It's been a long time since I've posted. Things are very busy, and although I thought the Estate was closed and all duties completed, some last minute things popped up and threw me for a loop, simply because of my state of mind. It felt like the wound was re-opened. I was traumatized by having to gather the documents (which required going through the entire file cabinet...a memory behind each folder, each receipt) and the paperwork for me to do--giving instructions to my (now) financial advisor...Too much. Let's complete the Estate work, and then I need a little time to let that go before I really accept that this money is mine to invest to spend, to donate, whatever. This is stressful.
I"m staying in the moment of each day, and grief is a part of it, even a year out. I am changed forever, and I am finally beginning to think it is in a good way. I couldn't have said that even six months ago. I am still feeling devastated about my dad's death. I cry almost every day, but I can get through the school day without breaking down: this works because of established rules of conversation topics.
Getting ready to head out and meet friends for spring break. I warned them, even with FB, that I look dramatically different because of the weight loss. Now considered an eating disorder, grief -related. Losing 30 pounds in the year following my father's death. Too sad to eat is an over- simplification of this deal. I have vivid memories of my father not being able to eat, and then too, when his body stopped accepting food. This was a profound experience. Do I want to follow him?? No, nothing like that, but it affected me in a way I cannot describe. Husband, doctor, therapist, and aunt have all mentioned their concern. It's not that I am starving myself. I am not hungry. My "team'" has me eating one meal a day. And it feels strange. There is an emotional component to it and I will be reflecting on this as time goes by. Coffee in the morning: a must have. Water through the day: on it. Juices in the evening are calming.
I may have to do the Ensure thing for a little while, to get some nutrients that I am missing. I'm told my appetite will return as my grief changes and moves into another phase. I am letting Grief take the wheel and lead me through this. I've been places I've never expected, and this is just another stop, I guess. I admit that I look thin, and I believe I'm expressing my grief in this way.
I honestly don't know what more to do, except seeing my staff of doc, shrink, fam and listening to their advice. I will make it, eventually, to a lighter-hearted place, but for now, I settle for light-hearted moments. I have a marvelous husband, soul-friends, and two cats that I adore. My sister and her family, too, and keep hoping we'll become close because it's very important to me. One thing at a time, though. Or else I crumble and crawl under the covers. I look forward to the day when there is no more mail addressed to my father coming to my house. I don't need the reminder.
Nighty night, friends.
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.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
A friend told me I'd begin to find some peace once the "big anniversary" passed. I didn't believe her, but thanked her for the words of encouragement. I read, just yesterday, an article in one of the fashion mags--I was getting my haircut--written by a young woman in her thirties, who had lost both her parents and what that's like around the holidays. She used the word freedom several times throughout her article, which was full of loving remembrances and some tear-jerking reminiscences (sp).
These two words, peace and freedom, have stuck with me, rumbling around in my head, my heart, trying to see if they have a home. I don't know, yet. But I can tell you it's an intriguing idea.
I went about my life, keeping busy, staying in the moment with my students...even enjoying an actual evening with my husband: Indian food and a Wallace and Gromet movie (The Curse of the Were-Rabbit). But these little words kept popping back up in my mind, immediately to be followed by a shushing of my consciousness; those words, those feelings are not for you. A week or so passed, and I had a little time for reflection, thinking back on the short time since the first anniversary of my father's death. Can I have peace? Have I freedom in my life without my parents? Wow. This doesn't seem possible. But in fact, it's happening. In little pieces and moments.
I am inhaling more deeply, yes, and more often. I am eating now, a little bit, every day. I'm still losing weight but I am working on this with my therapist. It was just recently that I went out with K to a screening of a documentary I was in --about a performance in which I sang the European premiere of a Holocaust Oratorio. I have been cutting my hair shorter and shorter each time I visit my stylist, and now have a real pixie cut. More recently, I've been sleeping in my bedroom after having it cleaned out. (I even bought new bedding!) All of my clothes are new--not expensive, but new. Everything that I had in my closet while my father was alive is gone, except for my gowns.
