Been a while, or at least it feels like it. Today would have been my mother's birthday. Today is also the birthday of a close friend, which brings present happiness in to the equation of past sadness. I can't imagine what my mother would be like, look like, if she had lived....probably not good. It is well she has passed on to peace, contentment, and health. She deserves that after such a hard life.
I went to my first writer's group meeting last week. It was interesting, and sadly, was exactly what I thought it would be like. I hope the dynamic changes at the next meeting and the next. Otherwise it won't be for me. Very nice people that write in a variety of styles, but I don't know how much criticism they'll offer. I want to be better, to entice a publisher.
I've recently went through one of the worst bouts of depression: two weeks of it. Called my doctor, my therapist, and they told me to ride it out unless I felt suicidal, which I did not.
Karl and I are thinking about our fathers a lot lately. This brings him down. His dad's birthday was early in September, and has gotten Karl thinking, and then me thinking about my dad. Let's just say it's been a little sombre around here of late.
My sister is moving like crazy to get her bakery opened, and I am so impressed with her--her spirit, her stick-to-it-iveness, her skill. I hope Karl and I can fly out for the opening. I also have another trip to New Work coming up that should be very exciting; I contacted a clothing designer I really admire and may go out to discuss him creating something for me for the Carnegie Hall gig. I am hearing my father saying: what the hell do you need that for? Too extravagant! I feel like, after looking at the past seven years of my life, that this may represent the new normal; and what better way than through clothes? God knows the cost...figure it out.
I am so melancholy at the change of seasons. When my dad was alive, I was out there for three Halloweens with him, my sister, and the kidlets. i made shirts for everyone with puffy paint. POPPI was over his chest. That was his connection to the holiday. The real connection was with the little ones running around, yelling, 'trick or treat!' Seeing us all there, wrapped in the swaddle of love, to pull out every bit of happiness there was to find. Living through those Halloweens has ruined them for me, for now. I don't want to deal with Halloween anymore. Thanksgiving either. The story of my father, one handed, trying to lift a 20lb turkey into the oven (because his other arm had a huge tumor on it, and he couldn't use it). He put the whole dinner together, with my sister bringing some of the side dishes. I wanted to be there. How could I known? Maybe I was in denial. And then there was Christmas. We all tried to focus our energies on the kids showering them with love, especially my father, because HE KNEW how close he was. After Christmas Day, the kids left, but my sister stayed, I think because she knew, too. So we all kept watch, trying to be humorous but tip-toeing around the breakthrough pain, trying to manage it, and seeing how carefully he kept records. He made the decision to go to the hospital, and as you know, we made the silent drive, thirty minutes to the hospital, where he ended up in the hospice wing. The rest of this is all documented at the beginning of this blog in March 2010. But what I say is that Christmas means only painful memories right now, and I've no interest in it. I don't know if I'll always be like this, needing to let holidays flow by me, without me, but still wanting to see my remaining family. I need to get a sense of what my sister is doing; with the bakery she may not be going anywhere; in that case, we'd go to CT, against my husband's wishes. I'd love to have Christmas with my RoRo. And Karl wants to spend it with his family; his mom recently widowed. How thin can we spread our sadness to "celebrate" the holidays? I just run to run off again, where Christmas isn't so important. Starting with Halloween, until my dad's death on January 13, is the darkest time of the year for me. Decline, pain, oxygen tanks, pain meds that don't help, visible bone tumors with no pain relief, his fear that things are coming to an end. It gives a preciousness to everything we did, and more worthy of remembering. But today, the sadness is overwhelming, and just want to run away. I am not ready to join the holidays yet.
About Me
- Catherine
- 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.
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