Quotes with power to help me see things clearer (annotated)

These are all quotes I've captured here and there--the ones that have spoken to me over the course of my father's illness and then his passing.  If you don't know me on Facebook, or where to find these quotes, I share them with you, and hope they inspire you. Peace.

“When it gets dark enough, you can see the stars.” -Charles A. Beard What I get from this quote is that I should not be afraid of the dark. There is mystery and wonder in it. I need to trust in the dark, that it is not a place a fear but a place of peace and beauty. Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. -Rainer Maria RilkeThis says to me we must rise to the challenge and face it. The dragon in my life was my father's failing health. He needed me to be brave for him.  I hope my bravery made me beautiful in his eyes, but than can only be his call now, sadly. I want to unfold, I don't want to stay folded anywhere, because where I am folded, there I am a lie.... ~ Rainer Maria Rilke For many years, in and out of my life at home with my parents, I was folded. My parents desired a certain product from me, or so I thought. I stayed folded around them for many years. And I never felt comfortable or acceptable around them in this "folded" state.  When I "unfolded" during the year with my father, I found acceptance, love, and strength. I am glad I had the balls to do it.  "In every life, no matter how full or empty one's purse, there is tragedy. It is the one promise life always fulfills. Thus, happiness is a gift, and the trick is not to expect it but to delight in it when it comes; and to add to other people's store of it. What happens if, too early, we lose a parent, that party on whom we rely for only...everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears. But then they did the vital thing: they built a new family person by person. They came to see that family need not be defined merely as those with whom they share blood, but as those for whom they would give their blood." ~Nicholas Nickelby/Charles Dickens I love this snapshot of Dickens' Nicholas Nickelby.  "They built a new family person by person." Inspiring, these words, but hard to do. Many of my friends shrank away when this  double tragedy (losing both my parents) happened. Not part of my new family.  Friends who were willing to take me as I was; empty, afraid, often crying. These are my new family.  I also keep in closer contact with my remaining family: sister, aunt and uncle.  Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in. ~Leonard Cohen As a perfectionist, I gave myself shit for everything--I lived too far away from my father; I wasn't there enough for my father; I didn't advocate for him enough as he was dying; I tried to be the perfect daughter/companion for my father in this process. This Cohen quote says it so beautifully--the crack in something lets the light in.  What a beautiful concept. It took a lot of the pressure off, and allowed us to be ourselves as my dad and I got closer. There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning. ~Louis L'Amour I found this quote...I don't remember where, only that it spoke to me at a very deep level. Imagining there could be a beginning after the death of my father. This was very painful, but as I've gone through the grieving process, I understand better the comfort of this beautiful statement. For here we are not afraid to follow the truth wherever it leads. ~ Thomas Jefferson This was our motto, my dad's and mine, when we started on this journey, ultimately, to his death. Neither of us wanted to be placated, or told soft-versions of what was happening. The truth gave us the strength to follow it. We both found there was no use in deluding ourselves or pretending the journey's end was going to be something other than it was.  "Absorbed in this world, you've made it your burden. Rise above this world. There is another vision. All your life you've paid attention to your experiences, but never to your Self. Are you searching for your Soul? Then come out of your prison. Leave the stream and join the river that flows into the Ocean. It will not lead you astray. Let the beauty you seek be what you do." - Rumi This came to me while my father was still alive, but I've continued to read it after. At a certain point in my father's illness, in hospice at the hospital, he started seeing things we could not. Looking for things we could not know. We knew he was nearing the end, the prison of this malicious disease. At some point, early that morning, he "joined the river that flows into the ocean." ALLES IST GUT WENN ES AUS SCHOKOLADE IST. Word. We both loved chocolate. Being but men, we walked into the trees Afraid, letting our syllables be soft For fear of waking the rooks, For fear of coming Noiselessly into a world of wings and cries. If we were children we might climb, Catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig, And, after the soft ascent, Thrust out our heads above the branches To wonder at the unfailing stars. Out of confusion, as the way is, And the wonder, that man knows, Out of the chaos would come bliss. That, then, is loveliness, we said, Children in wonder watching the stars, Is the aim in the end. Being but men, we walked into the trees. ~Dylan Thomas This has very deep significance for me. The cycle of life, our awareness of life, and how, at the end, we become like children "in wonder watching the stars" as we leave this life. This comforted me enormously after my father died. "Ever'thing there is but lovin' leaves a rust on yo' soul." ~Langston Hughes There is stunning truth in Mr. Hughes' one line poem. Life is so fucking short. Shit doesn't matter. Love matters. Let the other stuff go. You don't have to storm the world. Love what you do. Have a good life.  Discard stuff and people that don't serve you. Find your crew.

