Today is the one year anniversary of my Dad's passing.
I wasn't sure how I was going to feel by the one-year mark. I used to wonder if things would be easier by then, or if it would be an extremely difficult day.
While I cry less now that I once did, I'm not confident that it's entirely the healing process. It used to be that I would think about my Dad in some way and I would be reduced to a puddle of tears. It was necessary, cathartic, and also exhausting. Now I simply choose when to allow myself to have those thoughts and get emotional. Sometimes I break down and cry, and sometimes I just put it out of my mind. I know this is a defense mechanism, and likely a form of denial, but it really does help me to live a relatively normal day-to-day life.
Sometimes I just pretend that he's on vacation, or it's just been forever since we spoke on the phone. Somehow it's easier to pretend that it's just a short break we're experiencing. Is it too much to ask for a phone line in Heaven? I could seriously make my peace with the idea of never seeing him again, if I could just hear his voice and speak to him. Or maybe even never speak to him again, if I could just get a letter from him once and a while. Or maybe, if we could meet in my dreams each night, and have a relationship there.
Everyone who has lost someone can attest to the longing for "just one more day". Oh what we all wouldn't give for that one more day; to say and do all the things that we missed and forgot and regretted not sharing. I can tell you I would give up all of my material possessions for that, without another thought. Because when it comes down to it, there is nothing more important than what we do with our limited time on this Earth. You cannot take anything else with you when you go.
Speaking of going back for "just one more day", if you do nothing else this year, you should see the movie "About Time". The message is truly profound, essentially about how we chose to experience our day-to-day lives, and what we would do if we could go back and experience it all again. The movie stuck with me for hours, even days, after I watched it. It was so beautifully, heart-wrenchingly real, despite the aspect of time-travel (in a way I only wish was possible). You will not regret it. Stop what you're doing, see this movie, absorb its message, and put it into practice in your own life.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing? The roles of Hope and Denial when coping with Cancer
I apologize for the lack of posts recently. The last few weeks were difficult as expected (with my Dad's birthday and Father's Day), so I just tried to avoid thinking about it, and certainly didn't want to write about it. It got me thinking about denial, and how we naturally use it as a defense mechanism, even when we aren't aware of it. This is especially try during the process of dealing with cancer.
When my Dad was battling his Pancreatic Cancer, I don't really know if he was in denial or had found acceptance - he never shared this with me. For all I know, he may have come to terms with his own mortality at some point. But in our relationship, there was a lot of denial. Whenever I'd ask how he was feeling or how an appointment went, he told me he was feeling well, getting better, or showing progress. He was always optimistic. The reality was that he was in constant pain, was often getting sicker, and/or was constantly encountering medical setbacks and challenges.
I remember only one time where he allowed himself to be vulnerable with me. He was visiting me for the weekend, and just didn't feel well enough to make it to our dinner reservations. We canceled and decided to order pizza instead, even though he really had no appetite. He always loved going to dinner with us (he was such a foodie) and particularly loved this restaurant we had planned to visit, so cancelling our plans was very disappointing to him; I know he felt like he was letting us down, as if it was possible for him to hate his cancer any more intensely.
He was sitting on our guest bed with me, and he began to cry. He said "I don't want to die" And what did I say? "Don't talk like that. You're not going to die. Don't cry Dad. Everything's going to be OK." Why did I say this? At the time, I'm sure I was thinking that I wanted to make him feel better; that I hated seeing him cry. But looking back now, I see that this was the perfect opportunity for us to have a real honest and open conversation about his illness, and I brushed it aside. Only now, in the clarity of hindsight, do I wish that I had embraced this chance to tell each other how much we meant to each other, and everything we wanted the other person to know. I imagine it would go something like this:
"I don't want to die"
"I don't want you to die either Dad. But I'm so afraid you will. I'm afraid that this horrible cancer is going to take you away from me. I really can't imagine my life without you"
"Why is God doing this to me? Why did he have to give me cancer right when my relationship with my two girls has begun to get so good?"
"I don't know why, and it's not fair. But I'm so grateful for how much our relationship has improved lately. You're such a great Dad. And you do so much to make sure I know how much you care about me and love me. Even when we weren't as close you still always made an effort; like coming to my graduations beaming with pride. And always making trips to visit me. I'm so lucky to have you"
"Of course, I've always loved you and just wanted to be close to you. Everything you've done has made me so proud of you. My baby girl all grown up, married to a wonderful man, living in this beautiful house you renovated, and with a successful business you built on your own. You never cease to amaze me. Everything you do makes me happy. I want you to know that if I'm ever gone, I'll always be watching over you and smiling with pride at everything you accomplish."
"I love you so much Dad. I'm not ready to live without you - we have too much time to make up for"
"I'm not ready to leave you. I'm going to do everything I can to fight this and stay here with you girls. But the truth is this cancer is the ugliest cancer, and the chances are very slim. I'm holding on to hope and will not give up the fight."
"What do you mean? How slim?"
"The doctors say the survival rate is only about 4%, and the treatment time is usually only 8 months or so."
"But you've already been receiving treatment for a year."
"I know, and I'm so excited about that. I'm living on borrowed time right now it seems. But I'm trying to be the 4%:
"If that's true then I don't want to waste any more time. I can't believe I've been living my life as if it's just another day. I want us to never take each other for granted. I promise I'll do a better job of rationing my time. I want to spend as much time with you as possible, Dad.
"I want that, too, sweetheart."
You always think there will be another chance, but the fact is there are no guarantees. And for some reason, we all think it is taboo to tell someone all the emotional, touchy, sappy things we have in our hearts. We believe these things are only to be revealed during those final moments with someone before we say goodbye. And so we wait until we're kissing and hugging at the airport when someone moves away, or we write a love letter after our failed relationship, or we profess our innermost feelings while holding their hand at their bedside. Don't people deserve to hear these things while we still have time to spend together? Why are we so afraid to let them know how we really feel, and how much they really mean to us? How much would you love to hear these beautiful words spoken by someone you love? How liberating would it be to tell someone these special words? Imagine how your time together would change; how much more meaningful your time together would be.
Unfortunately there is a lot of denial in the cancer world, particularly in the Pancreatic Cancer community. It's a very fine line between Denial and Hope. It seems many people experiencing this disease (patients as well as family and caregivers) are encouraged to cling to Hope. Hope for the best response to treatment, Hope that the sickness will go away, Hope that something will happen and they will be the exception to the rule. Then before you know it, the fight it over, the Hope is gone, and you can't help but think that that Hope you were clinging to was actually Denial in Hope's clothing.
This is the part that really aggravates me. Instead of constantly preaching Hope, why can't someone come in with a shot of reality which will ultimately encourage people to consider their own mortality and maybe even embrace their limited time in an effort to make the most of every moment? Even when patients accept this process inwardly, but keep a brave face around their family and caregivers, it only creates pain for those around them who never have the opportunity to share this honest experience with them.
I think a lot of people feel like if they come to terms with the reality of their disease (particularly with Pancreatic Cancer) that they are essentially giving up, but that is simply not true! You can still fight the fight, pray with intense faith, and explore every treatment option. But why hide the pain and carry on with life as if you don't really have cancer? You have cancer. This is the truth. You may not always have cancer, but right now you have cancer, and you should live like you have cancer. Allow yourself to be angry, to be sad, to be scared. Allow yourself to be vulnerable with people you love and share with them your words of fear, hope, and most importantly love - revealing your innermost feelings about a relationship so cherished. This will allow others to also show their fear, grief, support and love. Both of you will be liberated. Your time together will be more meaningful. You will both have fewer regrets.
This far outweighs the alternative, as is evident by my struggle with so many regrets following my Dad's passing. I really believe that this one conversation could have completely changed our last few months together.
When my Dad was battling his Pancreatic Cancer, I don't really know if he was in denial or had found acceptance - he never shared this with me. For all I know, he may have come to terms with his own mortality at some point. But in our relationship, there was a lot of denial. Whenever I'd ask how he was feeling or how an appointment went, he told me he was feeling well, getting better, or showing progress. He was always optimistic. The reality was that he was in constant pain, was often getting sicker, and/or was constantly encountering medical setbacks and challenges.
