On this date, seven years ago, my father opened his eyes for the last time as my sister and I sang to him a prayer to Our Lady. It was 3:05. Today, an alarm goes off on my phone each day at 3:05 as a reminder to say a little prayer: "Jesus, I trust in you. I will sit at your feet and listen to you speak." It has little to do with that day, and yet everything.
I was devastated at that moment. Standing at his bedside as his heart beat its last, I felt that I'd been cursed with the experience. The last thing I wanted to remember about that day was that moment. But my sister, when she looked at the time, cried out that it was the hour of Divine Mercy. I had no idea what she was talking about, or why she found it to be so fitting that we had been singing the Hail Mary at that moment. It would take years of searching for me to realize the power in that moment. And now, after seven years, I almost wish I could experience it all again so that the memories could be different.
The first thing is that I wasn't even supposed to be there. I had an appointment to get my hair cut at noon, and after that, the earliest I could hope to arrive was around 5:30. Dad would be fine, after all, and it was silly to change everything just because he'd been taken to the hospital. But I'd cancelled the appointment, and left at 10. My sister was surprised to see me. My brother had arrived before me, and had been visiting--sitting vigil, I realized. I was taken aback by what I saw in Dad's corner room of the ICU. When we heard that another brother's flight had just arrived, I offered to pick him up, but since I was the newest arrival, I was told to stay. Brother left to get brother while sister stayed with sister. Still two siblings outstanding, and none of us wanted to believe.
Not really knowing what to do, we chatted awkwardly, then began to sing together. Eyes opened, eyes searched, eyes closed, heart stopped. And I was filled with tremendous guilt. My brother had gotten there first; he should have been there. My brother had just landed; we should have waited to pray. Mom should have been holding his hand; not us. Who wants to be there to see someone they love die, anyway? Guilt gave way to anger, frustration, pain, sorrow......questions.
So much has happened, has changed, has been explained since then. So much has healed my soul, although there is still -- will always be -- a gaping hole where he would be in my life. When I have questions or complaints about life. When the boys do wonderful or irritating things. When I just need to hear his voice, feel his hug, see his silly dance, feel his shoulder under my head.
Not long ago, I read about a volunteer initiative at a hospital that ensures that no one dies alone. These people sit waiting on call or in the chapel at the hospital and sit with those whose families are not available, or who don't have families, and love them to the next world. Sometimes with prayer or song, sometimes in silence, but always with a hand to hold. The article warmed my heart, and made me long for the opportunity in my own community to be a part of something so generous, so loving, so beautiful, and I realized I had turned a corner. Being there at that bedside was a blessing, whether I wanted it to be or not. I still wish my brothers and my other sister could have seen him before he died, and I still wish I could share a cup of coffee or a glass of wine with him, but the most important thing is that we were there, and we recognized his life in his death.
I've since learned so much about Divine Mercy, and about mercy in general (though 'in general' does not begin to address the beauty and magnitude of God's mercy) and I am so awed by the timing and the significance of the moment. After seven years, I'm willing to say that I would not give up that memory, despite years of trying to forget. Thank you, Lord, for answering that prayer in the way that only You know is best.
Showing posts with label mourning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mourning. Show all posts
Monday, February 10, 2014
Monday, February 18, 2013
a missing birthday
Today was Dad's birthday. In emailing with a couple of my siblings, and talking with Guy, I've discovered that this anniversary week has been a particularly tough one for the general "us." Most of the anniversary milestones I've experienced have been more joyful, amazing or awe-inspiring than sorrowful, so I was quite unprepared for this. The first anniversary of our wedding, and the boys' first birthdays were all amazing milestones that almost came as a surprise, as in, "How could this time have passed so quickly already?" Then at five years, we would look back at the major changes we had gone through as a couple, as parents, or as children. This week's retrospection is still painful, still sharper than I could have imagined, though not as constant or throbbing; still an ache like a pebble in my shoe that sometimes works its way into the tip of my shoe so I might almost forget it's there, then suddenly gets jarred loose by a certain step or change of direction. After five years, I would think I would feel different, although I really am not sure why: on my fifth wedding anniversary, I felt like myself, only the changes in my life were shared with someone; as each of the boys turned 5, I marvelled at their development from infancy, and rejoiced that they had some level of autonomy, of independence, their own personalities, but I didn't feel "different."
Why the expectation today? I wish I knew.
Lately, we've been talking about the future, about careers, and goals and such, partly as a result of an assignment at work, and partly because it's been a while since we reassessed and reevaluated together. It's been interesting, because I've been remembering long forgotten talks I had with Dad. While Guy knew that I had always wanted to be a helicopter pilot, he never knew that I had considered being a social worker or a psychologist. I'm not exactly sure where those ideas came from back when I was 17, as I had no experience with any of those occupations! But never once did Dad question the notions; rather, he and I would rationally discuss the pros and cons, the practical and the wild. He wanted what was best for me, but he also wanted me to be fulfilled--something that is a bit more elusive than happiness, I think.
I hope he knows how fulfilled I am today. I know he is in heaven watching over us, but I often wonder how much he can influence what happens, the "luck," the breaks, the doors and windows. Each time I look to the night sky and see Venus before any other star, I know his love is there, magnificent and shining through God's glory. And every time I see a streak of color in the sky, hear an unexpected bird call, or make that ridiculous hiccup noise he always made (and which I was never afflicted with until 4 years and 11 months ago!), I know he is ever present, and telling me something. Mostly "Slow down and enjoy. Chat and savor the coffee. See as many sides as you can." I remember him as dedicated, committed to whatever goal he set, and I find myself falling short at times. And yet, I do feel fulfilled--in the moment. I know there is more for me, and I plan to seek it out, to work toward my dreams, no matter how oddball they may seem. Somewhere out there is just the right spot for me; I know without a doubt because I have found one of those spots now. Like a cultivated flower, though, I will outgrow my current milieu, and need to be transplanted. Until then, I intend to soak up whatever nutrients I can, reach for the sun, stretch my very cells.
And occasionally water my roots with my own tears.
Why the expectation today? I wish I knew.
Lately, we've been talking about the future, about careers, and goals and such, partly as a result of an assignment at work, and partly because it's been a while since we reassessed and reevaluated together. It's been interesting, because I've been remembering long forgotten talks I had with Dad. While Guy knew that I had always wanted to be a helicopter pilot, he never knew that I had considered being a social worker or a psychologist. I'm not exactly sure where those ideas came from back when I was 17, as I had no experience with any of those occupations! But never once did Dad question the notions; rather, he and I would rationally discuss the pros and cons, the practical and the wild. He wanted what was best for me, but he also wanted me to be fulfilled--something that is a bit more elusive than happiness, I think.
I hope he knows how fulfilled I am today. I know he is in heaven watching over us, but I often wonder how much he can influence what happens, the "luck," the breaks, the doors and windows. Each time I look to the night sky and see Venus before any other star, I know his love is there, magnificent and shining through God's glory. And every time I see a streak of color in the sky, hear an unexpected bird call, or make that ridiculous hiccup noise he always made (and which I was never afflicted with until 4 years and 11 months ago!), I know he is ever present, and telling me something. Mostly "Slow down and enjoy. Chat and savor the coffee. See as many sides as you can." I remember him as dedicated, committed to whatever goal he set, and I find myself falling short at times. And yet, I do feel fulfilled--in the moment. I know there is more for me, and I plan to seek it out, to work toward my dreams, no matter how oddball they may seem. Somewhere out there is just the right spot for me; I know without a doubt because I have found one of those spots now. Like a cultivated flower, though, I will outgrow my current milieu, and need to be transplanted. Until then, I intend to soak up whatever nutrients I can, reach for the sun, stretch my very cells.
And occasionally water my roots with my own tears.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
as old as you feel
Gramma Katie drove herself to the hospital 25 years ago, probably with no intention of ever going home. She grew up in an era when going to the hospital was at least as dangerous as staying home; an act of desperation. The last time I saw her, over Christmas break, she'd been coming down with a cold. I remember talking to Dad in January sometime, and in an offhand comment, he told me that she still had the cough, it was just hanging on, making her drag a bit. I sent my love. I probably even sent her a get well card. I was a freshman in college, and she'd been a part of my life forever.
When we were really little, my sister and I would spend weekends with our other grandparents. We also stayed with them for a week or more while the rest of the family drove out west. We had no idea, really, where "out west" was, or why they went, or even why they left us at home. (Now, after travelling all over the country with my own brood, I've begun to understand why they would have left us home! Still, we all jokingly bring it up every time we can when we are all together!) We were told to be on our best behavior, and we certainly tried, but with no one else to play with, and with only the toys and games Grammy and Grampy had around, after a while, we started to act more like ourselves. Which wasn't particularly "well behaved." Close in age, we fought, disagreed, and pouted often. I don't know how many times we stayed there, together after that. I do know that my parents never went on a long vacation like that again until we were very much older!