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Do you have any quotes you want to share? I'd love to have them. <3

Who am I now that my parents are gone?

Was I social before they died? Was it me breaking out of my shell at conservatory? When did it become alcohol-fueled social "skills"? I lost these "skills" and the false confidence once I stopped drinking. I am back to the awkward---well, wait--I have, now, what I refer to as the 'dog and pony show' for public consumption. It's not a masquerade at all. It's just me, as a caricature of myself, revved up and excited to teach the class, or meet parents, or ....whatever. What I don't know yet about myself in my personal social life is how to be normal. My normal. Am I shy? Am I asocial? Am I more of a listener than a talker?   When I drank I remember the feeling of great doors swinging open, releasing my social beast. I could talk about anything to anyone.  (What is in doubt is the quality of the conversation, my ability to listen, and then to remember.)

I don't get that feeling now; what I feel before a social event is a slight twisting of my stomach, and a fear that I wont' be able to get myself into a conversation. These years of death, and grief, have temporarily taken away my ability to find the right word for the thing I"m trying to talk about. I endlessly search for words. In my past life, I was loquacious, having a large and creative vocabulary that I used with ease. WHERE has it gone? Surely, my intelligence is not locked behind the bar.  But now, in conversation, I listen, see, watch, eyes, body language--research in a way--before I'd step into a conversation. I sometimes speak awkwardly, scramble for generically appropriate language to use in this particular company.  I have been known to stutter. I am very careful, I am on alert, and I am exhausted after what most people consider "down" time with their friends.

This kind of exhaustion happens at the end of the 'dog and pony show' too.

I want you to know that I am still struggling with the eating disorder, so I"m sure that contributes to the exhaustion happening at the end of every day.  But really, it's trying to figure who I really am that is wearing me out. My father would always tell me I was a little hard edged, brilliant, articulate, strong-willed, stubborn. And I became those things. My mother told me I should wear make up because "other people had to look at me." And so I did that, too. I literally tried to become the person each of my parents wanted. It is been evident I made it quite a distance on this presumption. I became an accomplished person, dressed myself attractively, and was considered by most a successful person.  Never the words "likeable" or "well-liked" part of those forming years. I liked to read, and so I was a loner. I was a singer in drama class, so I was artsy.  Labels swirled around me during my time at home, the place of my development . All through college, I thought I was remarkably together: focused, articulate, strong, brilliant (at times).  Through grad school, same deal, all the way through my doctorate. I was the person my parents raised me to be, although they weren't thrilled with the outcome that I'd used their language to develop myself in to a classical singer. Suddenly I became foreign to them, and I breathed life into that person.

As a professional, there are standards and practices that one learns along the way that helps in preparing for a career. One achieves those, and concerts start rolling in. Gigs roll in.  Always the late night dinner and drinking parties afterward. This is what I became, because my parents now expected it.

As a professor, I donned all that I should, hence the 'dog and pony show" was born. My personal social life roared, fueled by bottle after bottle of wine. My father noticed this and said something. I became very aware of it, (especially because my mother had died of alcoholism-related organ failure) and I stopped.