I remember only one time where he allowed himself to be vulnerable with me. He was visiting me for the weekend, and just didn't feel well enough to make it to our dinner reservations. We canceled and decided to order pizza instead, even though he really had no appetite. He always loved going to dinner with us (he was such a foodie) and particularly loved this restaurant we had planned to visit, so cancelling our plans was very disappointing to him; I know he felt like he was letting us down, as if it was possible for him to hate his cancer any more intensely.
He was sitting on our guest bed with me, and he began to cry. He said "I don't want to die" And what did I say? "Don't talk like that. You're not going to die. Don't cry Dad. Everything's going to be OK." Why did I say this? At the time, I'm sure I was thinking that I wanted to make him feel better; that I hated seeing him cry. But looking back now, I see that this was the perfect opportunity for us to have a real honest and open conversation about his illness, and I brushed it aside. Only now, in the clarity of hindsight, do I wish that I had embraced this chance to tell each other how much we meant to each other, and everything we wanted the other person to know. I imagine it would go something like this:
"I don't want to die"
"I don't want you to die either Dad. But I'm so afraid you will. I'm afraid that this horrible cancer is going to take you away from me. I really can't imagine my life without you"
"Why is God doing this to me? Why did he have to give me cancer right when my relationship with my two girls has begun to get so good?"
"I don't know why, and it's not fair. But I'm so grateful for how much our relationship has improved lately. You're such a great Dad. And you do so much to make sure I know how much you care about me and love me. Even when we weren't as close you still always made an effort; like coming to my graduations beaming with pride. And always making trips to visit me. I'm so lucky to have you"
"Of course, I've always loved you and just wanted to be close to you. Everything you've done has made me so proud of you. My baby girl all grown up, married to a wonderful man, living in this beautiful house you renovated, and with a successful business you built on your own. You never cease to amaze me. Everything you do makes me happy. I want you to know that if I'm ever gone, I'll always be watching over you and smiling with pride at everything you accomplish."
"I love you so much Dad. I'm not ready to live without you - we have too much time to make up for"
"I'm not ready to leave you. I'm going to do everything I can to fight this and stay here with you girls. But the truth is this cancer is the ugliest cancer, and the chances are very slim. I'm holding on to hope and will not give up the fight."
"What do you mean? How slim?"
"The doctors say the survival rate is only about 4%, and the treatment time is usually only 8 months or so."
"But you've already been receiving treatment for a year."
"I know, and I'm so excited about that. I'm living on borrowed time right now it seems. But I'm trying to be the 4%:
"If that's true then I don't want to waste any more time. I can't believe I've been living my life as if it's just another day. I want us to never take each other for granted. I promise I'll do a better job of rationing my time. I want to spend as much time with you as possible, Dad.
"I want that, too, sweetheart."
You always think there will be another chance, but the fact is there are no guarantees. And for some reason, we all think it is taboo to tell someone all the emotional, touchy, sappy things we have in our hearts. We believe these things are only to be revealed during those final moments with someone before we say goodbye. And so we wait until we're kissing and hugging at the airport when someone moves away, or we write a love letter after our failed relationship, or we profess our innermost feelings while holding their hand at their bedside. Don't people deserve to hear these things while we still have time to spend together? Why are we so afraid to let them know how we really feel, and how much they really mean to us? How much would you love to hear these beautiful words spoken by someone you love? How liberating would it be to tell someone these special words? Imagine how your time together would change; how much more meaningful your time together would be.
Unfortunately there is a lot of denial in the cancer world, particularly in the Pancreatic Cancer community. It's a very fine line between Denial and Hope. It seems many people experiencing this disease (patients as well as family and caregivers) are encouraged to cling to Hope. Hope for the best response to treatment, Hope that the sickness will go away, Hope that something will happen and they will be the exception to the rule. Then before you know it, the fight it over, the Hope is gone, and you can't help but think that that Hope you were clinging to was actually Denial in Hope's clothing.
This is the part that really aggravates me. Instead of constantly preaching Hope, why can't someone come in with a shot of reality which will ultimately encourage people to consider their own mortality and maybe even embrace their limited time in an effort to make the most of every moment? Even when patients accept this process inwardly, but keep a brave face around their family and caregivers, it only creates pain for those around them who never have the opportunity to share this honest experience with them.
I think a lot of people feel like if they come to terms with the reality of their disease (particularly with Pancreatic Cancer) that they are essentially giving up, but that is simply not true! You can still fight the fight, pray with intense faith, and explore every treatment option. But why hide the pain and carry on with life as if you don't really have cancer? You have cancer. This is the truth. You may not always have cancer, but right now you have cancer, and you should live like you have cancer. Allow yourself to be angry, to be sad, to be scared. Allow yourself to be vulnerable with people you love and share with them your words of fear, hope, and most importantly love - revealing your innermost feelings about a relationship so cherished. This will allow others to also show their fear, grief, support and love. Both of you will be liberated. Your time together will be more meaningful. You will both have fewer regrets.
This far outweighs the alternative, as is evident by my struggle with so many regrets following my Dad's passing. I really believe that this one conversation could have completely changed our last few months together.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
More Recommended Reading
I finished a few more books that I wanted to share with everyone who may be interested in reading them:
Glimpses of Heaven
http://www.glimpsesofheavenbook.com/
This book was written by a Hospice nurse who shared her observations of 'glimpses of Heaven' when spending time with people during their final moments. Most of these people had experiences seeing angels, or loved ones in the great beyond, or even Jesus himself. They were able to share these visions before they passed, giving their family members comfort and peace in the wake of their death. Unfortunately this book did not offer much comfort or peace to me, because there is no way for me to know if my Dad experienced any of these things, as he could not communicate with us for the last few days of his life. This book does, however, introduce the conversation of Heaven and to look for these 'glimpses', which may be helpful for someone who is personally, or knows someone who is, terminally ill and preparing for the end with Hospice care.
90 Minutes in Heaven
http://www.90minutesinheaven.com/
This book was written by a pastor who was in a head-on collision with a semi-truck and pronounced dead at the scene. His body was so badly mangled that it spelled disaster for his brain and organs, and his lack of heartbeat meant there was no rush to use the jaws of life to free him from his scalped vehicle. Another pastor in the traffic that followed, felt compelled to pray for this man, and after 90 minutes in the great beyond, he began singing a hymn with the praying pastor. This books tells of his experience in Heaven during those 90 minutes, and his life after the accident. Although this book truly gives a sense of the glory of Heaven, it also reaffirms the belief that it is simply so fulfilling that you do not give a second though to the life you left behind. So much so that he often longed to go back, and no longer be a part of this world and this life after his return to Earth. This part was hard for me to read and grasp because it insinuates that my Dad might not even be thinking about the life he left behind, and that makes me sad. But this was still a very good book.
When God Winks
http://www.whengodwinks.com/
This book was all about the power of 'coincidence'. (I use this term loosely because according to this book there is no such thing as coincidence - everything happens for a reason and is all intertwined). This book describes incredible accounts from everyday people who share stories about the power of these coincidences, called Godwinks. This was an uplifting book and an easy read, and encourages you to be more mindful of the events that transpire in life and how they may be messages from God, or Godwinks directed just for you.
Glimpses of Heaven
http://www.glimpsesofheavenbook.com/
This book was written by a Hospice nurse who shared her observations of 'glimpses of Heaven' when spending time with people during their final moments. Most of these people had experiences seeing angels, or loved ones in the great beyond, or even Jesus himself. They were able to share these visions before they passed, giving their family members comfort and peace in the wake of their death. Unfortunately this book did not offer much comfort or peace to me, because there is no way for me to know if my Dad experienced any of these things, as he could not communicate with us for the last few days of his life. This book does, however, introduce the conversation of Heaven and to look for these 'glimpses', which may be helpful for someone who is personally, or knows someone who is, terminally ill and preparing for the end with Hospice care.