In between, we spent many weekends at Gramma Katie's. It was easier to behave there because she made it very clear that if we didn't, there would be no Pepsi with lunch, and there was no way we would be able to stay up to watch Love Boat and Fantasy Island. (I remember once I was sent to bed before Fantasy Island started because I had said something mean to my sister. I have no idea what it was, why I said it, but I clearly remember that she had made a rule, and stuck to it. I sat on the steps and cried before going up to bed, hoping she would relent. I'm proud to say she did not; instead, she ignored me completely. She was stronger than many women I know--including myself.) Lunch meant lively conversation and America's Top 40 on the radio, or Bandstand, I'm not sure which incarnation it was, but it was on, and part of our lives there.
Growing up, we called her "Grammy with the white hair" to distinguish her from our other Grammy, who was "Grammy and Grampy Grammy." It was quite a relief, actually, when in junior high or high school, when interviewing her on the porch for some kind of school project, that she told us about growing up on a farm with her brothers. About being chased and tackled by a goose that pinned her to the ground and started pulling her hair out--her brothers didn't know what to do, and figured the goose would kill her. They finally chased it away. She said they always picked on her and gave her a hard time: about being a girl, about being a baby, about having brown eyes, or scraped knees, or anything else. She laughed, as she did about nearly everything, and said they were pretty rotten, and always called her Katie, which she hated. Then she looked down and said that she missed them terribly. All of them, and everything about them. We asked if it would help if we called her Katie, an idea that she thought brilliant. Thus, she was reborn, sometime in her 70's, as Gramma Katie. It took some getting used to, and to convince our brothers and sister, but it fit her so well.
I asked her once why she never went out to dinner with the neighbor who was always so clearly sweet on her. She said that once, she and Grampa Henry were sitting on the porch talking, and she mentioned to him that if anything ever happened to her, she expected that he would find himself a new wife, and he would have her blessing. His response: Okay. That's it. No, "I'd want the same for you," or "I'm sure you would find someone, too, eventually." Just "Okay." She took that to mean that when he said "Until death parts us," he meant both of them. She said she didn't mind, really, she enjoyed being on her own.
They met on a blind date, that she said went terribly. She was older than him, nearly a spinster, actually, and figured he could do better. At the end of the evening, she told him not to bother calling when he came back to town. He had other plans, he called again, wooed her, won her, and ultimately bought her a beautiful engagement ring from Tiffany's in New York. She loved to mention that fact, that it was from Tiffany's in New York, and sometimes she'd laugh afterwards, and other times she'd just look at it and smile, eyes shining. From her I learned the value of seeing the love enclosed in the stone, the special effort in choosing just the right one. The size, shape and price matter far less than the "why." When I gaze at my own engagement ring, I feel how she looked: special to someone.
She had a way of looking at life that made it fun to be. For another project, I asked her what her nationality was (I knew Grampa Henry was Irish), and she said, proudly, that she was a Mutt, and that I should be proud of that fact, too. I laughed, and told her that my teachers would probably not like that answer, so she went on to explain. It seems the little Eastern European town her ancestors were from had had borders change around it so many times, she had no idea what nationality they were. When some of them were born, it was Austria; others, Hungary, or Czechoslovakia. It was easier, and made more sense to her, to think of herself as an American, a Mutt. (This is, after all, a melting pot, right? And why were those people in school trying to separate us all out again?) To further complicate the national background question, she was raised Eastern Orthodox, and was taught that when a girl marries, she becomes one with her husband: his home, his family, his faith. Therefore, when she married this Irish Catholic man, she became, for all intents and purposes, a Roman Catholic, and a rather unconvincing Irish woman.
One of my personal mandatory stops before leaving for college was at Gramma Katie's house. It was one of the few times I was there by myself. It was the most beautiful late summer day, sunny, breezy, and just the right temperature. We sat on the porch, where we had watched so many thunder storms, read so many books, heard so many stories, drinking lemonade, and talking about futures. She was so proud of me going away to school, moving forward in life, meeting new people, and having new adventures. I told her I would miss her most of all, and I meant it. With her smile, her laughing eyes, her beautifully wrinkled face, her determination, she was an amazing role model--and a fantastic cheerleader, attending dance recitals, school and church events, and always asking about my friends, my classes, my life, and telling me about hers. As I hugged her goodbye, tears in my eyes, she asked me to make her a promise never to get old and boring. (probably paraphrasing George Burns, who probably would have met his match in her!) She told me she was very serious, that so many fun kids go off to college and with the learning they do there, they get old, serious and boring. I laughingly promised, and she knew that I meant it.
On my way home, I stopped and bought a bottle of bubbles. Those bubbles sat on my desk in front of the window in my dorm room, and I would often have to explain them to visitors and roommates. Occasionally, I'd take them outside and blow bubbles sitting on the wall, looking at the Bay (usually meaning that I was thinking through some problem that was threatening to make me feel older), or in the halls just to crack people up. In February of that year, when the phone call came that the doctors and nurses were pretty sure she'd had a stroke because she'd asked how the pain killers know where the pain is (a ridiculous reason to "know" she'd had a stroke--it was a perfectly normal question coming from her! Clearly they did not know her well enough to be treating her!), my roommate and I blew bubbles in Gramma Katie's honor. And again, a few days later, on February 15, we blew bubbles again after another phone call, although my dear, sweet roommate blew more than I did, because I was crying too much to blow well.
We worried while planning Dad's funeral 20 years later that it would change Valentine's Day forever having the funeral that day. Then we remembered that Dad managed to celebrate his birthday, and enjoy it for many years, despite the fact that his mother's funeral was on his birthday. In Gramma Katie style, he told me he looked at that day as an opportunity to visit with his sisters, and spend his birthday with them and their husbands. Through the darkness, he saw light--a faint glimmer, flickering and sputtering at times, I'm sure, but a light nonetheless. I strive to follow their example in my own life: being positive, devoted, faithful, and young at heart. Sometimes I falter, and some of those times are longer than others, but all in all, I think I've been doing well at keeping my promise.
I love you, Gramma Katie!
When we were really little, my sister and I would spend weekends with our other grandparents. We also stayed with them for a week or more while the rest of the family drove out west. We had no idea, really, where "out west" was, or why they went, or even why they left us at home. (Now, after travelling all over the country with my own brood, I've begun to understand why they would have left us home! Still, we all jokingly bring it up every time we can when we are all together!) We were told to be on our best behavior, and we certainly tried, but with no one else to play with, and with only the toys and games Grammy and Grampy had around, after a while, we started to act more like ourselves. Which wasn't particularly "well behaved." Close in age, we fought, disagreed, and pouted often. I don't know how many times we stayed there, together after that. I do know that my parents never went on a long vacation like that again until we were very much older!
In between, we spent many weekends at Gramma Katie's. It was easier to behave there because she made it very clear that if we didn't, there would be no Pepsi with lunch, and there was no way we would be able to stay up to watch Love Boat and Fantasy Island. (I remember once I was sent to bed before Fantasy Island started because I had said something mean to my sister. I have no idea what it was, why I said it, but I clearly remember that she had made a rule, and stuck to it. I sat on the steps and cried before going up to bed, hoping she would relent. I'm proud to say she did not; instead, she ignored me completely. She was stronger than many women I know--including myself.) Lunch meant lively conversation and America's Top 40 on the radio, or Bandstand, I'm not sure which incarnation it was, but it was on, and part of our lives there.
Growing up, we called her "Grammy with the white hair" to distinguish her from our other Grammy, who was "Grammy and Grampy Grammy." It was quite a relief, actually, when in junior high or high school, when interviewing her on the porch for some kind of school project, that she told us about growing up on a farm with her brothers. About being chased and tackled by a goose that pinned her to the ground and started pulling her hair out--her brothers didn't know what to do, and figured the goose would kill her. They finally chased it away. She said they always picked on her and gave her a hard time: about being a girl, about being a baby, about having brown eyes, or scraped knees, or anything else. She laughed, as she did about nearly everything, and said they were pretty rotten, and always called her Katie, which she hated. Then she looked down and said that she missed them terribly. All of them, and everything about them. We asked if it would help if we called her Katie, an idea that she thought brilliant. Thus, she was reborn, sometime in her 70's, as Gramma Katie. It took some getting used to, and to convince our brothers and sister, but it fit her so well.
I asked her once why she never went out to dinner with the neighbor who was always so clearly sweet on her. She said that once, she and Grampa Henry were sitting on the porch talking, and she mentioned to him that if anything ever happened to her, she expected that he would find himself a new wife, and he would have her blessing. His response: Okay. That's it. No, "I'd want the same for you," or "I'm sure you would find someone, too, eventually." Just "Okay." She took that to mean that when he said "Until death parts us," he meant both of them. She said she didn't mind, really, she enjoyed being on her own.
They met on a blind date, that she said went terribly. She was older than him, nearly a spinster, actually, and figured he could do better. At the end of the evening, she told him not to bother calling when he came back to town. He had other plans, he called again, wooed her, won her, and ultimately bought her a beautiful engagement ring from Tiffany's in New York. She loved to mention that fact, that it was from Tiffany's in New York, and sometimes she'd laugh afterwards, and other times she'd just look at it and smile, eyes shining. From her I learned the value of seeing the love enclosed in the stone, the special effort in choosing just the right one. The size, shape and price matter far less than the "why." When I gaze at my own engagement ring, I feel how she looked: special to someone.