It's troubling that I see these things as huge changes in my life, picking through each one with an analytical eye, checking the significance of each against the words peace and freedom.
There are measures of each word in my recent actions and evolution. I love my cropped hair and pierced nose. I LOVE sleeping in my bedroom, after sleeping on the couch for a year. I do feel some peace every day and I smile a little more at home. (At school it still feels like the dog-and-pony show). I talk about my father in classes, when applicable, or when the mood strikes me. I mean, I didn't need anyone's permission to cut my hair, or pierce my nose, or doing a thorough cleanse of old clothes. I haven't felt peaceful starving myself with a scary lack of appetite. I don't necessarily feel more peaceful eating a little bit at dinner.
Someday, I"ll start cooking again, and maybe even going out. God, I hope so. I want laughter back in my life, but all I seem to get are memories of myself laughing. Hearing my father's laugh makes me cry. I can't believe I didn't say goodbye to my mother while she was alive.
Though all of this is true, I have moments of peace, and I recognize them because they pop out of my day's Jack-in-the-box. Freedom, though, is a mystery. I've always felt like a free spirit, but honestly, I have always felt tethered to my father's opinion of me. This has served me well, so no complaints there. And there are the inevitable "what would dad do?" moments. I think about this, and sometimes I take a different direction. Like, maybe a career change, or buying a beautiful piece of jewelry. Or stepping out in baggy pants and a huge sweater. Big. Small. Changes. Evolutions. Peace. Freedom.
I am Becoming. A woman, a grown up, at 45.
These two words, peace and freedom, have stuck with me, rumbling around in my head, my heart, trying to see if they have a home. I don't know, yet. But I can tell you it's an intriguing idea.
I went about my life, keeping busy, staying in the moment with my students...even enjoying an actual evening with my husband: Indian food and a Wallace and Gromet movie (The Curse of the Were-Rabbit). But these little words kept popping back up in my mind, immediately to be followed by a shushing of my consciousness; those words, those feelings are not for you. A week or so passed, and I had a little time for reflection, thinking back on the short time since the first anniversary of my father's death. Can I have peace? Have I freedom in my life without my parents? Wow. This doesn't seem possible. But in fact, it's happening. In little pieces and moments.
I am inhaling more deeply, yes, and more often. I am eating now, a little bit, every day. I'm still losing weight but I am working on this with my therapist. It was just recently that I went out with K to a screening of a documentary I was in --about a performance in which I sang the European premiere of a Holocaust Oratorio. I have been cutting my hair shorter and shorter each time I visit my stylist, and now have a real pixie cut. More recently, I've been sleeping in my bedroom after having it cleaned out. (I even bought new bedding!) All of my clothes are new--not expensive, but new. Everything that I had in my closet while my father was alive is gone, except for my gowns.
It's troubling that I see these things as huge changes in my life, picking through each one with an analytical eye, checking the significance of each against the words peace and freedom.
There are measures of each word in my recent actions and evolution. I love my cropped hair and pierced nose. I LOVE sleeping in my bedroom, after sleeping on the couch for a year. I do feel some peace every day and I smile a little more at home. (At school it still feels like the dog-and-pony show). I talk about my father in classes, when applicable, or when the mood strikes me. I mean, I didn't need anyone's permission to cut my hair, or pierce my nose, or doing a thorough cleanse of old clothes. I haven't felt peaceful starving myself with a scary lack of appetite. I don't necessarily feel more peaceful eating a little bit at dinner.
Someday, I"ll start cooking again, and maybe even going out. God, I hope so. I want laughter back in my life, but all I seem to get are memories of myself laughing. Hearing my father's laugh makes me cry. I can't believe I didn't say goodbye to my mother while she was alive.