90 Minutes in Heaven
http://www.90minutesinheaven.com/
This book was written by a pastor who was in a head-on collision with a semi-truck and pronounced dead at the scene. His body was so badly mangled that it spelled disaster for his brain and organs, and his lack of heartbeat meant there was no rush to use the jaws of life to free him from his scalped vehicle. Another pastor in the traffic that followed, felt compelled to pray for this man, and after 90 minutes in the great beyond, he began singing a hymn with the praying pastor. This books tells of his experience in Heaven during those 90 minutes, and his life after the accident. Although this book truly gives a sense of the glory of Heaven, it also reaffirms the belief that it is simply so fulfilling that you do not give a second though to the life you left behind. So much so that he often longed to go back, and no longer be a part of this world and this life after his return to Earth. This part was hard for me to read and grasp because it insinuates that my Dad might not even be thinking about the life he left behind, and that makes me sad. But this was still a very good book.
When God Winks
http://www.whengodwinks.com/
This book was all about the power of 'coincidence'. (I use this term loosely because according to this book there is no such thing as coincidence - everything happens for a reason and is all intertwined). This book describes incredible accounts from everyday people who share stories about the power of these coincidences, called Godwinks. This was an uplifting book and an easy read, and encourages you to be more mindful of the events that transpire in life and how they may be messages from God, or Godwinks directed just for you.
Getting Over the Hurdle
This month is going to be a tough one. All within the span of 30 days will be several significant dates. First, May 7 marked six months since my Dad's passing. Part of me cannot believe that it's been six months already, but another part of me feels like it's been forever since he was last with me. I really cannot fathom how I will get through the next hundreds of months left in my lifetime, without being able to be with him.
May 21 marks his birthday. He would be 61 this year. This will be the first birthday we celebrate without him. I struggle with this date because I missed his 60th birthday party because I had to work that weekend. Knowing what I know now, I so wish I would have had someone else fill in for me so I could attend his party. This is one of my many regrets that haunt me still, even more so when I think of his impending birthday.
And of course June signifies Father's Day. I would ordinarily spend time picking out the perfect card, full of words of love and optimism. Then I'd select the perfect gift(s), like special seasoning, kitchen gadgets, and recipe books for his time in the kitchen, or sentimental pictures of our family. Even now when I'm browsing a store and I see something I know he would have loved, I contemplate buying it for him for just a second, and remember that he's no longer here to receive the gift.
Even thoughts of my upcoming wedding anniversary in June have a little cloud hanging overhead. It's a time when I would want to watch my wedding video, but now cannot bare the thought of reliving our Father/Daughter dance, or him walking me down the aisle. I also remember his voicemail he left me last year while we were spending an anniversary weekend in Savannah; "Happy Anniversary!" he half sang/half shouted in the message, in a voice so clearly identified in my memory. I saved the message for many months after because it always made me smile to hear the happiness and love in his voice. I prided myself on always having this message saved in my phone to go back and listen to, until a few days before his passing when I went back to hear it and discovered it was gone. A small breakdown ensued, simply because it was the last voicemail I had saved where his voice was happy and healthy in tone. (I had other voicemails saved more recently but all were messages wherein he described his current hospital stay and latest health issues; none as vibrant and joyous as this one message I cherished for so long). I fear a day when I might no longer remember the sound of his voice.
So many things remind me of him. Big things like his favorite sports teams, his favorite restaurants, and physical belongings of his, but also small and strange things... Like the other day I was sitting at a red light watching the crosswalk count down to prepare for the light to turn green. Suddenly I remembered being a little girl, in the car with my sister and my Dad, and we were trying to guess when the light would turn green for us. My sister and I kept guessing "...NOW!" "...NOW!", and then my Dad would say "Now!" and the light would change. We thought he was a genius! We could never get it right, but he always seemed to know when the light was about to change. Little did we know that he was watching the blinking hand of the crosswalk sign, and the light turning yellow in the intersection. This made me smile; something as mundane as a traffic light, now reminding me of my Dad.
For this reason, I decided to buy what I'm calling a Memory Journal. A large, substantial, good-quality journal where I can jot down any memories that come to mind about my Dad. Big things and little things. I want to remember everything. I want to be able to share these one day with my children, nieces and nephews, and/or grandchildren. I want to preserve the memory of my Dad, to be as multi-dimensional, as complete, as whole as possible. I think this will help to give me even more purpose in moving on in the absence of my Dad.
If you're grieving the loss of a loved one, this type of journaling may really help you to feel more connected to their memory, and that you are honoring their legacy, and I encourage you to try it.
May 21 marks his birthday. He would be 61 this year. This will be the first birthday we celebrate without him. I struggle with this date because I missed his 60th birthday party because I had to work that weekend. Knowing what I know now, I so wish I would have had someone else fill in for me so I could attend his party. This is one of my many regrets that haunt me still, even more so when I think of his impending birthday.
And of course June signifies Father's Day. I would ordinarily spend time picking out the perfect card, full of words of love and optimism. Then I'd select the perfect gift(s), like special seasoning, kitchen gadgets, and recipe books for his time in the kitchen, or sentimental pictures of our family. Even now when I'm browsing a store and I see something I know he would have loved, I contemplate buying it for him for just a second, and remember that he's no longer here to receive the gift.
Even thoughts of my upcoming wedding anniversary in June have a little cloud hanging overhead. It's a time when I would want to watch my wedding video, but now cannot bare the thought of reliving our Father/Daughter dance, or him walking me down the aisle. I also remember his voicemail he left me last year while we were spending an anniversary weekend in Savannah; "Happy Anniversary!" he half sang/half shouted in the message, in a voice so clearly identified in my memory. I saved the message for many months after because it always made me smile to hear the happiness and love in his voice. I prided myself on always having this message saved in my phone to go back and listen to, until a few days before his passing when I went back to hear it and discovered it was gone. A small breakdown ensued, simply because it was the last voicemail I had saved where his voice was happy and healthy in tone. (I had other voicemails saved more recently but all were messages wherein he described his current hospital stay and latest health issues; none as vibrant and joyous as this one message I cherished for so long). I fear a day when I might no longer remember the sound of his voice.
So many things remind me of him. Big things like his favorite sports teams, his favorite restaurants, and physical belongings of his, but also small and strange things... Like the other day I was sitting at a red light watching the crosswalk count down to prepare for the light to turn green. Suddenly I remembered being a little girl, in the car with my sister and my Dad, and we were trying to guess when the light would turn green for us. My sister and I kept guessing "...NOW!" "...NOW!", and then my Dad would say "Now!" and the light would change. We thought he was a genius! We could never get it right, but he always seemed to know when the light was about to change. Little did we know that he was watching the blinking hand of the crosswalk sign, and the light turning yellow in the intersection. This made me smile; something as mundane as a traffic light, now reminding me of my Dad.
For this reason, I decided to buy what I'm calling a Memory Journal. A large, substantial, good-quality journal where I can jot down any memories that come to mind about my Dad. Big things and little things. I want to remember everything. I want to be able to share these one day with my children, nieces and nephews, and/or grandchildren. I want to preserve the memory of my Dad, to be as multi-dimensional, as complete, as whole as possible. I think this will help to give me even more purpose in moving on in the absence of my Dad.
If you're grieving the loss of a loved one, this type of journaling may really help you to feel more connected to their memory, and that you are honoring their legacy, and I encourage you to try it.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Just a Dream?
