy road, that's more like it. My sister is a very loving person, but she doesn't know herself. I want her to feel empowered. If I could give it to her as a Christmas or birthday present I would. She and I realize we are both struggling with the loss of our parents, particularly our father, to whom we were both so close. It took us a while to recognize that we are struggling in different ways. We've been talking on Facebook every day now, just telling each other little bits of our day. I really like this. Maybe we can weave each other into our lives with things like this. I hope so. We get on each other's nerves very easily, so I lead her as I can into calm and even territory. 

Tomorrow is a recovery day. I need to re-tool some class materials for Friday's lecture and make some decisions about the rest of the semester so the students don't keep freaking out.  I am feeling confident tonight, after a few peaceful days, free of gut-wrenching grief, that I can manage the tasks at hand.  Amen.

Happy Thanksgiving

My thanksgiving was a gut-ripping, horrifying low of howling emptiness. I cried, I cried until my stomach hurt, ready to wretch. I got in the shower and howled like a wounded animal. I yelled and ended up balled up in a heap in the bathtub. Poor K and to come in and see me like that. I knew it broke his heart. But I wanted to die.  My body is still sore from everything I put it through yesterday.

Today I cannot interact with people. I've stayed away from facebook and have generally realized that I cannot go more than an inch below my emotional surface with anyone.  And now, back with my therapist, a good move.

I am barely functional outside the clasroom. I can pull it together long enough, but it exhausts all my reserves so that by the time I get home I am back to the numb or crying version of me that I have become.

I really thought I was making progress on my grief, then the furniture arrived, the house closed, checks arrived, and Thanksgiving hit.  Truth is, I made it, but Thanksgiving took a huge chunk of flesh out of me. I felt like I had been bitten by a great white shark and was just lying there, bleeding, waiting to die.

Today, in solitude, was helpful. I stayed above the emotional fray, watched Robin Hood with Russell Crowe, cuddled with the cats...I almost feel peaceful. It's such a thin strata I walk, like a gossamer stream that gets me from place to place.

I wonder and worry how my sister fared. My aunt was busy cooking for her family. That was her therapy. We none of us wanted this Thanksgiving to come, and we are all fearing Christmas. If Thanksgiving was hard...I shudder to think what might happen, what I might feel....Thanksgiving hit me unexpected, honestly. The furniture had come, all the other steps of the estate being made...and the night before Thanksgiving I had the most beautiful dream. So beautiful it is indescribable beyond that it involved a fantasty-sort of experience, with me trying on one gorgeous dress after another, choosing them for some unbeknownst event. It was such a happy, peace, simple dream. Morpheus must have sent it to ease the pain upon waking.

I put some of my father's things away last night, after looking at them, touching them, reading them, remembering them. They are not far out of reach, but they are put out of sight, where treasured things belong. There's a lot more to be done, but a start has been made.

It is official. I have cracked open. I don't know what is next, this holiday season. I don't know to whom I can cling. I know there will be clinging needed if Thanksgiving is any indication.  I have this weekend to myself and my husband. And work to do to prepare for Monday. Emotional work so that my answer to the inevitable polite question, "How was your Thanksgiving?" can be a bland, "Fine. Tell me about yours."  I can't blame the world for enjoying theirs, and I hope someday to enjoy mine again, too. But this year, like all the firsts, I just wish it to go away.

A friend asked what I was doing for my birthday this year, and I said "nothing." Which is true. It's my longest teaching day, anyway, and I don't feel like celebrating anything.

There are things to clear up, now, that the majority of the estate work is done. Now I can move on with my own emotional work. A lot of it was put aside to make sure I could stay focused on details, school work, and keeping up the facade that I am the strong one. In my drinking days, I could have numbed the pain every night after work with a good bottle of wine. Now instead, I fall asleep, (if I fall asleep) feeling ripped up inside, wondering how to make everything right--school, home, friends, family. I am so out of whack that I barely know myself anymore. And I trust even fewer people to see that.  So I isolate as my way of protecting myself, steeling myself for the next public appearance of the person I was.

