The Sled

My dad was a little bit of a procrastinator, a trait he passed on to me.  But one year when I was about 5 years old we had a heavy snowfall, and all the neighborhood kids, and some adults were sledding down the hill near our house.  All except me.  I had no sled, and no one willing to give me a ride, so I went home in tears.   My dad took me into his work room, picked out some 2x4s and some plywood, and he made a sled for me.  I'd guess it took him an hour or so.  This is a man whose most common expressions were "not yet"  and "in a minute."  When he was done I took my sled to the hill, everyone was still there, and I sledded down.  I was a little disappointed that it didn't go fast like all the others, in fact it only went about 10 feet at a time before it would get stuck and I'd have to get off to reposition it to go another 10 feet.  But in retrospect, I think that  was part of the plan of making it out of 2x4s.  I was only 5 after all, and when he thought thru the sled plans in his head, as he thought thru everything before acting or speaking, it would not surprise me at all if he thought to himself that those 2x4s would go just about the right speed for a kid my age.

Sensory Aids

I really want something that's like a piece of Dad to carry with me, but a picture doesn't really do it.  Mom says that's because the only thing that will do it is Dad himself, and that, of course, isn't possible.  Maybe she's right that I'm trying to find something that's as good as having him back, I don't know.  Pictures don't make him feel real, but voice recordings do.  I think certain items in his cave make him feel real too, but really gone, and that's why those things get me depressed.  Hearing his voice was great.  Made things feel back to normal for a while.  I wish Heaven wasn't so far away so we could pack up the car and go visit him for the day.  (song by Justin Moore)

Life's Moments

The crying came the other night as I was telling Doug some of what I felt regarding Dad's death.  It isn't what many people might think, aside from the pain, separation, helplessness,...    Supporting my dad while he died was one of those moments that "takes your breath away."  I've always thought of that expression as indicative of a really happy event, but now I know it can happen during a sad one too.  It's a moment overwhelmingly emotional when God, nature, and the universe show us a basic truth which, though being fundamental, we cannot begin to comprehend.

Breathing In and Breathing Out

" Life's not the breaths you take, but the moments that take your breath away.  Just like it took [his breath when we were] born.  Like it took my breath away when Dad took his last that morn."

What About Mom?

My mom is without her lifelong partner for the first time in 53 years.  She went from her dad's house to my dad's house when she married him.  They raised their kids together, both working to provide a home, food, and education.  We took vacations together, traveling the country by car every couple years, stopping to visit relatives on the way.  When the nest emptied they were able to make trips, just the two of them, mostly on cruise ships.  They learned ballroom dancing together and would hit the dance floor most friday nights.  I loved watching them, they were really good!  All this she did with Dad for 53. 7 years.  A daughter can be a wonderful friend I'm sure, but clearly NO ONE else can be there for Mom like her honey could.  Having realized that, I will therefore do it anyway.

Our First Thanksgiving

We had Thanksgiving yesterday at Mom's house.  Not Mom and Dad's, but Mom's.  We hadn't done a holiday dinner there in some years, as my brother took over that job from our grateful mother.  Dad never made a lot of noise or drew attention to himself at these dinners, as he said, "Eating is serious business."  Even so, the lack of his quiet presence was profound.  I guess I'd have to call it deafening absence.

Very much.  I told you we would.

Pulmonary Fibrosis, this is how it kills:

the fibrosis, or scar tissue, infests the space between the alveoli so the blood can't get in there to absorb oxygen, which means not enough oxygen gets to the organs: hypoxia.

Dad was never able to get much done on his Falcon project, so what we have in the garage he left behind is a conglomeration of pieces that he planned on using for it.  I don't know what kind of restoration he had in mind, but I suspect at the point that he stopped working on it he probably was picturing certain things in a particular way, and the rest he would use what he found at reasonable prices as well as to his liking.  I have really fond memories from that car, plus some of fighting with my brother.  I wish Dad had been able to restore in some way.

Mom found an online support site for people who are grieving.  It looks pretty good.  She signed up for those who've lost a spouse.  I signed up for lost a parent.  I read a couple of the entries, and they expressed things that I too have felt.