Though all of this is true, I have moments of peace, and I recognize them because they pop out of my day's Jack-in-the-box. Freedom, though, is a mystery. I've always felt like a free spirit, but honestly, I have always felt tethered to my father's opinion of me. This has served me well, so no complaints there. And there are the inevitable "what would dad do?" moments. I think about this, and sometimes I take a different direction. Like, maybe a career change, or buying a beautiful piece of jewelry. Or stepping out in baggy pants and a huge sweater. Big. Small. Changes. Evolutions. Peace. Freedom.
I am Becoming. A woman, a grown up, at 45.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Looking back one year, today
Good day. You all know this is the marker of my world going wonky. Today a year ago, my father died, at 6.30am. I didn't awake at this mystical hour this morning, as I thought I would, but it took me forever to fall asleep last night with thoughts, memories. Memories of that last night with Dad in the hospital. Another 12, 14 hour day. He was very sedated but feeling such pain and struggling to breathe. The proper life support tubes were in place, in every orifice. I don't know if he realized we'd said goodbye that night. So much pain medication to keep him comfortable.
The morning of January 13th I got a call ----we were all staying at my father's house-- at 6.30am.
THE CALL.
We all buckled for a moment in the hallway, unkempt, sleep -deprived, and suddenly with a hole ripped right through us . "Do you want an autopsy?" "Do you want to come and see the body before we release IT to the funeral home?" I called my sister, in a panic, and asked her what she wanted. I was too numb to know what to say. She wanted to see him, in the hospital, before the funeral home came to get 'the body' formally known as my father, so we all got ready and went.
We all got dressed: karl and i , my aunt and uncle, and got to the hospital to see him unplugged, after three weeks of tubes everywhere. Machines were turned off. It was quiet. I asked how he died. The nurse said his heart gave out. From the pressure of the lung tumor upon it. But he was still warm.
My sister came, and we felt his warmth in the hospital bed, but there was a stiffness that wasn't there before. We kissed him and kissed him, his cheeks, his forehead, his hands. Had it sunken in? Suddenly a plate of cookies and a carafe of coffee came in from the hospital. Such a lovely gesture, but it could serve no purpose. We never even gave it a glance. We stayed for a while--don't know how long, truly--
And then I went into Warrior Mode. He had asked me to be Executrix. And so I went: Delegating phone calls ---Karl to some, Ro to others, Me to others. An appointment with the funeral home, the stone mason, the cemetery groundskeeper, the paul bearers, the venue for the luncheon after: my father's favorite happy hour location--the one with whom he shared every Friday his closest friends, his soul brothers.
The three of us --me, my sister, my husband-- met with the funeral director to choose things. "CHOOSE THINGS". Casket, service, prayer cards, wake hours, obituary (which I wrote), burial next to my mother . Viewing date. Service Date. Interment date. Skads of phone calls that my aunt lovingly made to our extended families up and down the east coast and out to Ohio.
I don't remember when the funeral happened, honestly. At first we wanted no priest because my father had an open disdain for the Catholic Church. (N.B. We are descendants of the first two brothers in the Catholic Church to be cannonized together). I knew of my father's disdain; my extended family did not. At the last minute I asked the funeral home if we could have a priest open and close the ceremony with a proper prayer. I read excerpts from The Warrior of Light by Paulo Coehlo; my sister talked about him as a Poppi, or grandfather. Perfect . Our wonderful friends and family from all over came to tell us what a wonderful man he was. The receiving line was hell. My sister and I barely kept our composure. I did a little bit better, but I'm really good about putting up walls against people. My sister is very gentle.
We were all still numb. My father had us believing he was going to win. We all wanted him to win, and frankly if anyone could, it would be someone with his fierce character, his fierce loyalty to family and friends. It was a shock that he died, even though we'd had the meeting with the staff "there's nothing we can do but keep him comfortable"...