Closing Another Chapter

My dad's house is sold; the closing is on Friday.  My dear friend M has helped us as much as the real estate agent, the attorney, the financial planner/accountant. The furniture has been shipped out to me--on its way. The wine wall has been collected, the books and remaining stuff packed and prepared for charity. The charity guy came today and picked up everything; even the left over cleaning supplies in the bathroom! The only stuff left is what my sister wants to keep. She says she'll be over there tomorrow.
And then it will be empty.

I am trying to see the house in my mind, like it was the day we moved in; it was empty then, too, but pregnant with possibilities. I remember each person's excitement was palpable! My parents, buying their first house, were thrilled, worried, and proud; my sister and I were so happy to have our own rooms. And we got to pick the colors!

I remember the hardwood floors, the big windows. The sunlight. The kitchen, so much bigger than any of the apartment kitchens we'd lived in. My mother was going to *cook.* The family room downstairs, the fireplace...We roasted hot dogs in that fireplace, made popcorn, and once we even grilled a steak.  My dad built bookcases into the walls for all of my mother's beloved books. And the wine wall. He built that in, too. It was a glorious house surrounded by young pine trees. Many hundreds of memories are flooding my brain like snapshots--the pool in the summers, my grandmother visiting, learning how to walk in heels like a lady, sleepover parties. These come to me now as I envision the space after thirty years of living in it.  It has come full circle.  The house has come full circle.

 I can imagine the newly pruned trees are letting in all the sunlight in the sky, warming the wooden floors. The ivory walls are bare, waiting. The scent of eucalyptus and lemon Hall's menthol cough drops still hangs in the air of the hunter green master bedroom. The two remaining bedrooms, one for my sister and one for me, stand still in time with the wallpaper we were allowed to select as teenagers.

It is bare again, but not for long. Waiting for new joys, with the old ones seeped into the walls, between the boards in the floor. I said to my husband, many years ago, that I could never be sentimental about "a house."  I wish I could have gone one last time, to the empty house, to let it seep into me, to curl itself into my heart. I have said good bye to it several times in my life:  as I left for college then grad school, as a young married woman, at my mother's funeral, after my semester at home with dad, at my father's funeral, at the cleaning out of my father's possessions, and now, as it is about to start a new life.

When last I left the house, I spent a few minutes in my father's beautiful bedroom and let scent of it cling to me. I kissed the front door as I closed and locked it.  I mean, I guess I'll never be in that house again, and I wonder if ever I'll be in my hometown again. We are dispersed to the winds, like that dandelion who's petals turn into fairies and float heavenward.

Oh, haaaaaaaaaaai there...

I feel extraordinarily blessed today. Of course there is a story involved, one that may or may not interest anyone, but I have finally had some time for reflection--more accurately Time for Reflection. It should *absolutely* be in capital letters. My god, I've been running like my life depends on it, for months now; perhaps running AWAY from something is more accurate...hmmm. Like I said, I finally have an hour and the inclination to reflect. My primary goal for the past few years has been to stay in the moment, be there, be present...and while this is the best thing I could ever have chosen, there has been a lack of balance in the pendular swing of things--that of the Time for Reflection. This blog challenges me to do just that.

First, as always, I think about the preternatural speed at which time is flying. And my father's watch is still ticking away in my bedroom. I check it every time I go in there, as if to check for a pulse, or a breath.