She had a way of looking at life that made it fun to be. For another project, I asked her what her nationality was (I knew Grampa Henry was Irish), and she said, proudly, that she was a Mutt, and that I should be proud of that fact, too. I laughed, and told her that my teachers would probably not like that answer, so she went on to explain. It seems the little Eastern European town her ancestors were from had had borders change around it so many times, she had no idea what nationality they were. When some of them were born, it was Austria; others, Hungary, or Czechoslovakia. It was easier, and made more sense to her, to think of herself as an American, a Mutt. (This is, after all, a melting pot, right? And why were those people in school trying to separate us all out again?) To further complicate the national background question, she was raised Eastern Orthodox, and was taught that when a girl marries, she becomes one with her husband: his home, his family, his faith. Therefore, when she married this Irish Catholic man, she became, for all intents and purposes, a Roman Catholic, and a rather unconvincing Irish woman.
One of my personal mandatory stops before leaving for college was at Gramma Katie's house. It was one of the few times I was there by myself. It was the most beautiful late summer day, sunny, breezy, and just the right temperature. We sat on the porch, where we had watched so many thunder storms, read so many books, heard so many stories, drinking lemonade, and talking about futures. She was so proud of me going away to school, moving forward in life, meeting new people, and having new adventures. I told her I would miss her most of all, and I meant it. With her smile, her laughing eyes, her beautifully wrinkled face, her determination, she was an amazing role model--and a fantastic cheerleader, attending dance recitals, school and church events, and always asking about my friends, my classes, my life, and telling me about hers. As I hugged her goodbye, tears in my eyes, she asked me to make her a promise never to get old and boring. (probably paraphrasing George Burns, who probably would have met his match in her!) She told me she was very serious, that so many fun kids go off to college and with the learning they do there, they get old, serious and boring. I laughingly promised, and she knew that I meant it.
On my way home, I stopped and bought a bottle of bubbles. Those bubbles sat on my desk in front of the window in my dorm room, and I would often have to explain them to visitors and roommates. Occasionally, I'd take them outside and blow bubbles sitting on the wall, looking at the Bay (usually meaning that I was thinking through some problem that was threatening to make me feel older), or in the halls just to crack people up. In February of that year, when the phone call came that the doctors and nurses were pretty sure she'd had a stroke because she'd asked how the pain killers know where the pain is (a ridiculous reason to "know" she'd had a stroke--it was a perfectly normal question coming from her! Clearly they did not know her well enough to be treating her!), my roommate and I blew bubbles in Gramma Katie's honor. And again, a few days later, on February 15, we blew bubbles again after another phone call, although my dear, sweet roommate blew more than I did, because I was crying too much to blow well.
We worried while planning Dad's funeral 20 years later that it would change Valentine's Day forever having the funeral that day. Then we remembered that Dad managed to celebrate his birthday, and enjoy it for many years, despite the fact that his mother's funeral was on his birthday. In Gramma Katie style, he told me he looked at that day as an opportunity to visit with his sisters, and spend his birthday with them and their husbands. Through the darkness, he saw light--a faint glimmer, flickering and sputtering at times, I'm sure, but a light nonetheless. I strive to follow their example in my own life: being positive, devoted, faithful, and young at heart. Sometimes I falter, and some of those times are longer than others, but all in all, I think I've been doing well at keeping my promise.
I love you, Gramma Katie!
Thursday, February 14, 2013
your little girl
Dear Dad,
Five years ago today, Guy, the boys and I put a nice, sharp pencil and the Sunday crossword in your coffin with you. This after a good chuckle about choosing one of the readings for your funeral in part because it contained the word "hoary" and we had to look it up. A really good crossword word, hoary. I haven't done a crossword since--not even the easy ones. Come to think of it, I don't think I've really used a pencil much, either; just pens. I can see you, just beyond my eyes, when I look up from my computer. I miss you. We all do.
Five years ago today, we travelled through the worst snow I'd been on the road for in forever. Well, since that time driving home from Rochester, when I figured you must have x-ray vision, because I sure as shootin' couldn't see the road from the back seat! You kept telling Mom that everything was fine, as long as you could concentrate. You could tell those white lies so convincingly! ha! I digress....I have pictures of where the road should be on our way to church that morning. And I told the boys that it was so like you to make sure there was a storm like that! It's lucky we made it to the house in the first place, and then to head to the church--and lunch afterwards! Only you.
Five years ago today, we stood in the snow in the cemetery, huddled together as much for actual warmth as for support. I remember so little of the ceremonies--the funeral Mass or the burial--but I most certainly remember the love, the joy we all share for having had you in our lives, the shared sadness. And I remember the Marines who came, a two and a half hour trip that took them nearly five; how young they seemed, how brave, and determined. In their dress blues, they saluted with rifles as the church bells rang their noon glory. When they folded the flag, they fought the need to shiver, unable to feel their fingers in their dress gloves.
Five years ago today, we invited those Marines to lunch, insisting that they join us, and eat before the long trip back to Syracuse. They agreed, but when we arrived at the restaurant, and they asked me to retrieve the flag for them, I realized they came as much out of a need to properly refold the flag as for the free meal. I was again impressed at the fact that you "survived" the Marine Corps. I wish we could have talked more about your time in the service after Mr. Johnson convinced you that it was something you should be more proud of. All I will ever know is that you were never sure it had been the right thing for you to do. Given that's what I knew from you, why would I be proud of you and so impressed? Because you followed through. You made the best of what you considered to be a less-than-ideal situation, and came through it a stronger man. It was a struggle, but you showed me that some of the important parts of life are just that: struggles. But the result is as important as the journey.
Five years ago today, we all agreed that Valentine's Day would probably always be very different for us. Bittersweet. A beautiful day to share and remember the love we feel for one another, but also a day to remember losing one of our best examples of that love and devotion. A day on which I am deeply reminded how fragile yet strong loving wholeheartedly can make us. Thank you for that gift--something I never thought I'd say. Rose Kennedy said, "It has been said 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, (protecting its sanity) covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessons. But, it is never gone." Dad, I think, somehow, whether because of Paul Harvey afternoons or Reader's Digest magazines, you had something to do with my love of quotes. It could also have been your knack for making up convincing reasons and explanations for just about any question under the sun (or moon!). I believe Rose Kennedy was quite correct, although the scar tissue sometimes gets in the way of other healing, stretching and growing.
Five years ago this week, I faced just how much I was blessed to have you for as my dad, my guardian, my mentor, my first teacher, my friend. I love you still, and can see your spirit in the boys, in my dear Guy, in my siblings, and their families. Your legacy lives on. And yet, I miss you. I will always be your little girl, and will always feel like that little girl when I think of you, and when those thoughts bring tears to my eyes; an ache to my heart. The tears are a bit further between, and my insides feel a bit less hollow, but the love has continued to grow. Continue to laugh with us, and guide our feet on the journey. Remind us to take the long way when we can, and to savor the sights and sounds, the experiences of our expeditions. Lead us to the ice cream and frozen yogurt shoppes of life, whatever sustenance they will provide for our souls, minds and bodies. Guide us in love, hope, and faith, all of which you demonstrated to us, unwaveringly. Thanks, Dad. xo
Love,
Stephania
Five years ago today, Guy, the boys and I put a nice, sharp pencil and the Sunday crossword in your coffin with you. This after a good chuckle about choosing one of the readings for your funeral in part because it contained the word "hoary" and we had to look it up. A really good crossword word, hoary. I haven't done a crossword since--not even the easy ones. Come to think of it, I don't think I've really used a pencil much, either; just pens. I can see you, just beyond my eyes, when I look up from my computer. I miss you. We all do.
Five years ago today, we travelled through the worst snow I'd been on the road for in forever. Well, since that time driving home from Rochester, when I figured you must have x-ray vision, because I sure as shootin' couldn't see the road from the back seat! You kept telling Mom that everything was fine, as long as you could concentrate. You could tell those white lies so convincingly! ha! I digress....I have pictures of where the road should be on our way to church that morning. And I told the boys that it was so like you to make sure there was a storm like that! It's lucky we made it to the house in the first place, and then to head to the church--and lunch afterwards! Only you.
Five years ago today, we stood in the snow in the cemetery, huddled together as much for actual warmth as for support. I remember so little of the ceremonies--the funeral Mass or the burial--but I most certainly remember the love, the joy we all share for having had you in our lives, the shared sadness. And I remember the Marines who came, a two and a half hour trip that took them nearly five; how young they seemed, how brave, and determined. In their dress blues, they saluted with rifles as the church bells rang their noon glory. When they folded the flag, they fought the need to shiver, unable to feel their fingers in their dress gloves.