Once my father died, the depth of grief pulled me back from all of life except the necessary. For the first year, I tried to be the self my parents and I had created. It failed miserably because that, in concert with the daily 'dog and pony show' was wiping me out. Everything was automatic, which should be easier, but it was SO hard, because my grief was so deep.

I became a hermit outside of the classroom. I could keep the 'dog and pony show' going if I did nothing else with people. Socializing was work, I had trapped myself in a cave of grief, and I had nothing to contribute to conversations around the table. And I didn't plan to drink again, so all those things committed me to my house, evenings and weekends. Luckily I had a great deal of work to do in the evenings, so this was not a sacrifice, but Friday-Sunday, I spent in the safe-zone of my house.

This does not sound like the brave strong woman I was created to be. This is not the woman who understood that make up was for other people (have) to look at you. This was not the outlandish life of the party who, at 35, was drinking and puking like a college kid. Where was I if not manifested in these pre-ordained roles?

Since my mother died (2007) I have shed a lot of the negative talk she used to give me about myself. I wear make up, daily, because I like to. It's fun and creative. And frankly, I think I look better with it than without it. But I do think there's an inner attractiveness to me that doesn't need make up.

When my father died (2010) it was clear I was strong enough to handle what needed to be done as he lay dying in the hospital. But my heart was breaking, and becoming weaker by the day. The only strength I had left was a push from the Universe and when that ran out, I landed in a cottage down in Florida to rest (March 2010). It was then I started to wonder: who am I without my parents? If I were to create myself, what would I be like? Where is my organic self? It is the organic self that I want to become.

Searching for this has been challenging with so much grief still, and my enormous teaching load.

I can say this, today: I am learning that I am a bit shy with people I don't know; I will choose not to engage someone I do not like; I am effusive with my peeps, and easy going. I am my organic self with M and T and H, and my husband. I see and feel it. I am not really laid back, but I'm very happy to listen to people; I reach a point and my time with people is done. I recharge alone. I used to think I recharged by being around people, like my husband. And I am socially awkward--slightly--without alcohol smoothing the way.

My parents, I don't think they ever considered what the impacts of their deaths would have on me. I can't speak for my sister. I don't blame them for never thinking about this. Although I have elements of my parents' desires for me, I have, since their deaths, found some of my own. There are growing pains involved, and awkward conversations, and some stammering, and often in class I will not be able to find the right words for something I'm trying to say.  I have a little "absent-minded professor" in me.
But I am strong, beautiful. I can be funny, especially when I'm around people with whom I'm comfortable. I don't like social scenes like bars--they tire me out; I'd rather be home early, in my loungewear, petting the cats, watching television or reading. I also believe I am an "acquired taste" type of personality.

Still working on the rest of it.

I asked the Universe for a little respite...

...a little respite from the grief of losing my dad. I asked the Universe for a little break before the next life-changing thing shoots down from the heavens. And I got it. Yesterday, I closed my father's estate, officially. A sigh of relief, some tears, a rest.

This morning we are awakened by a phone call to get to GB as quickly as possible; my father-in-law was on a respirator and his vital signs were very low. Once we got "The Call" (you all know and fear this call), we jumped into action, packing quickly, including funeral clothes, extra underwear and meds, scooped up the kitties and boarded them and were on the six hour drive. At one point in the drive, we get another call from a sister-in-law: "We think we're going to pull him off the respirator, and he might not make it. Do you want us to wait for you to get here?"  K and I both thought back to the exact moment in my father's war with death--his anguish, agitation, disorientation.--and K felt it better to let his siblings do what they thought was best.  Van was off the respirator. And no call. And no call. Three hours left to the drive, and no call.  We were afraid we wouldn't make it before he passed away. We talked about it a little bit, and what that would mean to K.