Last night I had the most wonderful and simple dream. What I remember is that my Dad was sitting on a couch, healthy and happy. He was talking, to me I think but I'm not sure because I wasn't really paying attention. I remember thinking "Am I dreaming? I must be. But this feels so real! Maybe God is finally answering my prayer and giving me my Dad again. Here he is just as I wondered what I would do if I ever saw him again." It was at that point that I ran over to him and threw my arms around him. I hugged him and wouldn't let go. I cried a little, but they were tears of joy. I don't remember if we spoke at all, or what we may have said. I remember glancing back and seeing my Mom standing there with tears in her eyes. She turned to wipe them away, and I knew she was so happy for this moment. I really, seriously, have never felt more sure that a dream was reality. I had even gone through the process of questioning of this were just another dream like all the rest, wherein I realized they were dreams while I was experiencing them. This time felt completely different. I can't explain it, except to say that it was real at the time. When I awoke I sat for a few minutes trying to process what just happened. I was coming to grips with the fact that I was just laying in bed after this very vivid dream. I was picturing in my head again and again what he looked like just moments earlier; trying to savor the memory and the feeling. I replayed it over and over in my head. While other times I woke up so emotional that I would begin to cry, this time I did not. I only cried as I was putting together the words to describe this experience just now. My emotions are mixed because I know it was only a dream and my Dad is not here, but I also can't help but feel that perhaps this was a little answered prayer for me, and maybe the only feasible way I could receive what I was asking for, and I should be grateful for that.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Ebbs and Flows
What I've learned through my healing process (oh gosh I hope that's what this is) is that the grief ebbs and flows. Maybe it's not as consistently timed as the ocean waves, but it seems like just as I think I'm starting to hurt a little less, sadness will wash over me.
I can recognize the my coping mechanisms, too. First, there's the ever popular "don't think about this right now and you'll feel better". I use this many times, even subconsciously I'm sure, because there are days when I don't think about my Dad very much, if at all. I feel guilty sometimes about this, but these days are so much easier and more manageable so I figure it's ultimately ok.
Then there's the denial approach. Sometimes I really don't believe that he is gone. It's such a foreign feeling for me still, having him absent from my life. There are times when I just think we've simply been out of touch for a long time. Like I just haven't picked up the phone and called him in a while.
A little of the bargaining stage peeks in here. I think, "if only I could have just the slightest form of communication with him still, then I would feel so much better and be able to live my life." I rationalize that if only I could hear his voice in my head, or just talk to him on the phone, that maybe I could make peace with never seeing him again. Or I wish for one more day, one more hour even, where we could hug and cry and say all the things we didn't have a chance to say.
Sometimes I wonder what I would do if I actually were granted these things. I know God is capable of miracles, and people have visits from ghosts all the time. I wonder what my reaction would be if I saw my Dad again. If the phone rang and he was on the other line. If I heard his voice clearly in my head. Would I be fearful and frozen, unable to react? Would I be so overcome with joy that I run to him with open arms, or cry happy tears? Would I be able to make the most of those moments? And would that experience finally give me peace and closure? Or would I simply become insatiable when it was over, having finally tasted something so sweet and then unable to have it again?
Some days I lay in bed, unable to sleep because I'm trying so hard to think of something, anything, besides my Dad, but he's all that comes to mind.
And sometimes I'm out there living my life, trying to do everything and anything that would have elicited a reaction from him if he were here. Recently I expanded my personal business to have a new storefront location. This is something I had only dreamed of previously. My Dad was always so proud of me and my business and each small success that I experienced. I threw myself into my new project of getting this storefront, believing it was something he would want for me. As I admire the finished product I imagine how proud he would be of me. I envision him walking in and seeing the space and having a reaction only characterized as him; phrases like "nuh-uh" and "no way" and even "cool beans". Ha! I imagine his eyes swelling with tears of pride, and the big hugs that would ensue. I'd tell him about all the amazing deals I got on the furniture pieces, and how I refinished them to look this way; things I know he would be impressed with and react to.
The truth is I feel like I'm always trying to impress him still. I'm trying to do anything that might elicit a reaction on his part. I'm wishing I could hear his voice saying words of praise and elation, an wishing I could feel his presence. Something, anything, that let me know he was with me. It's like this challenge I've given myself, that if I do enough, eventually something will be so monumental that it will warrant an outreach. I'm literally begging for some kind of communication from him. I know, I know... I may be so loud in all of this that I cannot hear the quiet moments that might hold something for me. Maybe I'm not paying attention enough to the subtle messages around me. Maybe he can only do so much, and my expectations are too high. I'm working on this...
But in case you didn't already know, Dad, so much of what I do is for you. So much of how I live my life, and the decisions I make, are to honor you and make you proud.
I can recognize the my coping mechanisms, too. First, there's the ever popular "don't think about this right now and you'll feel better". I use this many times, even subconsciously I'm sure, because there are days when I don't think about my Dad very much, if at all. I feel guilty sometimes about this, but these days are so much easier and more manageable so I figure it's ultimately ok.
Then there's the denial approach. Sometimes I really don't believe that he is gone. It's such a foreign feeling for me still, having him absent from my life. There are times when I just think we've simply been out of touch for a long time. Like I just haven't picked up the phone and called him in a while.
A little of the bargaining stage peeks in here. I think, "if only I could have just the slightest form of communication with him still, then I would feel so much better and be able to live my life." I rationalize that if only I could hear his voice in my head, or just talk to him on the phone, that maybe I could make peace with never seeing him again. Or I wish for one more day, one more hour even, where we could hug and cry and say all the things we didn't have a chance to say.
Sometimes I wonder what I would do if I actually were granted these things. I know God is capable of miracles, and people have visits from ghosts all the time. I wonder what my reaction would be if I saw my Dad again. If the phone rang and he was on the other line. If I heard his voice clearly in my head. Would I be fearful and frozen, unable to react? Would I be so overcome with joy that I run to him with open arms, or cry happy tears? Would I be able to make the most of those moments? And would that experience finally give me peace and closure? Or would I simply become insatiable when it was over, having finally tasted something so sweet and then unable to have it again?
Some days I lay in bed, unable to sleep because I'm trying so hard to think of something, anything, besides my Dad, but he's all that comes to mind.
And sometimes I'm out there living my life, trying to do everything and anything that would have elicited a reaction from him if he were here. Recently I expanded my personal business to have a new storefront location. This is something I had only dreamed of previously. My Dad was always so proud of me and my business and each small success that I experienced. I threw myself into my new project of getting this storefront, believing it was something he would want for me. As I admire the finished product I imagine how proud he would be of me. I envision him walking in and seeing the space and having a reaction only characterized as him; phrases like "nuh-uh" and "no way" and even "cool beans". Ha! I imagine his eyes swelling with tears of pride, and the big hugs that would ensue. I'd tell him about all the amazing deals I got on the furniture pieces, and how I refinished them to look this way; things I know he would be impressed with and react to.
The truth is I feel like I'm always trying to impress him still. I'm trying to do anything that might elicit a reaction on his part. I'm wishing I could hear his voice saying words of praise and elation, an wishing I could feel his presence. Something, anything, that let me know he was with me. It's like this challenge I've given myself, that if I do enough, eventually something will be so monumental that it will warrant an outreach. I'm literally begging for some kind of communication from him. I know, I know... I may be so loud in all of this that I cannot hear the quiet moments that might hold something for me. Maybe I'm not paying attention enough to the subtle messages around me. Maybe he can only do so much, and my expectations are too high. I'm working on this...
But in case you didn't already know, Dad, so much of what I do is for you. So much of how I live my life, and the decisions I make, are to honor you and make you proud.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Heaven - so wonderful, you don't long for your Earthly life?
As many of you know, I have been reading many books that offer 'proof of Heaven'. These books have helped me to develop my vision of this new life my Dad may have; one where he is so full of happiness and love.
In these books, Heaven is described quite consistently as a place that is truly incredible and awe-inspiring. A place where our words simply cannot describe the feeling or the beauty. Colors on Earth pale in comparison. Music in Heaven is more stunning than anything ever heard before. When you enter this place, you are overcome with the feeling of Love, and the reception you receive from all of your deceased loved ones when you are reunited. Recently, I've been struggling with this notion: If Heaven is so incredible, do you no longer yearn for the Earthly life you leave behind?
In a couple of the books I've read, wherein the author has traveled to Heaven and then been revived and come back to Earth, the answer is Yes. They say that while they were in Heaven, they were not thinking about their friends and family that they had left behind. They did not long to return to their Earthly body. They were so fulfilled with the feeling of peace and love that they experienced in Heaven, that nothing else mattered. There was nothing else to worry about.
I suppose a place as perfect as Heaven should inspire these feelings. It should be a place where the soul no longer has doubts or fears or worries, but is rather completely content and filled with love.