Dad did a lot of projects around the house over the years, and I was looking around at some of the changes he made.  He did some really good work.  But Mom needs to sell that house sometime soon, so she won't have those to admire anymore.  Neither will I.  Dad's primary motivation for making those improvements was not for future generations, though it would be cool if they remained part of the house for that long.  He did it because he always wanted and/or needed a project going in his head, and he enjoyed the process as well as the product.  I don't know what will happen to that house in the next few years, but my hindsight says if they had moved to a smaller place some years ago, he would have done projects there that would have been a comfort to Mom the rest of her life.  Wishes...

Saturday, November 17, 2012

I had a vision of Dad a couple weeks ago.  That is, I suddenly became aware of  an image of Dad standing in front of "the light."  And I knew then that he was waiting there for me, and presumable for my whole family.  This happened during the day, while I was getting in or out of the car.  That night I dreamed about him.  He was standing near me, I went over, told him I loved him, and hugged him.  He hugged me back and told me, "Always remember to do this.  Take my word for it."


revision:
 I suddenly saw in my mind's eye an image of Dad standing in front of "the light." It looked just like a photograph, except I think I had the impression of it shifting his appearance from the image of one of the pictures we've been looking at to another one. I no longer have that impression.   I see a single image in my mind when I look back on the experience.  It's either the picture in his red polo, or something very similar.   I felt/knew with a certainty that he was waiting there for me, and the family, in the light, or before the light.  Up until that time I had no impression, feeling, sense, or anything else that he was anywhere.  When he died I was not aware of anything other than the cessation of life in my dad's body.  This vision felt like he was telling me, "Here I am.  You might not sense my presence, or feel that my essence left my body and went somewhere, but I'm letting you know: I am here."  This happened during the day, while I was getting in or out of the car, about a month after he died.  I had the sensation that he had not been available to appear to us, or whatever, until that time.  Like, I don't know, his spirit had to processed somehow, or that he'd been slumbering in some way, but then he like popped in out of thin air. 

That night I dreamed about him.  He was standing near me, I went over, told him I loved him, and hugged him.  He hugged me back and told me, "Always remember to do this.  Take my word for it."  He looked like I remembered him, not on his last days, but from maybe 3 years ago, before he began to look so very old to me. It was just like all the times that I would go downstairs, hug him, and say goodbye to him when I left their house.   As I looked back up at him, in the dream,  he had changed to a younger appearance- similar to the pictures of him I had been working with.

(Originally posted 10/23/2012)

Saturday, October 13, 2012

My Dad died last week.  It sounds so strange... even surreal...  My Dad died...  I have many moments when I get a feeling of unreality.  Dying is not something that my Dad does, so it doesn't make sense to me that he's done it now.  Not that it was something he did.  A disease called idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis killed him.  It's a lung disease that is still a mystery to the doctors and researchers, though it kills as many people in the U.S. each year as breast cancer.  Usually a person declines over the course of several years, but sometimes it progresses quickly, like with Dad, though even his doctor was shocked.  He'd had a bad cough last winter and into the spring.  In June he was diagnosed and put on oxygen right away.  He was able to go dancing, just a little bit, a week before he died.  Wednesday he went into the hospital.  Thursday his doctor felt he was doing better.  But Friday his breathing got worse until it just stopped late that night.  I'm really glad I was able to be with him and I hope that my actions and words gave him some comfort.
 Life will never "get back to normal,"  because he isn't here.  So I guess my family and I just have to get used to living with a sense of wrongness.  Often when I think of him being gone I get this feeling like, "that can't be right."
He was very good at giving advice and helping solve a problem... I won't be able to get his help again.  I will never be able to sit with him, watch TV, and help with his crossword puzzle.  He wanted me to make plum jam this year...  And what will Thanksgiving be like without his quiet presence?

We've planned a service to honor him this Saturday, the 13th at 2 p.m. at Forest Lawn Funeral Home in west Seattle
For more information of this awful disease   http://www.pulmonaryfibrosis.org/