We arrived to the hospital and found my father-in-law's room. There he was, looking like he'd been to hell and back, but awake. Off the respirator; just getting a little help with nasal canula (sp). We had made it, and the look of relief on K's face was so beautiful. We spent this afternoon listening to Van talk nonsense all day "Where's the paint? We have to paint the church?" Some times he was laughing at something he hadn't said, but perhaps seen or heard in his head.  He hasn't had much to drink --more than a sip or two of water, and no food.  My mother-in-law needs a warrior to step in, but I don't know if should be me. If she asks I am all hers. If she doesn't ask, I may try to feed Karl the questions....Being through this so recently has brought back some of the fear, the memories...but it also brings back the warrior I was for my father. Van, my father-in-law deserves a warrior too.

All of Karl's many siblings are doing their own things right now; two are at the hospital, we're here, in a hotel around the corner; two other siblings are at their homes, sleeping in their beds; my mother-in-law is also home, I hope sleeping soundly in her bed. Two siblings are out having a drink, to talk.

There was talk of "shifts" today to be with Van; my family did this with my father, so that he'd have someone with him all the time. That time was sacred, reverent.  Van's room is loud, with lots of people talking over him as he grows more confused and agitated. They want to keep his spirits up, the want to respond to him, even to his nonsense. But it's loud. This man is already on his journey; "Elle a la mer; nous au tombeau"....

It doesn't help that I don't really know what kind of care he's getting. This I will clear up in the morning. Is it palliative care? Are we talking about a hospice setting here in the hospital? Is your plan to release him to a hospice if all you are giving him is O2? What exactly is his diagnosis? Why is the nursing staff so slow to respond to requests? What exactly is the outcome? Are we waiting for his death? Are we waiting for him to stabilize so he can go to a nursing facility?  His wife has utter, almost blind, faith in the doctor. You don't question the doctor. Oh, boy. If I can sneak in a meeting with someone tomorrow, I will. Maybe it's only selfish, but I'm uncomfortable with so little knowledge. And I want the best care possible for my wonderful father-in-law. And I want his family to have all the details and ask all the questions they want.  If I can facilitate this, I would be honored.  It's a lesson learned that I am ready to pass on.   Peace, Van. Sleep well, and if the angels open a door, go with them.

I am Carolyn's Daughter

It's almost Mother's Day. And my parents' anniversary. And college graduation day. A lot of emotions all wrapped up in one freaking 24 hour period. But that's okay. I will have my tissues on hand, and my heart open, to see what happens. 

But first, I am Carolyn's daughter.  She was a complicated person, a conflicted person, and carried a lot of baggage with her until she passed in 2007.  And it's taken me until 2011 to want to talk about her.  The more I allow myself to remember, I see how similar we are. Some good, some destructive. Self-destructive.

My mother and I had an awkward relationship from the time I was born. She wasn't ready for me; she, a young, newly married woman at age 20, was "gifted" a baby with colic and a husband who was so dedicated to being a family man he worked two jobs. She was stuck with me, alone, most of the time. I remember her telling me, "If you hadn't been so cute, we would have taken you back."  Most of the time she was joking, but, I know there were times when she wished it could have been possible.

We began butting heads when I started talking at age 2. My dad used to say he'd come home from his teaching job, hear two voices yelling, and didn't know who was the kid and who was the mom.  This didn't change much through the years.

But she had the most beautiful blue eyes, and when she smiled she revealed the shyness she was desperately trying to hide.

She loved to cook, and was very, very good at it. Her meals are legendary in my family, our friends, and beyond. She brought lavish food to celebrate my recitals at conservatory. These receptions were unprecedented.  She cooked the entire week before my wedding for all the friends and family wandering in and out of the house. The post reception party. The wedding breakfast. Countless, gorgeously homemade food.  

She loved to shop. She always had a present or two in the house--if we wanted to give our teacher one, or last minute gift exchange occurred. She always wanted to have something nice in the house "just in case."  The most poignant memory I have of my mother shopping is actually an amalgam of many shopping days. We'd need school clothes or bathing suits or something, and she'd quietly add a pretty blouse for herself, or a dress, or a sweet tchotchke...We'd wander around the store, looking at pretty things, and then at some point, we'd wander again, tracing our steps as my mom put back all the things for herself. I cried about his for years. Until I found myself doing the same thing. Dreamshopping, I guess--picking anything I wanted, and wandered around with it until I decided if I needed it or not.  My sister also has this affliction. 