But with that being said, I wonder what would ever possess our loved ones to think about us, their friends and family left grieving in their absence here in Earth? Would they ever feel sadness at the fact that they are no longer with us? Would they ever be inclined to reach out to us to make contact or send messages, as I've so often prayed for? Would they ever turn their attention away from the magnificence of Heaven, and look down upon us here on Earth, to experience our milestones or offer their guidance? Maybe the answers are Yes, but they could also be No... After all, if your soul is completely satiated by this place, why would you think about anything else? Is there a place for us, the memories and relationships with loved ones on Earth, up in Heaven?
I began to think that maybe this is why, since his passing, I haven't felt as connected with my Dad as I've hoped for. I try my hardest to be open and aware of my surroundings, so I may recognize even the slightest sign or communication attempt from him. I talk to him often, but I do not hear him talk back. The other morning I sobbed, feeling so alone. "I feel like you've forgotten about me" I said to him. "I feel like maybe you haven't looked back, but have only been looking forward." I even felt selfish for feeling this way; for praying that my Dad was wishing he were with me again, instead of enjoying the perfection of Heaven. It's such a mix of emotions.
I think I may feel this way because I have not yet had that big moment, that experience too meaningful to be coincidence; some sign from my Dad that tells me that he loves me and misses me and is with me. I know I may never get such an experience. But I hope that I may one day, and it will finally give me the 'closure' that I feel I am so desperately searching for.
In these books, Heaven is described quite consistently as a place that is truly incredible and awe-inspiring. A place where our words simply cannot describe the feeling or the beauty. Colors on Earth pale in comparison. Music in Heaven is more stunning than anything ever heard before. When you enter this place, you are overcome with the feeling of Love, and the reception you receive from all of your deceased loved ones when you are reunited. Recently, I've been struggling with this notion: If Heaven is so incredible, do you no longer yearn for the Earthly life you leave behind?
In a couple of the books I've read, wherein the author has traveled to Heaven and then been revived and come back to Earth, the answer is Yes. They say that while they were in Heaven, they were not thinking about their friends and family that they had left behind. They did not long to return to their Earthly body. They were so fulfilled with the feeling of peace and love that they experienced in Heaven, that nothing else mattered. There was nothing else to worry about.
I suppose a place as perfect as Heaven should inspire these feelings. It should be a place where the soul no longer has doubts or fears or worries, but is rather completely content and filled with love.
But with that being said, I wonder what would ever possess our loved ones to think about us, their friends and family left grieving in their absence here in Earth? Would they ever feel sadness at the fact that they are no longer with us? Would they ever be inclined to reach out to us to make contact or send messages, as I've so often prayed for? Would they ever turn their attention away from the magnificence of Heaven, and look down upon us here on Earth, to experience our milestones or offer their guidance? Maybe the answers are Yes, but they could also be No... After all, if your soul is completely satiated by this place, why would you think about anything else? Is there a place for us, the memories and relationships with loved ones on Earth, up in Heaven?
I began to think that maybe this is why, since his passing, I haven't felt as connected with my Dad as I've hoped for. I try my hardest to be open and aware of my surroundings, so I may recognize even the slightest sign or communication attempt from him. I talk to him often, but I do not hear him talk back. The other morning I sobbed, feeling so alone. "I feel like you've forgotten about me" I said to him. "I feel like maybe you haven't looked back, but have only been looking forward." I even felt selfish for feeling this way; for praying that my Dad was wishing he were with me again, instead of enjoying the perfection of Heaven. It's such a mix of emotions.
I think I may feel this way because I have not yet had that big moment, that experience too meaningful to be coincidence; some sign from my Dad that tells me that he loves me and misses me and is with me. I know I may never get such an experience. But I hope that I may one day, and it will finally give me the 'closure' that I feel I am so desperately searching for.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Finding a Place for Faith
I don't know what to call myself, because saying I'm 'spiritual' makes it sound like I sit around burning incense and strumming a cowhide drum, but saying I'm 'religious' makes it sound like I attend church every Sunday and attempt to prophesize to the unsaved. I'm neither of these. I believe in God and all that He has created and how He gently steers the direction of my life while somehow balancing my free will. I've attended church, but do not believe that organized religion is the only way to know God. I believe in Heaven - a place that is more beautiful and wonderful than we can ever imagine, where we go to forever enjoy the company of our loved ones, and where there is no more pain or anger or anything except love.
When my Father passed away, I did not want to turn to God for comfort or guidance. I withdrew from the very idea of God. The notion that God made this part of His plan was unacceptable to me. I could not, in my limited understanding, fathom why God, in all of his wisdom and grace, would give my Dad cancer. And not just any cancer, but Pancreatic cancer, a cancer that literally eats away at a person in the most rapid rate. Why was it part of the plan that my Dad battle this disease, only to ultimately lose? Why was he meant to suffer? And why was he meant to die?
I wondered why God doesn't heal all cancer? He certainly has the power to do so. Why can't He just give the cancer to all the terrible criminals and murders who are filled with evil, instead of inflicting it on a man who served his country, taught the youth of generations, and was the light in so many lives? It just didn't seem fair. I didn't understand. But what's more is, I knew I could never understand.
There is nothing someone can say that will lesson the pain of losing a loved one. And there is no explanation that will make you think "OK, well now that you said that, it all makes perfect sense, and I accept this now". The only thing we can do is attempt to look at the positive ways of reframing the experience, and hope that it's enough to restore just enough faith to carry on.
At first, when my Dad passed away, I asked a few friends who lost a parent to cancer how they coped with the situation. They told me they reminded themselves that the suffering was finally over. So I repeated this mantra to myself in an attempt to feel better. He was no longer in pain; no longer waiting for the inevitable. He was finally at peace.
And I reminded myself that I believed in Heaven, a place where my Dad was not only no longer suffering, but alive and well and thriving. A place where he was himself again. Where he was happy. Where we was with other loved ones he had once mourned, like his parents, his brother, and his best friend. A place where he could still look upon my life and experience milestones with me. And I believe that he can communicate with me in subtle ways, like in the few stories I've shared so far, and some I still have yet to share.
And then I read a few of those books (in my recommended reading) and I adopted a new philosophy. Imagine if you will, a new perspective, where God isn't just this great and powerful being sitting behind a super computer and calling all the shots. Instead, God has fellowship with all of the souls in Heaven. The souls in Heaven have many missions, and they may be sent to Earth in bodily form to live out a lifetime for many purposes, such as to learn things, to teach things, and to experience things. Sometimes it may be part of God's plan to have a soul come to Earth with a mission to influence and impact many people, the ways of which aren't exactly revealed. I believe God offers these missions to the souls in Heaven. And believing this, it made me think that perhaps my Dad's spirit was courageous enough to accept this mission, even though all of the details were not available, simply knowing that he would have a wonderful life and ultimately impact the lives of many people. Perhaps, deep down in his subconscious, he knew his time was short, and perhaps that's why he really did live life to the fullest during his brief 60 years on Earth. Looking back at all of the life experiences he had, one can really see how full and enriched his life was, albeit too short in our opinion.
Believing this also makes me believe that he fulfilled his mission, and did ultimately impact so many lives in everything he did, from his infectious personality, to his molding of young minds, to his final days, which made us all cherish life in a whole new way. It does not make me understand or accept this devastating loss, but believing these things has helped me to have just enough faith to carry on. To still believe in and love God, and find a place for him in making some sense of all this. It's not a perfect answer, but it's something. They say, you must have a test to have a testimony, and this is mine.
When my Father passed away, I did not want to turn to God for comfort or guidance. I withdrew from the very idea of God. The notion that God made this part of His plan was unacceptable to me. I could not, in my limited understanding, fathom why God, in all of his wisdom and grace, would give my Dad cancer. And not just any cancer, but Pancreatic cancer, a cancer that literally eats away at a person in the most rapid rate. Why was it part of the plan that my Dad battle this disease, only to ultimately lose? Why was he meant to suffer? And why was he meant to die?
I wondered why God doesn't heal all cancer? He certainly has the power to do so. Why can't He just give the cancer to all the terrible criminals and murders who are filled with evil, instead of inflicting it on a man who served his country, taught the youth of generations, and was the light in so many lives? It just didn't seem fair. I didn't understand. But what's more is, I knew I could never understand.