Five years ago today, we invited those Marines to lunch, insisting that they join us, and eat before the long trip back to Syracuse. They agreed, but when we arrived at the restaurant, and they asked me to retrieve the flag for them, I realized they came as much out of a need to properly refold the flag as for the free meal. I was again impressed at the fact that you "survived" the Marine Corps. I wish we could have talked more about your time in the service after Mr. Johnson convinced you that it was something you should be more proud of. All I will ever know is that you were never sure it had been the right thing for you to do. Given that's what I knew from you, why would I be proud of you and so impressed? Because you followed through. You made the best of what you considered to be a less-than-ideal situation, and came through it a stronger man. It was a struggle, but you showed me that some of the important parts of life are just that: struggles. But the result is as important as the journey.
Five years ago today, we all agreed that Valentine's Day would probably always be very different for us. Bittersweet. A beautiful day to share and remember the love we feel for one another, but also a day to remember losing one of our best examples of that love and devotion. A day on which I am deeply reminded how fragile yet strong loving wholeheartedly can make us. Thank you for that gift--something I never thought I'd say. Rose Kennedy said, "It has been said 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, (protecting its sanity) covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessons. But, it is never gone." Dad, I think, somehow, whether because of Paul Harvey afternoons or Reader's Digest magazines, you had something to do with my love of quotes. It could also have been your knack for making up convincing reasons and explanations for just about any question under the sun (or moon!). I believe Rose Kennedy was quite correct, although the scar tissue sometimes gets in the way of other healing, stretching and growing.
Five years ago this week, I faced just how much I was blessed to have you for as my dad, my guardian, my mentor, my first teacher, my friend. I love you still, and can see your spirit in the boys, in my dear Guy, in my siblings, and their families. Your legacy lives on. And yet, I miss you. I will always be your little girl, and will always feel like that little girl when I think of you, and when those thoughts bring tears to my eyes; an ache to my heart. The tears are a bit further between, and my insides feel a bit less hollow, but the love has continued to grow. Continue to laugh with us, and guide our feet on the journey. Remind us to take the long way when we can, and to savor the sights and sounds, the experiences of our expeditions. Lead us to the ice cream and frozen yogurt shoppes of life, whatever sustenance they will provide for our souls, minds and bodies. Guide us in love, hope, and faith, all of which you demonstrated to us, unwaveringly. Thanks, Dad. xo
Love,
Stephania
Sunday, February 10, 2013
peaceful dove
Tomorrow is our Consecration ceremony, the end of our 33 day retreat. This morning, I realized a personal significance of tomorrow being the day: February 11, the Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes. For the past 33 days, I have known the date, and the Feast on which it was occurring, but what did not occur to me is that meant today is February 10.
Five years ago today, Dad died, while my sister and I sang the Hail Mary portion of Gentle Woman.* As we sang, his eyes opened, and he first looked toward the window, then toward the door, outside of which stood my mother. His eyes locked on her, then closed, and he stopped breathing. A friend of Mom's was there at the time, and "assured" us that it was just a nerve thing; that he wasn't really seeing us, or looking for Mom. My sister and I, however, really believe that he was seeing Mary at the window, and Mom at the door: the two women he would most want to see at that moment. The ICU nurse, when I asked her, said that what science says and what faith says may seem conflicting at times, but that peace is the result.
Dad was quite Marian, I just never really thought about it much. I knew he had what I saw as deep faith, although the more I consider my own faith, the more I wonder how much searching he continued to do. What I know for sure is that he prayed to Mary often; as he drove, in strange cities, as he mowed the lawn. I remember him telling me about Mom asking him what he was yelling about while he pushed the lawnmower in the back yard. He was saying the rosary, but could only hear himself if he said it LOUD! He said that Mom was concerned about what the neighbors would think, with him yelling Hail Marys like that. He kept doing it. (Mom tells that story slightly differently, of course!) Turns out that when he said the rosary, he decided to pray it for all of us, his children and grandchildren. And, in typical Dad fashion, he figured out how to ensure that he didn't miss anyone. In the second stanza of the prayer, he used our names: "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for _______ now, and at the hour of death." The first three decades, at the time, went through thirty of us. The next decade was for Mom, and the last for any other special intentions he had.
This morning, it all tied together for me when I looked at the Order of Mass to see what the opening hymn was to be. My first thought was, "That's one Dad liked to sing." Then I could hear him singing it, long before the organ started playing. The next thing I heard was Liz and myself singing. That's when I realized today's significance. I was somewhere between relieved, troubled and surprised--it's the first time that Dad hasn't been the first thought of the day on February 10. In fact, I had just finished saying an extra prayer for Uncle Flash, whose birthday was Friday, and Auntie Em, who still misses him terribly. But I was also thankful, as I'm fairly certain now that both Dad and Uncle Flash have been guiding me through this retreat: they both have always been reference points for me with regard to faith and spirituality (mostly because they were so very down to earth and silly, too).
Tomorrow will be all the more special for me. And with this realization, this difficult week, beginning with today's anniversary, and ending with Dad' birthday on the 18th, will be easier to bear. "Teach us Wisdom; teach us Love."
*Although this version (and all the versions I checked on YouTube) has the Hail Mary at the beginning of the song, we learned with the "Gentle Mother" verses first. We had sung through the whole song, and were beginning to feel Mary's grace in the room when we began the Hail Mary. Through our tears later that evening, we teased each other that Dad just wanted us to stop singing. I love this song.
Five years ago today, Dad died, while my sister and I sang the Hail Mary portion of Gentle Woman.* As we sang, his eyes opened, and he first looked toward the window, then toward the door, outside of which stood my mother. His eyes locked on her, then closed, and he stopped breathing. A friend of Mom's was there at the time, and "assured" us that it was just a nerve thing; that he wasn't really seeing us, or looking for Mom. My sister and I, however, really believe that he was seeing Mary at the window, and Mom at the door: the two women he would most want to see at that moment. The ICU nurse, when I asked her, said that what science says and what faith says may seem conflicting at times, but that peace is the result.
Dad was quite Marian, I just never really thought about it much. I knew he had what I saw as deep faith, although the more I consider my own faith, the more I wonder how much searching he continued to do. What I know for sure is that he prayed to Mary often; as he drove, in strange cities, as he mowed the lawn. I remember him telling me about Mom asking him what he was yelling about while he pushed the lawnmower in the back yard. He was saying the rosary, but could only hear himself if he said it LOUD! He said that Mom was concerned about what the neighbors would think, with him yelling Hail Marys like that. He kept doing it. (Mom tells that story slightly differently, of course!) Turns out that when he said the rosary, he decided to pray it for all of us, his children and grandchildren. And, in typical Dad fashion, he figured out how to ensure that he didn't miss anyone. In the second stanza of the prayer, he used our names: "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for _______ now, and at the hour of death." The first three decades, at the time, went through thirty of us. The next decade was for Mom, and the last for any other special intentions he had.
This morning, it all tied together for me when I looked at the Order of Mass to see what the opening hymn was to be. My first thought was, "That's one Dad liked to sing." Then I could hear him singing it, long before the organ started playing. The next thing I heard was Liz and myself singing. That's when I realized today's significance. I was somewhere between relieved, troubled and surprised--it's the first time that Dad hasn't been the first thought of the day on February 10. In fact, I had just finished saying an extra prayer for Uncle Flash, whose birthday was Friday, and Auntie Em, who still misses him terribly. But I was also thankful, as I'm fairly certain now that both Dad and Uncle Flash have been guiding me through this retreat: they both have always been reference points for me with regard to faith and spirituality (mostly because they were so very down to earth and silly, too).
Tomorrow will be all the more special for me. And with this realization, this difficult week, beginning with today's anniversary, and ending with Dad' birthday on the 18th, will be easier to bear. "Teach us Wisdom; teach us Love."
*Although this version (and all the versions I checked on YouTube) has the Hail Mary at the beginning of the song, we learned with the "Gentle Mother" verses first. We had sung through the whole song, and were beginning to feel Mary's grace in the room when we began the Hail Mary. Through our tears later that evening, we teased each other that Dad just wanted us to stop singing. I love this song.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
perspective
A dear friend of mine said goodbye to her sister today. A sister gone too young. I just read her heartfelt eulogy, posted because so many of us were unable to attend the funeral services due to weather, or, as for me, distance. Last night, as I settled in to sleep, I listened to the wind howling around the mountaintop, and couldn't help remembering the weather at Dad's funeral, and how it kept away many of the people we'd hoped to see. I hoped that would not be the case; that my friend's family could be crammed into the church by the many, many people who certainly wanted to be there. Unfortunately, that was not meant to be. I remember that after Dad's funeral, I had some thoughts about the cosmic and spiritual reasons that would necessitate such a small gathering at a time when I would rather be one of a multitude. I wish I'd written them down, because through all that fog of pain, I only have a vague recollection of the notion.
I'm quite impressed at my friend's ability to not only write, but deliver, a moving and timely story expressing her family's love and loss. I am awed by her.
What is most important in life? The impact we have on one another. Not cobwebs in the corners. Not candy wrappers in the car. What matters is what brings us closer to God, to each other, to real, honest to goodness LOVE. What matters is what should keep family together--warm memories of good times, whether frequent or far between.