My mom loved her grandchildren. She was so proud to be the "Mimi" of these tiny toe-headed beauties. But even they could not prevent her drinking from escalating, leading to several hospitalizations, failed attempts at rehab, failed attempts at death, until one finally succeeded four years ago. 

I had stopped talking to my mother about a year and a half before her death. She had, because of her alcoholism, become toxic--writing me cruel letters, asking for gifts back; calling me on the phone to tell me I'd ruined our family...It was killing me and I had to distance myself from her.  It hurt my father that I did this. It hurt me, too. I never realized it had any impact on my mother until after she died. She had begun to write a letter of apology to me but never finished. We found a box in her bedroom, addressed to me.  I had my husband open it, overwhelmed. It was pair of diamond earrings my father had given her. "You are your father's daughter," she'd written in the letter we found. I don't know what she meant by yet another potent statement in a long line of them. 

I don't have memories of physical or even gentle affection from her. She was prickly, uncomfortable with intimacy. She was a private person, who could not, or chose not, to share herself with many people.   I, too, struggle with this kind of thing. There is a wall around me that stays firmly in place until I feel my own natural shyness recede. Or I decide you are not worthy of who I am, and the wall remains up, intentionally. But I thank god there is no alcohol that makes the decision. 

I wish my shy, beautiful mother had known how worthy she was to receive love and affection. 

I love you, Mom, for your kind heart. The rest will inevitably come to me, now that I'm free from the fat, evil trolls that kept you from me.  Happy Mother's Day.

Easter. Non Easter. Sunny Sunday Morning. Weekend Away.

Since our social scene has changed over the year,  I made reservations down in the Cities for Easter Weekend, at a swanky hotel in a skyscraper Karl adores for its architecture. 20th floor, lots of great views of the city.  Karl and I were afraid to admit it was a romantic weekend...I'm not ready for that kind of intimacy, but we did have a very nice weekend.  Together. There were so many people on our minds this morning at breakfast--my soul friends M & K finally reunited after many months separated by job, my sister and family, facing their new adventure, thanking M and J for a great dinner last night at Chiang Mai Thai.

And our room. Great room. Great shower, and all products by BLISS! (for those who know, that's bitchin', right?) We arrived to the hotel around 6pm and treated ourselves to valet parking, so we could check in, bring our stuff up to the room, and then find a place for dinner. When we got to our room, saw the great bed, white fluffy bathrobes, I was sold. Not going anywhere for dinner. The room service was absolutely delicious, and those of you knowing my problem with food would be very pleased.  I even ate a fair amount of fresh baked brownie cake with at least 2 pounds of fresh whipped cream on it, along with hot fudge and hot caramel sauces. Then we got nerdy. Put our jammies on, back on with the robes, and watch a night of Dr. Who. So calm, so peaceful, it was just what we needed. Slept like a log.

I tried not to think it was my father's second easter up in heaven, or in my own invention---the ether---. When I think, now, of this, I hope he is up there with my mother, watching my niece and nephew enjoying their easter baskets, running around on a sugar high.

This easter was not painful, except for the fact that the ppl we have always shared Easter with have fallen off our radar screen. So it was a new tradition for us, maybe. I like it. It was peaceful. We went to an old haunt, The Local, where I had some fine Irish gold tea and K has Guinness. We wandered, without a plan for the whole of the day. It was a day I breathed deeply and easily all day long.  Loved the day, got some fun things, and then met friends for dinner.

As I re-introduce myself into the world, more people notice my tattoo, which has been augmented into a cuff-style bracelet, having charms for each person in my life. I don't mind telling people about it, but only in a general way.  My father was not greatly into tattoos, except for the one he got when he spent a Thanksgiving here with us (after my mother died). A rearing black stallion, over his heart.