There is nothing someone can say that will lesson the pain of losing a loved one. And there is no explanation that will make you think "OK, well now that you said that, it all makes perfect sense, and I accept this now". The only thing we can do is attempt to look at the positive ways of reframing the experience, and hope that it's enough to restore just enough faith to carry on.
At first, when my Dad passed away, I asked a few friends who lost a parent to cancer how they coped with the situation. They told me they reminded themselves that the suffering was finally over. So I repeated this mantra to myself in an attempt to feel better. He was no longer in pain; no longer waiting for the inevitable. He was finally at peace.
And I reminded myself that I believed in Heaven, a place where my Dad was not only no longer suffering, but alive and well and thriving. A place where he was himself again. Where he was happy. Where we was with other loved ones he had once mourned, like his parents, his brother, and his best friend. A place where he could still look upon my life and experience milestones with me. And I believe that he can communicate with me in subtle ways, like in the few stories I've shared so far, and some I still have yet to share.
And then I read a few of those books (in my recommended reading) and I adopted a new philosophy. Imagine if you will, a new perspective, where God isn't just this great and powerful being sitting behind a super computer and calling all the shots. Instead, God has fellowship with all of the souls in Heaven. The souls in Heaven have many missions, and they may be sent to Earth in bodily form to live out a lifetime for many purposes, such as to learn things, to teach things, and to experience things. Sometimes it may be part of God's plan to have a soul come to Earth with a mission to influence and impact many people, the ways of which aren't exactly revealed. I believe God offers these missions to the souls in Heaven. And believing this, it made me think that perhaps my Dad's spirit was courageous enough to accept this mission, even though all of the details were not available, simply knowing that he would have a wonderful life and ultimately impact the lives of many people. Perhaps, deep down in his subconscious, he knew his time was short, and perhaps that's why he really did live life to the fullest during his brief 60 years on Earth. Looking back at all of the life experiences he had, one can really see how full and enriched his life was, albeit too short in our opinion.
Believing this also makes me believe that he fulfilled his mission, and did ultimately impact so many lives in everything he did, from his infectious personality, to his molding of young minds, to his final days, which made us all cherish life in a whole new way. It does not make me understand or accept this devastating loss, but believing these things has helped me to have just enough faith to carry on. To still believe in and love God, and find a place for him in making some sense of all this. It's not a perfect answer, but it's something. They say, you must have a test to have a testimony, and this is mine.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Keeping the Memory Alive
One thing that has helped me and brought me comfort and peace during this healing process has been the mission to keep my Father's memory alive. I've done this in several ways that others may find helpful:
- I started a Keep the Memory Alive webpage which collects donations for the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network in honor of my Dad.
- I took two of his rings, had them engraved with his initial(s), and sized down for my sister and I to wear every day.
- We planned a Celebration of Life event for all of his friends and family, completed with a slideshow of images of his life.
- I had his obituary framed along with an invitation to his Celebration of Life.
- I created a shadowbox display with his Navy medals and awards.
- I created a scrapbook album of his childhood pictures, Naval certificates, and other keepsakes.
- I had his watch repaired as a gift for my husband to wear.
- I created a photo collage of pictures of the two of us all combined into one image.
I'm still working on more ways to honor him and keep his memory alive, and will be sure to include the new developments in a later post.
- I started a Keep the Memory Alive webpage which collects donations for the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network in honor of my Dad.
- I took two of his rings, had them engraved with his initial(s), and sized down for my sister and I to wear every day.
- We planned a Celebration of Life event for all of his friends and family, completed with a slideshow of images of his life.
- I had his obituary framed along with an invitation to his Celebration of Life.
- I created a shadowbox display with his Navy medals and awards.
- I created a scrapbook album of his childhood pictures, Naval certificates, and other keepsakes.
- I had his watch repaired as a gift for my husband to wear.
- I created a photo collage of pictures of the two of us all combined into one image.
I'm still working on more ways to honor him and keep his memory alive, and will be sure to include the new developments in a later post.
Getting Your Time To Say Goodbye
I need to preface this post by saying that many people who are close to my Dad may find this hard to read. Looking back on the final days I spent with my Dad, I have so many mixed emotions, the hardest of which to deal with is regret. And isn't that the source of so much of our grief after the loss of a loved one?
This memory begins with the fact that during my Dad's battle with cancer, there were many instances where we were left waiting for news or action from medical staff. I remember the time we drove to Jacksonville to spend the weekend with him when he was first hospitalized after the biopsy and we were expecting to hear the test results. The weekend came and went without a visit or even call from the physician. We had hoped to be there as a source of support when/if he was informed that is was in fact cancer, but he ended up receiving the news after we returned to our homes. Another time we visited because there was talk of a surgery to improve his digestion. Yet another visit where nothing occurred, only mixed messages from doctors, surgeons, and nurses, until ultimately the day came that we needed to get back home and leave my Dad in the hospital at the mercy of the staff. Now don't get me wrong, he received many excellent treatments from talented medical staff members over the course of his 18 month battle with Pancreatic Cancer; a survival time that was extended far beyond most patients of this disease. But suffice it to say that there were several instances where we felt very powerless in the process, and our efforts to be present as a source of comfort and support for a major medical event were often stunted by the inefficiencies of the facility.
This final visit, the doctors asked "Where is his family?" and "How soon could they get here" so we knew it was imperative that we make the trip. Still, we had heard these words before and spent days on end waiting for news that never came, so we questioned if the staff were again crying wolf. We finished our workdays and drove in the night to arrive at the hospital. The room was filled with people, all of whom were close to my Dad. He was in his hospital bed, clearly tired and weak. It just wasn't the time for a deep and heartfelt exchange. So we said hello and gave hugs and kisses, which already seemed difficult for him to provide. Looking back now, knowing how quickly he declined, I wish I had jumped in the car when I first received the phone call. Maybe if I had arrived earlier it would have been different.
Over the next couple of days, we rotated among seats in the room, taking turns at his bedside. He rested often, and we didn't want to disturb him when he did. This great crowd of friends and loved ones together like the old days, chatting and watching the sports games on TV, swapping stories and ignoring the elephant in the room. I'm sure much of this was appreciated by my Dad; getting to feel like he wasn't dying. But we didn't get to have those quiet and tender moments, one-one-one, during those couple of days. They were the last days he could speak much, if even at all. If we had known, perhaps we would have made the effort to demand this alone time with him.
I remember one instance where he gathered his strength to give my sister a hug goodnight before we left for the night. I teared up because I knew how difficult it was for him to do it, and I felt selfish asking for one for myself, so I just gave him a kiss. Regret number one million I guess...
As his health declined, it seemed the right opportunity to attempt to "say goodbye" never really presented itself. Each day more friends would stop by to see him one last time, and they rallied together as a wonderful source of comfort and support for each other - this group of friends who knew each other for the better part of 30 years. I didn't want them to feel like they couldn't be there. I didn't want them to know that I felt more and more alone each day. That the hope of any last intimate words with my Dad was slipping further and further from my fingers, just as he, the Dad I knew, was drifting further away from me. I thought, who was I to ask them to leave, except a truly selfish person? When I stayed, I was disconnected. When I left, I was disconnected. There was no escape.
When you picture someone dying, and saying your goodbyes, you envision a scene from a movie, wherein the dying person looks into the eyes of their loved one and makes any apologies, tells them how much they are loved, and promises to always be there in spirit. I experienced none of these things.
The moment I shared a goodbye with my Father, he had been unresponsive for days. I was the last to have my alone time, through my own request as I wanted to make sure my sister had her time before me. His eyes were closed, and he looked as if he was sleeping, but there was no nod of his head or squeeze of his hand to show he knew I was there. His fight had been so long and so tortured, even up until his final breaths, that I just wanted it to be over finally. I just wanted the pain to stop, and for him to be free from his failing body. I told him I was so sorry for all the ways that I hurt him; my rebellious and hormonal teenage tendencies that shut him out for many years; the fact that I didn't visit him enough when I had the chance; so many more things I couldn't put into words but wanted to apologize for. I told him how much I loved him, and what a wonderful father he was, especially over the last couple of years when he wanted nothing more than to get close to me again. I told him it was OK to let go; that it was OK to die. I wanted to believe that I felt that way. I just wanted him to not hurt anymore. But really I would never be ready for him to leave me. Really I was trying to be strong for him. Really I wanted him to say something or do something to let me know that he heard me, and that everything was going to somehow be OK.