I'm quite impressed at my friend's ability to not only write, but deliver, a moving and timely story expressing her family's love and loss. I am awed by her.
What is most important in life? The impact we have on one another. Not cobwebs in the corners. Not candy wrappers in the car. What matters is what brings us closer to God, to each other, to real, honest to goodness LOVE. What matters is what should keep family together--warm memories of good times, whether frequent or far between.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
heaven = gorges
It's early in the morning. My favorite time of day, no matter what the season. Today is the first day of summer; the longest day of the year. Always a great day to enjoy sunlight and the sound of birds--especially early with a cup of coffee, and late with a glass of wine and a book. In a couple of hours, I'll be on my way to take my oldest to his college orientation, and my youngest will join me in a cabin at a beautiful state park where we will hike, swim and collect bugs for his summer homework. I'm so looking forward to the time we will spend together: it will soften any pangs from dropping his brother off, and will make amazing--and important--memories for both of us.
There's another special reason for the distraction, and the memories to come. Yesterday, a dear friend's father died. She, and two of her sisters, were with him. I knew the news was coming, but it still was impossible to brace myself for the onslaught of emotions when I heard the news. My heart went immediately to her and her family--where it had been for days, actually, but the funny thing is, I actually felt my heart leave and go to them, breaking in pieces along the way. Moments later it was back, heavy with the weight of grief and pain shared among loved ones. The memory of singing to my father with my sister just before he died fluttered through my mind, and I realized that Dad was surely welcoming my dear friend's Pop with the story, along with a warm man-hug, to the Heaven that I am sure all fathers share.
I cannot feel my friend's pain, but I so acutely understand. She was there, unexpectedly, at my father's wake, and for all these years I've known that I might not have made it through as well without her. I hope and pray that I can be as strong for her.
Bug collecting, hiking, and memory making with my son; this is how I will garner strength, and with all my heart, I will support her because she is my friend.
There's another special reason for the distraction, and the memories to come. Yesterday, a dear friend's father died. She, and two of her sisters, were with him. I knew the news was coming, but it still was impossible to brace myself for the onslaught of emotions when I heard the news. My heart went immediately to her and her family--where it had been for days, actually, but the funny thing is, I actually felt my heart leave and go to them, breaking in pieces along the way. Moments later it was back, heavy with the weight of grief and pain shared among loved ones. The memory of singing to my father with my sister just before he died fluttered through my mind, and I realized that Dad was surely welcoming my dear friend's Pop with the story, along with a warm man-hug, to the Heaven that I am sure all fathers share.
I cannot feel my friend's pain, but I so acutely understand. She was there, unexpectedly, at my father's wake, and for all these years I've known that I might not have made it through as well without her. I hope and pray that I can be as strong for her.
Bug collecting, hiking, and memory making with my son; this is how I will garner strength, and with all my heart, I will support her because she is my friend.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
18 february 2012
Dear Dad,
Been thinking about you and your red sneakers lately. Guess I'm wishing we could go for a walk, the way we always did before the boys were born. Thinking about it now, I wonder why we stopped taking those day trips and walking around looking at stuff--and looking for a great ice cream or fro-yo shop. You had such a knack for finding them! Nowadays, I would think you had Googled them before we left, but there was nothing but your good nose, and maybe some work connection that had visited before. Today, I'm wishing we could do that again. My guys don't see ice cream as a treat so much; rather, to them it's a staple. Sorry about that. I still remember, though.
Anyway, with Jonathan's college search, I find myself remembering our discussions from my own days debating my options. This morning, at Drew's Confirmation breakfast Mass, Msgr King encouraged the parents and sponsors to allow and encourage our confirmandi to make life decisions; to learn who they are, to make mistakes, to cry, to rejoice, and to grow into the adults they are destined to be. I had a wonderful example in you. Although, looking back, there is a part of me that wishes you and Mom and my teachers had just flat out told me what to do, I do appreciate that you left my college choices to me. I remember the late night talks we'd have in the kitchen, discussing the relative merits of fields of study as diverse as Social Work and International Law, the reasons Hotel/Restaurant Management was perfect for me, and then, of course, why Hotel/Restaurant Management was so not me, so clearly I should change my major to Recreation and Leisure Management. And after that, why it made such perfect sense for me to leave school with an AS, and go back in two years or so to get a Bachelor's in Secondary Education, so I could be an English teacher. There are times when I wish I could have told you that I wish fewer people had told me I had the talents and intelligence to be whatever I wanted to be. I don't know if I ever told you that my real dream was to go to SUNY Purchase and study dance. God only knows what I had planned to do with the rest of my life, but not having the nerve to audition has been the only real regret I've ever had. I doubt that I told you, because I'm fairly certain you would have gladly taken me, and waited outside the door, and given me one of those wonderful left-arm hugs before I even had a chance to change my shoes. We're trying to be as open-minded and supportive of Jonathan. It's scary and exciting all at once, and I wish you were here to reassure us, to give us pointers. To offer one of those hugs that had a way of making everything okay.
We're slowly working on some of those house projects I'd hoped you would be able to help with. The boys have pulled up that hideous carpet, and we just need to decide what we'll do with the floor now. The chimney still need to be tiled, and I was just looking at the ceiling today and remembering how devoted you were to breaking off each and every one of the 'stalagtites' in the bathroom and the front bedrooms when we moved in. They do--still--look far better than they had, and I thank you for it every time I look up at them. The kitchen is the next thing on the agenda, I think, and every time I think about it, I picture you, Guy and Ryan debating who should be the first to break through the wall to the outside. Sometimes, I look around and think that you would have helped get some project or other done faster, but then I remember that even if you had moved here, you'd be busy, too. You'd have made a life here, and many of the projects would have taken a backseat to life--just like they do now. And I smile with relief. We're doing okay; the best we can with what we have, as far as time and money. It'll all be okay.
So, in a nutshell, I guess I want to make sure you know that we're doing well. I'm doing okay. There are ups and downs, and times when I get angry, confused, frustrated, lonely, but there are more times when I see the blessings in my life: the boys (including Guy), our home, our jobs, our friends and families. Life is really good. It would be better if you were here, but we--I--have to make the most of what we have today. What could have been is fine to think about now and then, but it's only made up. Realness helps to make what could be possible. That's my focus. Thank you for giving me the strength to be me; for encouraging me to make my own life happen. That helped me to find the people I need when I find myself faltering. I love you. I miss you with all my heart--often. But now, it's more often a gentle tug, and feels almost 'right.'
Have a piece of cake for me, and I'll do the same.
Happy Birthday!
Love,
Stephania
xoxo
Been thinking about you and your red sneakers lately. Guess I'm wishing we could go for a walk, the way we always did before the boys were born. Thinking about it now, I wonder why we stopped taking those day trips and walking around looking at stuff--and looking for a great ice cream or fro-yo shop. You had such a knack for finding them! Nowadays, I would think you had Googled them before we left, but there was nothing but your good nose, and maybe some work connection that had visited before. Today, I'm wishing we could do that again. My guys don't see ice cream as a treat so much; rather, to them it's a staple. Sorry about that. I still remember, though.
Anyway, with Jonathan's college search, I find myself remembering our discussions from my own days debating my options. This morning, at Drew's Confirmation breakfast Mass, Msgr King encouraged the parents and sponsors to allow and encourage our confirmandi to make life decisions; to learn who they are, to make mistakes, to cry, to rejoice, and to grow into the adults they are destined to be. I had a wonderful example in you. Although, looking back, there is a part of me that wishes you and Mom and my teachers had just flat out told me what to do, I do appreciate that you left my college choices to me. I remember the late night talks we'd have in the kitchen, discussing the relative merits of fields of study as diverse as Social Work and International Law, the reasons Hotel/Restaurant Management was perfect for me, and then, of course, why Hotel/Restaurant Management was so not me, so clearly I should change my major to Recreation and Leisure Management. And after that, why it made such perfect sense for me to leave school with an AS, and go back in two years or so to get a Bachelor's in Secondary Education, so I could be an English teacher. There are times when I wish I could have told you that I wish fewer people had told me I had the talents and intelligence to be whatever I wanted to be. I don't know if I ever told you that my real dream was to go to SUNY Purchase and study dance. God only knows what I had planned to do with the rest of my life, but not having the nerve to audition has been the only real regret I've ever had. I doubt that I told you, because I'm fairly certain you would have gladly taken me, and waited outside the door, and given me one of those wonderful left-arm hugs before I even had a chance to change my shoes. We're trying to be as open-minded and supportive of Jonathan. It's scary and exciting all at once, and I wish you were here to reassure us, to give us pointers. To offer one of those hugs that had a way of making everything okay.