My re-entry is as a very different person than when I left. I am more authentic, less tolerant of social and political shenanigans, and willing to be emotionally present as it comes.  It is still a little roller coaster ride, not entirely predictable.  I am more aware that I don't have to worry about that; I can handle the bumps and bruises.

Nose to the grindstone as far as work goes; last week of the semester; events every  night. Every day  will be filled with student desperate to raise their grades at the literal 11th hour. I will try to be unemotional and consistent in my responses to students.

My dear friend M is finally reunited with her husband in KC; they've been living apart as a family since September. I know Easter will ALWAYS be a special holiday for them, and I'm grateful.

So, I wasn't expecting any Easter-y things to happen; that was fine. But we did have a stress-free weekend, away from home, had good food and good company. My father would have wished I'd be with family, and I'd always have to remind him that I'd have to fly out Friday night and fly back Sunday --there's no real time for travel.

We are one week away from the end of the semester and the end of the year long insanity of returning from a heartbreaking sabbatical. I've healed a lot, opened up a lot, and have less time for nonsense. My dream is still waving at me, and I am going to follow it. There's a door opening, and when it does, I'm walking through it and never looking back. I"ll be holding Karl's hand, so it'll be fine.

Happy Easter, Happy Spring, Happy Renewal.

Springtime

It's been a busy academic year, teaching on overload, reconfiguring all lecture materials into smartclassroom formats, and all with the veil of grief. I am seeing the light at the end of the academic tunnel, only to realize I had agreed to teach the university's "intercession' rather than summer session I. Bummer. I have only a week's turnaround time between end of semester and starting the intercession--which is a compressed class, four days a week for 2.5 hours a day. Not complaining really. Work is good for me. I am productive, focused, and it keeps me engaged intellectually. My heart is TOO easily engaged, still...so it waits for me to clear the calendar.  And so when June rolls around, it is officially "heart time."
Finally addressing the boxes of things from my father's house, choosing where to put them, if to keep them, and how to store them.  I will have the time to fall apart as I touch his love letters to my mother, because i know I will read every single one of them again. And the throws, the ones my mom loved to snuggle under, they're here, too. My father's beautiful cameras, the "real" one with the chip that captured the last two years of his life, through his eyes. Getting ready to get the chip "developed" and sent to my sister and our aunt.
I have put off grieving, in a way. I chose to return from sabbatical and dig in--teaching a big overload--to keep my focused on the present moment. Perhaps that is pushing grief aside, but I could not function with my grief. I promised my heart it will have all summer. My heart is definitely ready for its opportunity. Thank god my own chronic physical pain has been addressed to a manageable level, and this gives me the courage to allow my grief its part in this process of reclaiming my life as mine. I dedicated my life to my parents during the many years of their consecutive and ultimately fatal illnesses.  I feel good that I did that.  And now. it is time for me. Look at every item, touch every item, smell it, relive the memories associated with each thing, and then mindfully craft a place for it to be. So that my house is mine again. Mine and Karl's.
I anticipate being a mess during the summer. It will be the first time since my father's death that I can devote my mind, body, and spirit to whatever grieving I still need to do. It's a lot, because I haven't done very much. For good or not, I had to get myself through the academic year successfully. And now I am almost done.

My garden was abandoned last summer....detritus still there, evidencing my neglect. This summer will be different I hope. I can't believe how much different I feel in a year's time; a year and four months' time.  I , finally, feel some fledgling wings wiggling under the surface of my skin. I look to the sky and imagine.

Many of my beloved friends are in the flow of change. I hope that our friendship vibes, so connected to each other, will help the others along, so we can help each other through and out, to maintain peace, to step out in a new life. It is on these friends I focus my energy, because it comes back to me threefold. My father had friends like that, friends that uplifted him and were ready to party and have fun; these same friends sat at the hospital everynight, and eventually became the pall bearers to Dad's final resting place. Their goodness, and true friendship extended my father's life. My niece and nephew extended his life too, as did my sister and I. What an honor, what a position I gladly served.