So he was buried next to my mother, who had died January 4th, 2007. My father could not face seeing the stone mason to get a stone going for my mother--I mean, he was diagnosed to death so close after my mother died--and so, in Warrior mode ,so I went straight away, and decided on their name as a headstone, with their individual names and dates. I wanted to add something personal, so desperately; my sister was so distraught, I didn't want to bother her. So I decided on beautiful roses, briar roses that are intergrown, and then the phrase, (or epitaph) "Beloved Parents." Beautifully executed on Connecticut granite. I was not able to witness its placement, but the lovely stone mason sent me a photograph. (He was a paesan, btw) And I have seen it since.
I've visited their graves twice now: once in June when cleaning out my father's house as it needed; and once after. My dearest friend, M, set some flowers there once the home was sold. I asked her to say "thank you" to both of them. For so many things. Too many to number. I have the briar roses tattooed on the small of my back. I may add "beloved parents" but I don't know. That's already in my heart.
I feel cheated. I still hear my father's voice on the other end of the phone "Hellooooooo!" And I see his smile and feel his hugs that had an audible component "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," whether in person or over the phone.
I've read his love letters to my mother; he kept all the cards I sent him every week for two years. I couldn't keep those.
My father was a man of substance, of principle, of loyalty, and above all, love. In my life, I will never know a man his equal.
Requiescat in pace, mi padre.
The morning of January 13th I got a call ----we were all staying at my father's house-- at 6.30am.
THE CALL.
We all buckled for a moment in the hallway, unkempt, sleep -deprived, and suddenly with a hole ripped right through us . "Do you want an autopsy?" "Do you want to come and see the body before we release IT to the funeral home?" I called my sister, in a panic, and asked her what she wanted. I was too numb to know what to say. She wanted to see him, in the hospital, before the funeral home came to get 'the body' formally known as my father, so we all got ready and went.
We all got dressed: karl and i , my aunt and uncle, and got to the hospital to see him unplugged, after three weeks of tubes everywhere. Machines were turned off. It was quiet. I asked how he died. The nurse said his heart gave out. From the pressure of the lung tumor upon it. But he was still warm.
My sister came, and we felt his warmth in the hospital bed, but there was a stiffness that wasn't there before. We kissed him and kissed him, his cheeks, his forehead, his hands. Had it sunken in? Suddenly a plate of cookies and a carafe of coffee came in from the hospital. Such a lovely gesture, but it could serve no purpose. We never even gave it a glance. We stayed for a while--don't know how long, truly--
And then I went into Warrior Mode. He had asked me to be Executrix. And so I went: Delegating phone calls ---Karl to some, Ro to others, Me to others. An appointment with the funeral home, the stone mason, the cemetery groundskeeper, the paul bearers, the venue for the luncheon after: my father's favorite happy hour location--the one with whom he shared every Friday his closest friends, his soul brothers.
The three of us --me, my sister, my husband-- met with the funeral director to choose things. "CHOOSE THINGS". Casket, service, prayer cards, wake hours, obituary (which I wrote), burial next to my mother . Viewing date. Service Date. Interment date. Skads of phone calls that my aunt lovingly made to our extended families up and down the east coast and out to Ohio.
I don't remember when the funeral happened, honestly. At first we wanted no priest because my father had an open disdain for the Catholic Church. (N.B. We are descendants of the first two brothers in the Catholic Church to be cannonized together). I knew of my father's disdain; my extended family did not. At the last minute I asked the funeral home if we could have a priest open and close the ceremony with a proper prayer. I read excerpts from The Warrior of Light by Paulo Coehlo; my sister talked about him as a Poppi, or grandfather. Perfect . Our wonderful friends and family from all over came to tell us what a wonderful man he was. The receiving line was hell. My sister and I barely kept our composure. I did a little bit better, but I'm really good about putting up walls against people. My sister is very gentle.