We're slowly working on some of those house projects I'd hoped you would be able to help with. The boys have pulled up that hideous carpet, and we just need to decide what we'll do with the floor now. The chimney still need to be tiled, and I was just looking at the ceiling today and remembering how devoted you were to breaking off each and every one of the 'stalagtites' in the bathroom and the front bedrooms when we moved in. They do--still--look far better than they had, and I thank you for it every time I look up at them. The kitchen is the next thing on the agenda, I think, and every time I think about it, I picture you, Guy and Ryan debating who should be the first to break through the wall to the outside. Sometimes, I look around and think that you would have helped get some project or other done faster, but then I remember that even if you had moved here, you'd be busy, too. You'd have made a life here, and many of the projects would have taken a backseat to life--just like they do now. And I smile with relief. We're doing okay; the best we can with what we have, as far as time and money. It'll all be okay.
So, in a nutshell, I guess I want to make sure you know that we're doing well. I'm doing okay. There are ups and downs, and times when I get angry, confused, frustrated, lonely, but there are more times when I see the blessings in my life: the boys (including Guy), our home, our jobs, our friends and families. Life is really good. It would be better if you were here, but we--I--have to make the most of what we have today. What could have been is fine to think about now and then, but it's only made up. Realness helps to make what could be possible. That's my focus. Thank you for giving me the strength to be me; for encouraging me to make my own life happen. That helped me to find the people I need when I find myself faltering. I love you. I miss you with all my heart--often. But now, it's more often a gentle tug, and feels almost 'right.'
Have a piece of cake for me, and I'll do the same.
Happy Birthday!
Love,
Stephania
xoxo
Friday, February 17, 2012
the day before
Tomorrow is Dad's birthday. I wonder, sometimes, if that is the appropriate thing to say. From time to time, I have said that February 18th would have been his birthday, but if you want to know the truth (and I do), it will always be his birthday to me. I digress...
For as long as I can remember, I have written something to Dad for his birthday: notes, cards, sometimes long, newsy letters. That winter he died is the only time I didn't, and it didn't feel right at all. Of course, what I was doing instead, what the six of us were doing, was chucking huge chunks of frozen snow at the ground, trying to clear the driveway. We threw them, and I screamed with all my might. I was so angry at the stupid, freaking snow, and the stupid, freaking universe, that I threw the biggest, sharpest anvils of ice and snow as hard as I possibly could. It helped. That day. Again, I digress....
When I was little, I wrote simply, "I love you, Daddy." As I got older, I wrote things like, "With love from your favorite dancing daughter," or "Your favorite daughter with a birthday in February." Dad had favorites, and everyone was one. Until Anna and Mattie were born, Chrissy was his favorite granddaughter, and afterwards, she was his favorite granddaughter in all of New York State. (Anna and Mattie lived in New Zealand, then Minnesota.) I was his favorite Stephania. He'd always find something, even if it was "You're my favorite dog named Spot." On anyone else, it might come across as being condescending, or conciliatory, but he pulled it off with a magical combination of love and humor. I loved that, and I try to keep it up with my own kids, my nieces, nephews, and other loved ones. Mostly because it makes me think of him whenever I say, "You're my favorite Bubba." And also when the reply is, "You're my favorite Momma."
Later, when I was in college, and beyond, living far away from home, birthday cards were the ideal opportunity to fill him and Mom in on what was going on. I'd sign the card, and then fill the rest of the space with news, anecdotes, questions, invitations and usually stuff it with pictures or clippings. I never was at a loss for what to say, and it never really mattered if I got a response. It was good to share.
After he died, when we were cleaning out his desk, we discovered all those cards and letters. Every one that each of us had ever sent him--and also the ones from his sisters, and from Gramma Katie--were stored in a drawer. Through the tears that streamed down my cheeks, I remembered times when I'd go down to "visit" him in his space in the basement where his desk and chair were, where his workbench was, and all his tools, and he'd be looking through the contents of that drawer. I never knew, nor did I ask, what he was looking at. When we saw the cards, letters, and even pictures--photos and drawings--in that drawer, I knew, without a doubt, that he was looking at love; soothing his soul. I sorted the items as best I could, tied them with ribbon, and returned them to the senders. I still have mine, tucked in a nook in my sewing room. And like him, I keep most of the notes and cards the boys and Guy give me. I don't take them out, but they aren't yet far away. Someday, I might need them.
The past couple of years, I've written words to him as Notes on Facebook. And today I find myself pulled to the words I want to share. Trouble is, it's so hard. With all my heart, I believe he is with me all the time--in my family, my children, my husband, my friends, even--and yet he's just not here. On his birthday, I miss him most of all.
I thought I was doing okay today. I thought this year was going to be different; a little less caustic (because that's what the sorrow is: it burns my heart), and then I read a post and a comment on Facebook. A friend I "met" through a friend said that after four years, "it still cuts straight to the heart." Occasionally, we commiserate on having lost our Daddys, but when a friend of hers said that now she is "in a place of real understanding...." I completely fell apart. That's what hits me hardest, I think, grown women who miss their Daddys. That's what brings it back to me--every one of my scars bleeds fresh, and I just want to crawl up in his lap again.
So there will be words for Dad. But not right now. And as I write them, sitting in his chair at my computer, I will imagine him reading them--again and again.
For as long as I can remember, I have written something to Dad for his birthday: notes, cards, sometimes long, newsy letters. That winter he died is the only time I didn't, and it didn't feel right at all. Of course, what I was doing instead, what the six of us were doing, was chucking huge chunks of frozen snow at the ground, trying to clear the driveway. We threw them, and I screamed with all my might. I was so angry at the stupid, freaking snow, and the stupid, freaking universe, that I threw the biggest, sharpest anvils of ice and snow as hard as I possibly could. It helped. That day. Again, I digress....
When I was little, I wrote simply, "I love you, Daddy." As I got older, I wrote things like, "With love from your favorite dancing daughter," or "Your favorite daughter with a birthday in February." Dad had favorites, and everyone was one. Until Anna and Mattie were born, Chrissy was his favorite granddaughter, and afterwards, she was his favorite granddaughter in all of New York State. (Anna and Mattie lived in New Zealand, then Minnesota.) I was his favorite Stephania. He'd always find something, even if it was "You're my favorite dog named Spot." On anyone else, it might come across as being condescending, or conciliatory, but he pulled it off with a magical combination of love and humor. I loved that, and I try to keep it up with my own kids, my nieces, nephews, and other loved ones. Mostly because it makes me think of him whenever I say, "You're my favorite Bubba." And also when the reply is, "You're my favorite Momma."
Later, when I was in college, and beyond, living far away from home, birthday cards were the ideal opportunity to fill him and Mom in on what was going on. I'd sign the card, and then fill the rest of the space with news, anecdotes, questions, invitations and usually stuff it with pictures or clippings. I never was at a loss for what to say, and it never really mattered if I got a response. It was good to share.
After he died, when we were cleaning out his desk, we discovered all those cards and letters. Every one that each of us had ever sent him--and also the ones from his sisters, and from Gramma Katie--were stored in a drawer. Through the tears that streamed down my cheeks, I remembered times when I'd go down to "visit" him in his space in the basement where his desk and chair were, where his workbench was, and all his tools, and he'd be looking through the contents of that drawer. I never knew, nor did I ask, what he was looking at. When we saw the cards, letters, and even pictures--photos and drawings--in that drawer, I knew, without a doubt, that he was looking at love; soothing his soul. I sorted the items as best I could, tied them with ribbon, and returned them to the senders. I still have mine, tucked in a nook in my sewing room. And like him, I keep most of the notes and cards the boys and Guy give me. I don't take them out, but they aren't yet far away. Someday, I might need them.
The past couple of years, I've written words to him as Notes on Facebook. And today I find myself pulled to the words I want to share. Trouble is, it's so hard. With all my heart, I believe he is with me all the time--in my family, my children, my husband, my friends, even--and yet he's just not here. On his birthday, I miss him most of all.
I thought I was doing okay today. I thought this year was going to be different; a little less caustic (because that's what the sorrow is: it burns my heart), and then I read a post and a comment on Facebook. A friend I "met" through a friend said that after four years, "it still cuts straight to the heart." Occasionally, we commiserate on having lost our Daddys, but when a friend of hers said that now she is "in a place of real understanding...." I completely fell apart. That's what hits me hardest, I think, grown women who miss their Daddys. That's what brings it back to me--every one of my scars bleeds fresh, and I just want to crawl up in his lap again.
So there will be words for Dad. But not right now. And as I write them, sitting in his chair at my computer, I will imagine him reading them--again and again.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
in my mind
Red and white sneakers.
Lately, when I think of Dad, that's what I see in my mind's eye: his red and white sneakers. I haven't the foggiest idea why. It baffles me sometimes; stuns me at other times. Frequently, it just plain amuses me.
He had those sneakers for as long as I can remember. Red and white leather. Just the plain, old, walk around, casual style of shoe that used to be called "sneaker" before Nike and Reebok and the lot started specializing shoes. They were big (for me, anyway) and not just a little clunky (by today's standards), but, boy did he love them! And something about them must mean something to me lately. In some ways, I wish I knew, but I also figure that once I figure that out, I won't see them so clearly the moment I think of him. It's the letting go that's always the hardest.