Our house is still a mess, although I am sleeping in my actual bed. This has been so a long time, thanks to a friend who came over to help me wade through things, donating clothes I knew I'd never wear again: the things I wore at the hospital for those three weeks, and then during the next four months on the road. It's paper work. On all flat surfaces. It feels so insignificant that I don't even want to bother with it. I have enough paper with teaching that I don't want to touch or acknowledge any more. Now that we're having some work done at the house, we need to break out of our pattern and find true homes for necessary paper in our lives. Will a new kitchen help bring back my appetite and interest in food? Don't know.  I know I can't afford to lose much more weight.; I'm at my lowest, 97lbs, but I am only a tiny thing at 5 feet tall.

My sister has done an about face! She is going to launch a new career, and I wish her success and happiness. And if she needs me, I hope to be there for her. I, too, am trying to do something new, but slowly and mindfully this transition will be. I know what I want, I think I can achieve it, I just need to DO IT. It involves a change of scenery, though, and we're not a united front on this part. I know my parents always wanted us to be successful and happy, and my sister and I really want to be both, in our own ways. This will be a wonderful homage to both parents, as they, for many years, had jobs that were just a paycheck and health insurance for our family. It's scary jumping off a known ledge, wondering what the landing will be like, how far down will it be, and whether or not to expect broken bones....
Flying blind without my parents--that's what it feels like--because they'd be the ones to whom I'd talk about something of this magnitude. Same with my sister. Hopefully we can talk to each other...we may be on our way. I'd really like that.  I want to LOVE my life. And live it in gratitude. I do, I do now--live in gratitude; many times a day I say it aloud or to my heart, the things I'm thankful for. My wishes are still too timid to be enunciated aloud. Someday I'll find that voice, and the wings that feel like they're sprouting will be ready for me. I look forward to that day.

Catching up with my father

Dad,
I don't know if there is an afterlife, but in this life, your birthday is coming up. A day I will celebrate by calling my sister and Ro Ro. And talk about how great a person you were, as a father, as a family man, as a brother and a son.

I drove by your house during my last visit to CT on the way to M's..The house looks good. The new owner kept your American flag flying. The big windows you loved to leave uncovered are still so--there's a large beautiful plant drinking in the sun and ... a cat condo, too. The man who bought your house understands it the way you did. I wanted you to know.

The year since you've gone has been a tough one. I"d always been able to confide in you, ask for your advice.  I've learned to fly a little blind but with the help of friends and beloved Ro Ro. And of course, Karl. Dad, he is my rock. A better man you could not have chosen for me. He loved you very much, and you inspired him, too. I really miss talking to you during the week, after work, and catching up. I especially miss our Sunday morning calls before Karl woke up. When we really talked about how things were going for you, how the cancer and treatment were doing, and handling side effects. I'm sorry I never asked you more questions, but I wanted any discussion of your cancer to be on your terms.

You'd be proud, Dad. After Ro Ro and I straightened up, cleaned and then staged the house for the realtor, I left on my sabbatical trip and accomplished some of what I could do. Part of me was devastated, but I know you'd want me out there, doing my thing.  Four months of travelling, ending up at a rental house on Sanibel Island, where I stayed alone for a week. Biking, walking, sitting on the beach. Drained. Empty.  Dad, that was the first time I really stopped to grieve, but I wasn't ready. I was still numb. After I got back to Minnesota, it hit me pretty hard. The estate business kicked in, and so I hit that, pushing my grief aside to get that work done. I know it's what you would have done.

The hardest day, after the funeral itself, Dad, was cleaning out your house. You'd already cleaned out Mom's stuff, but the house was still full of you. I found the love letters you wrote to mom; I never knew you were such a poet. Ro Ro knew, mom knew...they're beautiful, dad. Thank you for loving mom so much for so long through all the stuff that happened.  I needed help with the house, so Karl and I called Dion and company, and they came to help. It was hard to get going, to figure out how to begin the process of throwing things of Yours away. I took all of your clothes to a consignment store; the furniture was also taken for consignment. Michelle had a really hard time with this, so she was only in and out.