We were all still numb. My father had us believing he was going to win. We all wanted him to win, and frankly if anyone could, it would be someone with his fierce character, his fierce loyalty to family and friends. It was a shock that he died, even though we'd had the meeting with the staff "there's nothing we can do but keep him comfortable"...
So he was buried next to my mother, who had died January 4th, 2007. My father could not face seeing the stone mason to get a stone going for my mother--I mean, he was diagnosed to death so close after my mother died--and so, in Warrior mode ,so I went straight away, and decided on their name as a headstone, with their individual names and dates. I wanted to add something personal, so desperately; my sister was so distraught, I didn't want to bother her. So I decided on beautiful roses, briar roses that are intergrown, and then the phrase, (or epitaph) "Beloved Parents." Beautifully executed on Connecticut granite. I was not able to witness its placement, but the lovely stone mason sent me a photograph. (He was a paesan, btw) And I have seen it since.
I've visited their graves twice now: once in June when cleaning out my father's house as it needed; and once after. My dearest friend, M, set some flowers there once the home was sold. I asked her to say "thank you" to both of them. For so many things. Too many to number. I have the briar roses tattooed on the small of my back. I may add "beloved parents" but I don't know. That's already in my heart.
I feel cheated. I still hear my father's voice on the other end of the phone "Hellooooooo!" And I see his smile and feel his hugs that had an audible component "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," whether in person or over the phone.
I've read his love letters to my mother; he kept all the cards I sent him every week for two years. I couldn't keep those.
My father was a man of substance, of principle, of loyalty, and above all, love. In my life, I will never know a man his equal.
Requiescat in pace, mi padre.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
A New Year
Made it through Christmas. I was so happy to get presents out to everyone on time in the midst of total grading hell. This year of searching brought some changes to my teaching as well. I wanted to make the students' experience mean more. No multiple choice final exam, nossiree. A project! A project that allows people to really synthesize the information of the entire semester. Writing, lots of handwriting. In a class of 130.
It took me three weeks just to grade the finals for that class. Boy, was I ready for Key West.
I was excited to bring Karl to Key West for Christmas. Yes, I was escaping reality a bit, but I was also trying to live in the moment. And my moment wanted sun, warmth, ocean, palm trees. And Karl. I did want an 'anti-Christmas' this year, low key, no santas, no carols, no joy to the world. None of that was for me, much as I tried. The Christmas spirit did not reside with me this year. Maybe next year.
Last year, at Christmas, we were all together at Dad's house, and he, magnanimous host, was spectacular with the grandkids and all their excitement and silly craziness. He looked dapper, and smiled a lot. He ate a little. And because he refused to wear the nasal canula that gave him oxygen while the kids were around, he went to bed very, very early. I think he knew then (and before) that he was dying. I knew two days after, on December 27th, a day I will never forget. The silent drive to the hospital, the phone call to my aunt, the fear unspoken on my father's face; the pain spoke volumes. My gorgeous and soul-friend, Vidya, helped get him admitted into a room on the cancer wing, the hospice wing.
I still have not been able to look at the pictures from Christmas last year.
This Christmas, there was no breakdown, though I was decidedly sedate, melancholy. I tried to find joy everywhere, but what I found was a quiet happiness. I took that, drank it like water, and was grateful. My sweet husband, as ever, was enjoying everything, lapping up the new experience, new location, as he always does. We toasted my father at the restaurant on Christmas night, and I think being in public was good. I cried a little, but not the soul-ripping that was to come on New Year's Eve. We made it through Christmas, and flew back to town just after.
New Year's Eve brought such a flood of emotions; the word "emotion" cannot encompass what I was feeling. I'm sure each of you, each of you who's lost someone knows the depth of pain that escapes from your throat like a wild animal, ripping open the wound that hadn't even begun to heal. I almost vomited from the intensity. I couldn't breathe. I cooked our New Year's Dinner while sobbing. My poor husband, stuck with an injured animal. Last year, the full moon shone in an empty cold sky as I sat with my father in the hospital. My husband had flown home briefly, only to turn around and come back. Looking out the hospital window, I wondered what 2010 would be like, and I could conjure nothing. Now I know. I look back, and don't know what to think. How to describe it? Can one experience define an entire year. Hell, yes. It might end up defining the rest of my life.