If you think the brief exchange while dying in a movie scene feels horribly incomplete and insufficient, then I cannot begin to explain the void that is left when you do not exchange these words at all. Part of me hopes that he heard everything I said, and yet part of me hopes that his soul had left his body to find peace long before I said those words.
The message I hope to impart to anyone reading this is of course to share those important and personal words with the people you love. If there is ever an instance where you believe you may not see them again, and you have the opportunity to exchange these words, please do it. Don't pretend that everything is OK and there will be another moment. Don't worry that it is not appropriate. Don't feel like it's selfish to make this time, and this experience, a priority. If I could do it all again differently, I would have, as politely as I could, asked for that time with him sooner. And I would have hoped that everyone would understand and oblige. But even if they didn't, I don't think I would have cared, because I would have received such a precious gift of having that tender moment with him and cherishing his response. And this is the part where anyone close to my Dad would not enjoy reading, because it might make them feel guilty for being present, and that is not how I want them to feel at all. How could they know that this was what I wanted or needed at the time, when I never communicated it to anyone? They cannot and should not feel responsible for the fact that I missed that opportunity with him. It's just something I struggle with now because I don't have that essential piece of closure, and the only way I can possibly re-frame it to be more positive is to share the experience and hope that others take away this simple message:
Embrace the opportunity to say goodbye.
This memory begins with the fact that during my Dad's battle with cancer, there were many instances where we were left waiting for news or action from medical staff. I remember the time we drove to Jacksonville to spend the weekend with him when he was first hospitalized after the biopsy and we were expecting to hear the test results. The weekend came and went without a visit or even call from the physician. We had hoped to be there as a source of support when/if he was informed that is was in fact cancer, but he ended up receiving the news after we returned to our homes. Another time we visited because there was talk of a surgery to improve his digestion. Yet another visit where nothing occurred, only mixed messages from doctors, surgeons, and nurses, until ultimately the day came that we needed to get back home and leave my Dad in the hospital at the mercy of the staff. Now don't get me wrong, he received many excellent treatments from talented medical staff members over the course of his 18 month battle with Pancreatic Cancer; a survival time that was extended far beyond most patients of this disease. But suffice it to say that there were several instances where we felt very powerless in the process, and our efforts to be present as a source of comfort and support for a major medical event were often stunted by the inefficiencies of the facility.
This final visit, the doctors asked "Where is his family?" and "How soon could they get here" so we knew it was imperative that we make the trip. Still, we had heard these words before and spent days on end waiting for news that never came, so we questioned if the staff were again crying wolf. We finished our workdays and drove in the night to arrive at the hospital. The room was filled with people, all of whom were close to my Dad. He was in his hospital bed, clearly tired and weak. It just wasn't the time for a deep and heartfelt exchange. So we said hello and gave hugs and kisses, which already seemed difficult for him to provide. Looking back now, knowing how quickly he declined, I wish I had jumped in the car when I first received the phone call. Maybe if I had arrived earlier it would have been different.
Over the next couple of days, we rotated among seats in the room, taking turns at his bedside. He rested often, and we didn't want to disturb him when he did. This great crowd of friends and loved ones together like the old days, chatting and watching the sports games on TV, swapping stories and ignoring the elephant in the room. I'm sure much of this was appreciated by my Dad; getting to feel like he wasn't dying. But we didn't get to have those quiet and tender moments, one-one-one, during those couple of days. They were the last days he could speak much, if even at all. If we had known, perhaps we would have made the effort to demand this alone time with him.
I remember one instance where he gathered his strength to give my sister a hug goodnight before we left for the night. I teared up because I knew how difficult it was for him to do it, and I felt selfish asking for one for myself, so I just gave him a kiss. Regret number one million I guess...
As his health declined, it seemed the right opportunity to attempt to "say goodbye" never really presented itself. Each day more friends would stop by to see him one last time, and they rallied together as a wonderful source of comfort and support for each other - this group of friends who knew each other for the better part of 30 years. I didn't want them to feel like they couldn't be there. I didn't want them to know that I felt more and more alone each day. That the hope of any last intimate words with my Dad was slipping further and further from my fingers, just as he, the Dad I knew, was drifting further away from me. I thought, who was I to ask them to leave, except a truly selfish person? When I stayed, I was disconnected. When I left, I was disconnected. There was no escape.
When you picture someone dying, and saying your goodbyes, you envision a scene from a movie, wherein the dying person looks into the eyes of their loved one and makes any apologies, tells them how much they are loved, and promises to always be there in spirit. I experienced none of these things.
The moment I shared a goodbye with my Father, he had been unresponsive for days. I was the last to have my alone time, through my own request as I wanted to make sure my sister had her time before me. His eyes were closed, and he looked as if he was sleeping, but there was no nod of his head or squeeze of his hand to show he knew I was there. His fight had been so long and so tortured, even up until his final breaths, that I just wanted it to be over finally. I just wanted the pain to stop, and for him to be free from his failing body. I told him I was so sorry for all the ways that I hurt him; my rebellious and hormonal teenage tendencies that shut him out for many years; the fact that I didn't visit him enough when I had the chance; so many more things I couldn't put into words but wanted to apologize for. I told him how much I loved him, and what a wonderful father he was, especially over the last couple of years when he wanted nothing more than to get close to me again. I told him it was OK to let go; that it was OK to die. I wanted to believe that I felt that way. I just wanted him to not hurt anymore. But really I would never be ready for him to leave me. Really I was trying to be strong for him. Really I wanted him to say something or do something to let me know that he heard me, and that everything was going to somehow be OK.
If you think the brief exchange while dying in a movie scene feels horribly incomplete and insufficient, then I cannot begin to explain the void that is left when you do not exchange these words at all. Part of me hopes that he heard everything I said, and yet part of me hopes that his soul had left his body to find peace long before I said those words.
The message I hope to impart to anyone reading this is of course to share those important and personal words with the people you love. If there is ever an instance where you believe you may not see them again, and you have the opportunity to exchange these words, please do it. Don't pretend that everything is OK and there will be another moment. Don't worry that it is not appropriate. Don't feel like it's selfish to make this time, and this experience, a priority. If I could do it all again differently, I would have, as politely as I could, asked for that time with him sooner. And I would have hoped that everyone would understand and oblige. But even if they didn't, I don't think I would have cared, because I would have received such a precious gift of having that tender moment with him and cherishing his response. And this is the part where anyone close to my Dad would not enjoy reading, because it might make them feel guilty for being present, and that is not how I want them to feel at all. How could they know that this was what I wanted or needed at the time, when I never communicated it to anyone? They cannot and should not feel responsible for the fact that I missed that opportunity with him. It's just something I struggle with now because I don't have that essential piece of closure, and the only way I can possibly re-frame it to be more positive is to share the experience and hope that others take away this simple message:
Embrace the opportunity to say goodbye.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
The Painting
I wanted to share another incident where I felt my Father's presence in a way that provided me something to cherish forever. The story about The Painting.
When my husband and I bought our first home, my Dad was thrilled for us (to say the least!) It was old and outdated and needing a complete overhaul, but that didn't stop my Dad from seeing the potential. I remember walking him through the 'construction zone' prior to move-in, and we stopped and posed for a picture in the mid-renovation kitchen; this picture currently hangs on my wall and always make me think about how happy he was for us to be fulfilling this dream.
When we moved into the house, our walls lacked much artwork. One visit, during his illness, he brought down an enormous, gorgeous painting he must have had in his condo. It was by a Florida artist named Tripp Harrison, and the scene depicted was a serene island cottage on the water. My Dad told me he bought it because it reminded him of Bermuda (where he was briefly stationed in the Navy, and where my sister and I were born.) He wanted us to have it to put in our first home. It was the most amazing piece of art we had ever owned, and I loved having it displayed on our dining room wall.