It is nearly November. This brings waves of anxiety. Halloween is a bad time, because that's when my mother was found, nearly dead, at my parents' house. Halloween is also a blessed time, because I spent TWO of them with my dad, sister, niece and nephew in CT. I dressed up, followed the kids as they went trick-or-treating, and walked arm-in-arm with my dad, who was starting to slow down. Last Halloween, (I mean THE LAST Halloween) was lovely; a beautiful night, happy kids, my dad furiously taking pictures. I think he knew, although didn't tell, he didn't have much time left with us. In retrospect, yes, the signs were everywhere. I was intentionally blind to them, as he asked me to be. I remember now the soft cushiony feel of his sweatshirt, the black one, underneath which he wore his "halloween" shirt --black, with orange letters spelling 'Poppi' that I made him--and the work of his gait. His hand over mine as we enjoyed his grandchildren, my niece and nephew, who were blissfully unaware of his condition an ran like maniacs from door to door for more candy. Just the way he wanted it!

So, back to the present: I've sung four concerts in three weeks in addition to overload teaching and fighting some ungodly ailment. Been through antibiotics and corticosteroids to relieve the swelling of my vocal cords.  This is very stressful for a singer and a teacher on whom the voice is depended.  I was happy with one of the four performances, and I'll take it.  Just recently flew to New Hampshire to sing a couple of gigs and to see some friends.  I was so surprised at my melancholy; I thought joy would finally overtake me as I escaped for a few days to New England at the peak of foliage season. Instead, an immense sadness filled me, sapped me of the energy I usually feel jolted with before a performance. There wasn't enough time with the friends I longed to see. I slept for close to an entire day: 17 hours, and stumbled through the rest of the weekend somehow disheveled and groggy. Some of it I can attribute to a slip in philosophy; the rest to depression, grief, and exhaustion.

I am at the precipice, looking out and down, at the last tasks to be completed, the finality of it scares me. It also propels me into frenetic action that has left me devoid of compassion, of interest, of anything other than *getting it done*.  I've hired two people as assistants to help me deal with the amount of work that needs to be completed in a very short time. One there, one here.  All this work was waiting to be done until the house was sold. It is under contract now, my dad's place,  and the flurry of action between me and real estate agent, me and attorney, has flung my overwrought brain into a tizzy. So much to do in three weeks.  Estate sale; Movers; Salvation Army; Utilities; Final dispersement of estate funds. OH, and I'm sure one more hefty attorney's fee, even though I was assured over the summer that my huge check was payment in full. Bullshit. I knew it.

My heart is telling me it needs to go to the house one last time. To attend the closing. To visit my parents' graves.  This comes at a terrible price of time I do not have. When I miss lessons at school, I have to make them up. This means I double, sometimes triple my workload, depending on how much I am gone.  There is no room to double a load that is already past the maximum.

But my heart,
My heart needs this time to
Say goodbye, to
the person I was before
the little one I was
the child, the daughter--the protected, loved one
Who is now out on her own,
in her own boat,
sailing as the captain
she is meant to be.
But to leave port,
I must say a proper good bye.

My guess is that I'll be seeing my CT friends in a few weeks. We'll see.
Peace.

Isn't this supposed to be getting better with time?

The first six weeks of the semester went well; I've been making strides dealing with the busy-ness of being back at school--with a teaching overload to boot-- preparing for upcoming gigs, and have even entered into a tentative agreement with a publisher to write a textbook.  Work has been a solace. My dad taught me the values of working hard, not letting shit get you down; but now I wonder if I've been avoiding some unfinished emotional work.

In fact, I'm sure of it.

I led a finely choreographed dance and the balance of things was on the point of a needle. And I've either been pierced by it or at the very least,  tipped off it.

Amidst the stress of re-entry into academia, I am now, apparently, going through some new phase of the grieving process. It feels like it's happening all over again. That damned car accident two weeks ago was the thing that did it. It jolted me back into reality. It created a vortex into which I have plummeted; at least temporarily.

There is a transition in the works for me and I believe it's life-changing. Everything is swirling and I want to stay mindful to get the Universal message as it is sent me.  What happens if I can't figure it out? I'm frustrated because I don't understand what's happening inside me.