Today is Valentine's Day. On this day, in 2007, in the midst of a wild blizzard, we listened to taps played for him, and a 21-gun salute, which happened to occur at the same time as a church's noontime bells. "God and Country," my sister said later. "His two great devotions." Five years later, and I still miss him, of course, but right now the missing is not so painful, fresh, sharp. Not this week, anyway.
For a long time, I think it would have hurt to have those shoes appear to me. They were the shoes he wore walking around the neighborhood every morning for a while. The ones he was wearing when he almost slid into Newport Bay when we took the Cliffwalk. (an event that looked more humorous to us than it felt to him!) There are times when I imagine that he wore them to my graduations, and our wedding, though I know he wouldn't have--just, possibly, to the parties afterward.
When I see his shoes, they are on his feet. I guess, to be precise, when I think of Dad lately, I see his red and white shoes, along with his legs from the knee down--though I couldn't tell you if he's wearing jeans or some other pants. Probably jeans--I don't recall him having other 'casual' pants. And when I see his legs and red and white shod feet, his right ankle is crossed on in left knee, and his left forefinger is hooked in the heel. His comfortable, conversational position. A position that always amused me, and one that I am so glad I have a picture of (although he's wearing his brown loafers in the picture, and my nephew is on his lap).
I don't know why I see the red and white sneakers. I don't know why they bring me such peace. If there is a reason, I hope I don't miss it, simply because I'm not ready to identify it. Whether there is a reason or not, I'm grateful for the memory, the vision, the warmth.
Happy Valentine's Day, Dad. I love you!
Lately, when I think of Dad, that's what I see in my mind's eye: his red and white sneakers. I haven't the foggiest idea why. It baffles me sometimes; stuns me at other times. Frequently, it just plain amuses me.
He had those sneakers for as long as I can remember. Red and white leather. Just the plain, old, walk around, casual style of shoe that used to be called "sneaker" before Nike and Reebok and the lot started specializing shoes. They were big (for me, anyway) and not just a little clunky (by today's standards), but, boy did he love them! And something about them must mean something to me lately. In some ways, I wish I knew, but I also figure that once I figure that out, I won't see them so clearly the moment I think of him. It's the letting go that's always the hardest.
Today is Valentine's Day. On this day, in 2007, in the midst of a wild blizzard, we listened to taps played for him, and a 21-gun salute, which happened to occur at the same time as a church's noontime bells. "God and Country," my sister said later. "His two great devotions." Five years later, and I still miss him, of course, but right now the missing is not so painful, fresh, sharp. Not this week, anyway.
For a long time, I think it would have hurt to have those shoes appear to me. They were the shoes he wore walking around the neighborhood every morning for a while. The ones he was wearing when he almost slid into Newport Bay when we took the Cliffwalk. (an event that looked more humorous to us than it felt to him!) There are times when I imagine that he wore them to my graduations, and our wedding, though I know he wouldn't have--just, possibly, to the parties afterward.
When I see his shoes, they are on his feet. I guess, to be precise, when I think of Dad lately, I see his red and white shoes, along with his legs from the knee down--though I couldn't tell you if he's wearing jeans or some other pants. Probably jeans--I don't recall him having other 'casual' pants. And when I see his legs and red and white shod feet, his right ankle is crossed on in left knee, and his left forefinger is hooked in the heel. His comfortable, conversational position. A position that always amused me, and one that I am so glad I have a picture of (although he's wearing his brown loafers in the picture, and my nephew is on his lap).
I don't know why I see the red and white sneakers. I don't know why they bring me such peace. If there is a reason, I hope I don't miss it, simply because I'm not ready to identify it. Whether there is a reason or not, I'm grateful for the memory, the vision, the warmth.
Happy Valentine's Day, Dad. I love you!
Monday, January 23, 2012
a gift
Kim Jones was not someone that anyone really ever "met;" rather, she was "experienced." She had a way of embracing everything about you, sizing you up effortlessly, and then shining her smile, her laugh, her sharp wit right at you. I don't even remember the first time I ever saw her, because it seems that she'd always been a part of my life. There is so much talk in business and in schools lately about the need for mentors, and the responsibilities they have to teach, guide and build their mentees. Kim, I got the impression, could've cared less about that. And yet, she was the finest mentor a person could be. Perhaps, no, very likely, for the very reason that she wasn't looking to fill that role: her purpose was to make good swimmers when she was coaching, to do the best job she could while she was working. She had high expectations, but not unreasonable--everything was achievable, it just might take a helluva lot of work, energy, guts, whatever, to get there! She always smiled at me from the pool deck. She always listened to what I had to say. She always assured me that Guy was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and that the boys were growing up to be men we could be proud of. She grumbled on occasion, but always, always in such a way that we'd both laugh. And even when I sat with her one day and we both were crying, she managed to pull out that trademark Kim smile, and make it all a little lighter, a little easier to bear. It was a gift.
And I mean to pass it on.
And I mean to pass it on.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
coach kim jones
Dear Kim,
When I began running, I hated it. Somehow it had occurred to me and a friend that we were not getting as much aerobic benefit from our dance classes as we would like, and around the same time, I started racing Jonathan to the car, to a tree, across that field. I decided that it might be a good idea to try running. It would give me something to do while the boys were at swim practice, and, clearly, would benefit me. Still, I hated it.
But I tried to be determined about mastering it, and forced myself to get on the treadmill for 30 minutes those three days a week. At least half the time I walked--I walked fast, but it still really wasn't running. It was boring, and I found excuses for slowing down. But, I was exercising, I was sweating.
Then came your diagnosis. For a relatively long time, I was terrified to talk to you--afraid I would cry, or say the wrong thing, or that you would cry. I was scared of your breast cancer, your treatment, and yet I was so very pleased to see you walk into the Y every day. If you could do that, I could run. If you could continue to go out on that pool deck, and guide those kids with all the gusto you could muster, I could run. If you could keep smiling, laughing, hugging, high-fiving, I could run.
I bought a Swim for Kim shirt, and wore it on the treadmill. At first I got funny looks, because all the other Swim for Kim shirts went into the pool area, not the exercise rooms. I didn't care--I knew that you were getting sidelong glances because you lost your hair. If you could handle that, I could handle this. Every single time I started that treadmill, I told myself I was doing it for you. And I did.
There were oh, so many times when I wanted to quit running; to walk or stop completely. I chastised myself--"Kim can't quit." Or, "Kim had chemo today. Is this really so rough?" And sometimes, "What would Kim think if she knew you'd stopped?" For every mile I ran, I put a dollar in a box at home. I didn't know what I would do with it, but I knew that something would present itself. At Christmas, I bought three more Swim for Kim shirts, and gave them as gifts to my sister, my brother, and my sister-in-love. I kept running for you, through chemo, radiation, the swim season. Just as you were telling the kids in the pool, with practice and perseverance, I got more efficient, faster, more comfortable.
It took time for me to work up the nerve to talk to you as we had before. To feel that if you laughed--no, when you laughed, for you always seemed to have one ready--I could, too. I was so fortunate that you never questioned my distance. It would have hurt us both if you'd noticed. You helped me with my HR class; we talked and laughed over hiring practices and promotion standards. When I finished my paper, I sent it to you for editing before submitting it.
And when the doctor told you that the cancer was gone, but would lurk around, and eventually return, we hugged, and cried together in the chapel at the Y. You showed me the radiation burns, and told me how they hurt, but you were so tired of always trying to hide them. I told you how beautiful you always were, always would be; that your presence is what mattered most.
Kim, you never knew what a coach you were to me, too. Your support of my sons, and my husband, in and around the pool was a gift I never was able to--could never--thank you for enough. If all of us are here for a reason, to learn something and to teach something, you were an extra special blessing. You taught me how to encourage my son without going overboard. You taught me to face life with joy, no matter the difficulties. You taught me to love what I'm doing with my whole heart, even if it's not what I wanted to be doing. You encouraged me to see through to the end, no matter what. I remember your frustration with yourself at not making my graduation party, and Henry's confirmation party, because you were too tired from a breast cancer event. Did you know that I was so proud of you? Did you know I wished I was more like you? I am so very grateful to you--for being you, for all to see.
And for coaching me to run.
I love you, Kim, and I always will. I know that you must be on that great pool deck in heaven, calling out encouragement to all those who love the water; cheering and smiling that amazing smile that lit up every bit of your being. I know that your light will continue to shine on us all, because our love for you was always rivaled only by your love for us.
Take your mark.....
Love,
Stephanie
When I began running, I hated it. Somehow it had occurred to me and a friend that we were not getting as much aerobic benefit from our dance classes as we would like, and around the same time, I started racing Jonathan to the car, to a tree, across that field. I decided that it might be a good idea to try running. It would give me something to do while the boys were at swim practice, and, clearly, would benefit me. Still, I hated it.
But I tried to be determined about mastering it, and forced myself to get on the treadmill for 30 minutes those three days a week. At least half the time I walked--I walked fast, but it still really wasn't running. It was boring, and I found excuses for slowing down. But, I was exercising, I was sweating.