I have gone through all the "firsts" this year, but one. On January 13 it will be one year, exactly, that my father died and this journey began. 6.30am.
I have to teach until noon, but I will high-tail it back home for what I expect to be another round of gut-wrenching sob-fests. I am not embarrassed about this, although they are exhausting. My aunt (my father's sister) said to me the other day: "When I die, I HOPE people will be sad for a year!" And we laughed, both understanding what a gift love is, and what the cost of it can be.
It is now 2011. The first year without my father in the world. The first year without either of my parents in the world. And I, at 45, wonder if this will be when the flower finally opens, or withers and falls off its stem.
It took me three weeks just to grade the finals for that class. Boy, was I ready for Key West.
I was excited to bring Karl to Key West for Christmas. Yes, I was escaping reality a bit, but I was also trying to live in the moment. And my moment wanted sun, warmth, ocean, palm trees. And Karl. I did want an 'anti-Christmas' this year, low key, no santas, no carols, no joy to the world. None of that was for me, much as I tried. The Christmas spirit did not reside with me this year. Maybe next year.
Last year, at Christmas, we were all together at Dad's house, and he, magnanimous host, was spectacular with the grandkids and all their excitement and silly craziness. He looked dapper, and smiled a lot. He ate a little. And because he refused to wear the nasal canula that gave him oxygen while the kids were around, he went to bed very, very early. I think he knew then (and before) that he was dying. I knew two days after, on December 27th, a day I will never forget. The silent drive to the hospital, the phone call to my aunt, the fear unspoken on my father's face; the pain spoke volumes. My gorgeous and soul-friend, Vidya, helped get him admitted into a room on the cancer wing, the hospice wing.
I still have not been able to look at the pictures from Christmas last year.
This Christmas, there was no breakdown, though I was decidedly sedate, melancholy. I tried to find joy everywhere, but what I found was a quiet happiness. I took that, drank it like water, and was grateful. My sweet husband, as ever, was enjoying everything, lapping up the new experience, new location, as he always does. We toasted my father at the restaurant on Christmas night, and I think being in public was good. I cried a little, but not the soul-ripping that was to come on New Year's Eve. We made it through Christmas, and flew back to town just after.
New Year's Eve brought such a flood of emotions; the word "emotion" cannot encompass what I was feeling. I'm sure each of you, each of you who's lost someone knows the depth of pain that escapes from your throat like a wild animal, ripping open the wound that hadn't even begun to heal. I almost vomited from the intensity. I couldn't breathe. I cooked our New Year's Dinner while sobbing. My poor husband, stuck with an injured animal. Last year, the full moon shone in an empty cold sky as I sat with my father in the hospital. My husband had flown home briefly, only to turn around and come back. Looking out the hospital window, I wondered what 2010 would be like, and I could conjure nothing. Now I know. I look back, and don't know what to think. How to describe it? Can one experience define an entire year. Hell, yes. It might end up defining the rest of my life.
I have gone through all the "firsts" this year, but one. On January 13 it will be one year, exactly, that my father died and this journey began. 6.30am.
I have to teach until noon, but I will high-tail it back home for what I expect to be another round of gut-wrenching sob-fests. I am not embarrassed about this, although they are exhausting. My aunt (my father's sister) said to me the other day: "When I die, I HOPE people will be sad for a year!" And we laughed, both understanding what a gift love is, and what the cost of it can be.
It is now 2011. The first year without my father in the world. The first year without either of my parents in the world. And I, at 45, wonder if this will be when the flower finally opens, or withers and falls off its stem.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
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.
Friday, November 26, 2010
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.
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.
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