Time to refocus, rebalance--the emotional work is ongoing, and I need to respect that. But there are only so many hours in the day. I asked the Universe for a Time Out and got the bug floating around my department. Nice sense of humor, there ;oP

Home sick for part of this week, I looked around and realized my house is stuck, too--I can't move anything, clear anything. We are frozen in time.  Nothing has changed at my place since Christmas. To move even the mail recognizes the enormity of my loss and my inability to move forward. And yet there is a profound urge pushing me--driving me--from the inside out. This internal dilemma is making me sick, ruining my sleep, and causing my fibromyalgia to flare. Anxiety is through the roof. While this is definitely a wake up call, can *this* the push I've been waiting for? And if so, what the hell do I do about it? I loved my father. I don't know how to move on.

So many questions. So much unrest. I am befuddled and a little discouraged.

New Definitions of Productivity

My husband received his annual review this week. He has always been a model employee:  well-liked, thorough, dependable, accurate, rarely sick. This has made him a popular guy outside his department, but a source of some petty jealousy within.  This past year, apparently, there has been a "drop" in his "productivity." He is not pulling his weight. It is clear some of his colleagues, all of whom are allowed to make written comments, are Soul-less, Mean-Spirited Shrews who have clearly and conveniently forgotten what his life outside the ten-mile radius of this little town has been like over the past year. (Many people who live in this area have lived here all their lives, along with generations of their families. They literally don't get out much.)  

These comments, and the review by his supervisor left him shaken, angry, and resentful. He was hurt by the insinuation that he was not working enough, or fast enough.  We mentally reviewed the past year together, he and I; the trips out east, events, worries, scares, changes, and the tolls it took on us. Certainly from Christmas until my father's death on January 13th was the toughest, but every day leading up to that eventuality---as everyone knows who has a terminally ill family member ---is full of worry, sadness, longing, anxiety, and anticipatory grieving.  This anticipatory period is draining, too, and I'd say most people, except those who have been through it or sensitive to it, wouldn't "count" that as a weight on top of every day activities.   And of course, the period after the person you love dies is really hard. Duh.

For my husband, a man who has only recently come into his own emotional availability, grieving for his father-in-law has been very hard on him. To deflect the attention from himself, he will tell you that it's because he's been so worried about me, concerned for me, my weight loss, my stress, my sadness. While I know that is true, he has also begun worrying about his own parents, both still alive, and what their deaths will feel like to him.

MEMORANDUM
To: Soul-less Office Hags
From: Normal Human Being, only slightly biased
Re: K's not pulling his weight

cc: Ball-less Supervisor who delivered annual review

Does it not make sense that perhaps someone who's been through the ringer over the past year might be having a tough time at work? Should he have worn a sign to remind you? Might the weight of real life slow down the daily, weekly, or annual productivity of the department's most recognized employee?   Does it mean that he is just goofing off, or has a profound change temporarily altered his ability to function at the same level?

Just wondering, because, thankfully none of you has ever had the misfortune of watching and worrying as a loved one is dying slowly from a terminal disease, or have had to watch that person struggle to breathe, suffer indignities in front of your eyes, watch that person leave this life.  Thank goodness you have never had to arrange a funeral, clean out the house, watch a part of your own life change forever. And just keep on pumping out your 9-5 while your spouse is 1500 miles away for four months. As if nothing has happened.

Thank you, and have a nice day.

***

Right? So, he's telling me about his review, and when he's done, I gently remind him that it's possible his "productivity" may have indeed dropped. This may be a just fact rather than a judgment. What would be wrong with that, considering the past year? Whose work wouldn't be affected by the year we've had?  And I also said, gently, that he's experiencing grief for the first time in his life.  This is Something pretty Important. I am proud that he's recognizing and allowing himself this experience.  I told him, that, too. I'm glad our life together takes more of his spirit than his job. He is not only the Happy-Go-Lucky Guy everybody loves. He now has a vulnerability that is hard on him, hard won, but gives him so much more depth as a human being and as a partner. 

These little lightbulbs, appearing like fireflies, keep coming. Productivity has more than one definition.