Each time I left your house, I kissed the front door like I was kissing your cheek. I never quite knew when the last time would be. It was July. That was the last time. Your house sold in November.  I saw it just recently, in March. The first and only house you bought and ever lived in. The house you really loved. The house I spent a semester with you the year before you died. The house we drove you away from for the last time as we took you to the hospital just after Christmas. The quietest ride in our family's history. We all knew, and wanted you to talk only if you wanted. We didn't know what to say. And thank god Vidya met us there.  How much more you remember,  I'll never know. The drugs, the morphine, the anxiety and ultimately, the life left your body. We got the call and came immediately.

So during this year you've been gone, I haven't done so well. I've poured myself into work--that you'd like--:o) both at the university at for your estate, but I've had an awfully hard time keeping my spirits up and my health reasonable. I've lost 30 pounds and am struggling to eat. I have worked for months to get to one meal a day and I think it's working. My health has been suffering, too, but I'm working to find some answers and I"m not giving up. After finishing the bulk of the estate work, I finally let myself start grieving, and it has been a time of deep, raw sadness that had to wait its time--a long time--until the important work was complete. And then I let myself go. Go to work, go home, go to pieces. I tell you this just so you know, not to complain to you up in the ether...

Over a year later, you are missed more than ever. Your furniture rests easily in our house, and the kitchen will at last look the way you imagined when you visited: beautiful, natural maple cabinets and drawers, cool dark countertops.  There are mornings when I wander around my house, opening drawers of the furniture from your house, and smelling Your house inside. Sometimes I cry, but other times it's just nice.  Dad, it's a rollercoaster for me. I should be, at 45, easily capable of moving forward, but honestly, the heart of me doesn't feel like I can without leaving you behind. And I can't do that, Dad. Leave you behind.

A year after you passed away, I am still trying to figure out how to move on and keep you with me.
I have good days, moments of joy and happiness. All of which I would normally have shared with you. You never taught me much about grief. I think I know why. How could anyone tell the story of grief? Dad, you saved and protected me from so much while you were well, even while you were sick. Grief has been a lesson I've  learned on my own. Decidedly so. We should all learn it on our own.  And you raised me to be a strong, independent woman. And so I am. But one who suffers daily, still, from your passing. A year later, Karl and I are stronger than ever, and have renewed our vows though living them. Life is very precious, and there are few people in the world who really matter. You showed me that--your family, soul-friends. I am working hard to get to know Michelle better; I don't know if she'll ever open up to me. She is drowning in her grief and won't let me help her.

I want you to know that I'll be singing in Carnegie Hall next year ; our trio is under management in New York City. And the concert will be mostly in English. You'd probably still hate it, but every note, every phrase, every bow will be dedicated to you. By the time this concert happens, another year will have passed since you left us. I know you will be in my heart that night; for now, my heart is still broken. Heartstrings are slowly growing, reaching like tendrils from one side to the other, and the mending may be beginning.  The neurologist I am seeing is requesting an echocardiogram. I wonder what it will show. A hole? A malfunction? I wouldn't be surprised.

But still, I'm here, Dad, doing what I do and dreaming of the future, doing things to honor your name and your legacy. You were just such an amazing person. I'd known you 44 years, always knew you were there, and a year without you feels like a lifetime now.  But I'm hanging in there. Some days, barely, other days are wonderful. And I thank you for the wonderful days--a day you would have been proud of me for carrying on, or laughing out loud, or being kind to my kitties.  Losing you, the most devastating experience in my life, has brought me closer to simpler happiness, needing more affection, and closer to the real me--the sweet girl you always knew hid behind the hard shell of the competitive singer. This sweet girl still loves you a ton.