Then came your diagnosis. For a relatively long time, I was terrified to talk to you--afraid I would cry, or say the wrong thing, or that you would cry. I was scared of your breast cancer, your treatment, and yet I was so very pleased to see you walk into the Y every day. If you could do that, I could run. If you could continue to go out on that pool deck, and guide those kids with all the gusto you could muster, I could run. If you could keep smiling, laughing, hugging, high-fiving, I could run.
I bought a Swim for Kim shirt, and wore it on the treadmill. At first I got funny looks, because all the other Swim for Kim shirts went into the pool area, not the exercise rooms. I didn't care--I knew that you were getting sidelong glances because you lost your hair. If you could handle that, I could handle this. Every single time I started that treadmill, I told myself I was doing it for you. And I did.
There were oh, so many times when I wanted to quit running; to walk or stop completely. I chastised myself--"Kim can't quit." Or, "Kim had chemo today. Is this really so rough?" And sometimes, "What would Kim think if she knew you'd stopped?" For every mile I ran, I put a dollar in a box at home. I didn't know what I would do with it, but I knew that something would present itself. At Christmas, I bought three more Swim for Kim shirts, and gave them as gifts to my sister, my brother, and my sister-in-love. I kept running for you, through chemo, radiation, the swim season. Just as you were telling the kids in the pool, with practice and perseverance, I got more efficient, faster, more comfortable.
It took time for me to work up the nerve to talk to you as we had before. To feel that if you laughed--no, when you laughed, for you always seemed to have one ready--I could, too. I was so fortunate that you never questioned my distance. It would have hurt us both if you'd noticed. You helped me with my HR class; we talked and laughed over hiring practices and promotion standards. When I finished my paper, I sent it to you for editing before submitting it.
And when the doctor told you that the cancer was gone, but would lurk around, and eventually return, we hugged, and cried together in the chapel at the Y. You showed me the radiation burns, and told me how they hurt, but you were so tired of always trying to hide them. I told you how beautiful you always were, always would be; that your presence is what mattered most.
Kim, you never knew what a coach you were to me, too. Your support of my sons, and my husband, in and around the pool was a gift I never was able to--could never--thank you for enough. If all of us are here for a reason, to learn something and to teach something, you were an extra special blessing. You taught me how to encourage my son without going overboard. You taught me to face life with joy, no matter the difficulties. You taught me to love what I'm doing with my whole heart, even if it's not what I wanted to be doing. You encouraged me to see through to the end, no matter what. I remember your frustration with yourself at not making my graduation party, and Henry's confirmation party, because you were too tired from a breast cancer event. Did you know that I was so proud of you? Did you know I wished I was more like you? I am so very grateful to you--for being you, for all to see.
And for coaching me to run.
I love you, Kim, and I always will. I know that you must be on that great pool deck in heaven, calling out encouragement to all those who love the water; cheering and smiling that amazing smile that lit up every bit of your being. I know that your light will continue to shine on us all, because our love for you was always rivaled only by your love for us.
Take your mark.....
Love,
Stephanie
Thursday, October 13, 2011
letters, words, memories....
Dear Dad,
I miss you lately. Some days I miss you more than others, but most "miss you" days lately are comforting rather than difficult. I'm sure you know how busy and crazy life is with football, soccer and swim team, let alone the rest of everything (like eating!), and there are times when I can see you snickering and shaking your head at the comings and goings. Makes me smile way deep down when I think of it.
There are still times, though, when the comforting feeling is accompanied by hot tears, and, quite honestly, I feel confused. Those are the times when I wish. The wishes are always different, because the occasions are always different. These days, the tears are related to those one-armed hugs. I can feel them, and I miss them all at the same time. Usually, when I get to see Andy or Mike, I can manage to get one from them, but it's just not the same. When I feel you there beside me, reaching your left arm around me in a quick squeeze, I can hear you saying just what I need to hear, "You done good, kid."
I'm so glad to have Guy and the boys everyday. I see and hear you in them in so many ways, so many little things that make my heart dance. I probably shouldn't keep those reminders to myself, the way I do. I know it would comfort them to know that you are there--a lasting part of each of them, but the moments pass so quickly, and I lose the 'how' to say it. Funny, huh? Me, at a loss for words.
You were, and still are, the best Dad I ever had. :) I love that I can say that, and when I do, I can hear, in a huge rush, all the variations of that I ever heard you say to anyone you loved, including the "secret" ones! I also hear you say it now, to others you never got to meet, but who have come into our lives. I love that you are the only one ever to call me "Stephania," and I miss the way you would hold your toe when you crossed your ankle over your knee.
I miss our pajama-clad coffee talks, and seeing you try to find the right tools and materials to fix things here. I miss hearing you say, "Dog!" when Twilight would nudge you, and I wonder what you would have thought of Rusty, who Henry refers to as "Dope," making me hear you in his voice. When Jonathan reads to elementary students, I see a vignette of you reading to Celeste and me, thinking you were tricking us out of watching TV. Drew leans back in your chair and reads as if he doesn't even notice that the spring has been shot for probably 45 years. Who does that remind you of? Joseph misses you so very much. He really wanted more time with you. I still read to Joseph and Drew, and I promise, next time we snuggle up together, to tell him about you reading to us. It's been a while since I told them about that.
The greatest gift, though, is the blessings you bestowed on Guy and me together. I admire, still, the easy way you had with each other. The banter, the jokes, the serious times. The way you hugged each other with your whole beings, as if you'd known each other forever. I miss seeing you clap him on the shoulder, and the way you'd both make "man hug" noises. He and Mike share that, and I can't wait to see it again.
Thank you for watching over us, and for being on the other side of that beautiful star that is the first one I see in the sky. Thank you for blessing me with your sense of humor (even though it gets me in trouble sometimes--or maybe because it gets me in trouble sometimes!). And thank you for believing in me when it was right, and questioning me when I needed to be questioned. Know that you, like all those I love, are always in my heart and on my mind. Thank you for always encouraging me to move forward; to look ahead, not back, unless there was a lesson to be remembered. Most of all, thank you for being a part of the spiral that is life.
I love you!
I miss you!
Love,
Stephania
I miss you lately. Some days I miss you more than others, but most "miss you" days lately are comforting rather than difficult. I'm sure you know how busy and crazy life is with football, soccer and swim team, let alone the rest of everything (like eating!), and there are times when I can see you snickering and shaking your head at the comings and goings. Makes me smile way deep down when I think of it.
There are still times, though, when the comforting feeling is accompanied by hot tears, and, quite honestly, I feel confused. Those are the times when I wish. The wishes are always different, because the occasions are always different. These days, the tears are related to those one-armed hugs. I can feel them, and I miss them all at the same time. Usually, when I get to see Andy or Mike, I can manage to get one from them, but it's just not the same. When I feel you there beside me, reaching your left arm around me in a quick squeeze, I can hear you saying just what I need to hear, "You done good, kid."
I'm so glad to have Guy and the boys everyday. I see and hear you in them in so many ways, so many little things that make my heart dance. I probably shouldn't keep those reminders to myself, the way I do. I know it would comfort them to know that you are there--a lasting part of each of them, but the moments pass so quickly, and I lose the 'how' to say it. Funny, huh? Me, at a loss for words.
You were, and still are, the best Dad I ever had. :) I love that I can say that, and when I do, I can hear, in a huge rush, all the variations of that I ever heard you say to anyone you loved, including the "secret" ones! I also hear you say it now, to others you never got to meet, but who have come into our lives. I love that you are the only one ever to call me "Stephania," and I miss the way you would hold your toe when you crossed your ankle over your knee.
I miss our pajama-clad coffee talks, and seeing you try to find the right tools and materials to fix things here. I miss hearing you say, "Dog!" when Twilight would nudge you, and I wonder what you would have thought of Rusty, who Henry refers to as "Dope," making me hear you in his voice. When Jonathan reads to elementary students, I see a vignette of you reading to Celeste and me, thinking you were tricking us out of watching TV. Drew leans back in your chair and reads as if he doesn't even notice that the spring has been shot for probably 45 years. Who does that remind you of? Joseph misses you so very much. He really wanted more time with you. I still read to Joseph and Drew, and I promise, next time we snuggle up together, to tell him about you reading to us. It's been a while since I told them about that.
The greatest gift, though, is the blessings you bestowed on Guy and me together. I admire, still, the easy way you had with each other. The banter, the jokes, the serious times. The way you hugged each other with your whole beings, as if you'd known each other forever. I miss seeing you clap him on the shoulder, and the way you'd both make "man hug" noises. He and Mike share that, and I can't wait to see it again.
Thank you for watching over us, and for being on the other side of that beautiful star that is the first one I see in the sky. Thank you for blessing me with your sense of humor (even though it gets me in trouble sometimes--or maybe because it gets me in trouble sometimes!). And thank you for believing in me when it was right, and questioning me when I needed to be questioned. Know that you, like all those I love, are always in my heart and on my mind. Thank you for always encouraging me to move forward; to look ahead, not back, unless there was a lesson to be remembered. Most of all, thank you for being a part of the spiral that is life.
I love you!
I miss you!
Love,
Stephania
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)