A month after he passed, my husband and I were celebrating the holidays with my in-laws. We decided to have dinner in historic St. Augustine, and while waiting for our table, we strolled the boutiques along the street. We were walking past an open door and a painting of a boat on emerald waters caught my eye. I took a step back to look at it closer; there was something familiar about the painting. It turned out that we were at the entrance of the Tripp Harrison gallery. We roamed through shop and admired the many pieces of art, even recognizing the same painting we had in our home. I left that evening with a renewed spirit, knowing that my Dad would have wanted me to happen upon that gallery, certain that I would think fondly of him when laying eyes on the artwork.
Fast forward another couple of months, and my husband and I were again spending time with my in-laws; this time browsing a shopping mall that we don't usually frequent. We were only window-shopping, but a large home decor store was having a big sale, so we decided to walk inside. In the back corner of the shop, we again recognized these stunning paintings on display. Earlier this day we were discussing our upcoming tax refund, and my husband wanted to take a little bit of that money and buy something impressive that we would not usually purchase. Low and behold these paintings were on sale for half off. The sales clerk noticed we were interested in the paintings and mentioned they were on clearance because the artist would soon only allow his pieces to be featured in his personal galleries, so they could no longer carry them. What a wonderful sign from my Dad to lead us into this store, as if to say, "This is what I would have wanted you to have. Something you would never normally buy, but here it is on sale, this collectible piece of art that will always remind you of me." We purchased a piece that depicts a white-roofed bungalow set among palm trees and sea cliffs. On the dock sits a tiny tackle box, ready for fishing. A peaceful image. A haven. An idealistic retreat. Something I imagine my Dad is enjoying right now.
When my husband and I bought our first home, my Dad was thrilled for us (to say the least!) It was old and outdated and needing a complete overhaul, but that didn't stop my Dad from seeing the potential. I remember walking him through the 'construction zone' prior to move-in, and we stopped and posed for a picture in the mid-renovation kitchen; this picture currently hangs on my wall and always make me think about how happy he was for us to be fulfilling this dream.
When we moved into the house, our walls lacked much artwork. One visit, during his illness, he brought down an enormous, gorgeous painting he must have had in his condo. It was by a Florida artist named Tripp Harrison, and the scene depicted was a serene island cottage on the water. My Dad told me he bought it because it reminded him of Bermuda (where he was briefly stationed in the Navy, and where my sister and I were born.) He wanted us to have it to put in our first home. It was the most amazing piece of art we had ever owned, and I loved having it displayed on our dining room wall.
A month after he passed, my husband and I were celebrating the holidays with my in-laws. We decided to have dinner in historic St. Augustine, and while waiting for our table, we strolled the boutiques along the street. We were walking past an open door and a painting of a boat on emerald waters caught my eye. I took a step back to look at it closer; there was something familiar about the painting. It turned out that we were at the entrance of the Tripp Harrison gallery. We roamed through shop and admired the many pieces of art, even recognizing the same painting we had in our home. I left that evening with a renewed spirit, knowing that my Dad would have wanted me to happen upon that gallery, certain that I would think fondly of him when laying eyes on the artwork.
Fast forward another couple of months, and my husband and I were again spending time with my in-laws; this time browsing a shopping mall that we don't usually frequent. We were only window-shopping, but a large home decor store was having a big sale, so we decided to walk inside. In the back corner of the shop, we again recognized these stunning paintings on display. Earlier this day we were discussing our upcoming tax refund, and my husband wanted to take a little bit of that money and buy something impressive that we would not usually purchase. Low and behold these paintings were on sale for half off. The sales clerk noticed we were interested in the paintings and mentioned they were on clearance because the artist would soon only allow his pieces to be featured in his personal galleries, so they could no longer carry them. What a wonderful sign from my Dad to lead us into this store, as if to say, "This is what I would have wanted you to have. Something you would never normally buy, but here it is on sale, this collectible piece of art that will always remind you of me." We purchased a piece that depicts a white-roofed bungalow set among palm trees and sea cliffs. On the dock sits a tiny tackle box, ready for fishing. A peaceful image. A haven. An idealistic retreat. Something I imagine my Dad is enjoying right now.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Visits in Dreams
Do you believe that when we dream about a loved one who has passed away, that they are actually visiting with us in our sleep? I've thought a lot about this since the dream encounters I've had with my Dad, and the more I think about it the more I hope it to be true. A few of the books I suggested in the other post even support this idea.
During the last several days in hospice care, my Dad was unresponsive and essentially comatose (breathing but unable to communicate, respond, or open his eyes). During those days, I sat for hours in a chair at his bedside and held his hand. Even during the last night with him I slept in that chair with our hands entwined. I remember one day I was telling him I wished he could tell me that he knew I was there next to him, holding his hand; I wishes that he could squeeze my hand back to let me know that he felt me next to him. Then one day, he slowly tightened his fingers to grip my hand, and then gently raised his arm in the air. I couldn't believe my eyes, and thought that he was beginning to come back to me. His lips moved as if he were about to form his first words in days, but then he began to tremble and shiver in a mild spastic episode. I didn't know what was happening at the time, but apparently this was the body's natural process of muscles shutting down. With tears in my eyes, I joked with him that he sure had a dramatic way of answering my request for him to squeeze my hand and let me know that he felt my presence beside him.
On a few occasions over the next two days he would have these episodes, and each time I wondered if it would be the last. The first time my Dad visited me in a dream was the first night I spent back at my house after he passed at the hospice center. As we were falling asleep, my husband interlocked his fingers with mine, and slept soundly next to me. In my dream, I was back at the hospice center beside him. Suddenly he squeezed my hand and raised his arm, again and again throughout the night. In a not-awake-yet-not-asleep state, I began to cry and comforting him, "I'm right here Dad", "It's OK Dad", and "I love you". When I awoke, I sobbed because it felt so authentic; crying because he was really gone, but also because I was overwhelmed by the feeling of holding his hand again - it felt like his hand in mine. My husband didn't realize he was moving his hand or arm at all, but promised to never hold my hand while sleeping, in hopes he wouldn't bring about this reaction again. But I truly felt blessed to have had the experience, because it was almost like having a few minutes with him again.
I had a few dreams that week in which he visited me. Each time for only a short while, without much conversation at all, but each time with a long and amazing embrace. I actually felt his arms wrapped around me, holding me tight. And each time I woke up mid-hug, tears streaming down my face immediately for the same reasons - the reality was unbelievable.
Those dreams have since ceased, and it's been months since the last one. I've often prayed that I could receive a visit again, but have not experienced one yet. I think perhaps my Dad is afraid to come to me during my dreams, because he does not want me to awake so emotional, but honestly it's totally worth it to feel his presence, to see his face, and hear his voice so clearly, so absolutely, in this other world where we can both exist together.
During the last several days in hospice care, my Dad was unresponsive and essentially comatose (breathing but unable to communicate, respond, or open his eyes). During those days, I sat for hours in a chair at his bedside and held his hand. Even during the last night with him I slept in that chair with our hands entwined. I remember one day I was telling him I wished he could tell me that he knew I was there next to him, holding his hand; I wishes that he could squeeze my hand back to let me know that he felt me next to him. Then one day, he slowly tightened his fingers to grip my hand, and then gently raised his arm in the air. I couldn't believe my eyes, and thought that he was beginning to come back to me. His lips moved as if he were about to form his first words in days, but then he began to tremble and shiver in a mild spastic episode. I didn't know what was happening at the time, but apparently this was the body's natural process of muscles shutting down. With tears in my eyes, I joked with him that he sure had a dramatic way of answering my request for him to squeeze my hand and let me know that he felt my presence beside him.
On a few occasions over the next two days he would have these episodes, and each time I wondered if it would be the last. The first time my Dad visited me in a dream was the first night I spent back at my house after he passed at the hospice center. As we were falling asleep, my husband interlocked his fingers with mine, and slept soundly next to me. In my dream, I was back at the hospice center beside him. Suddenly he squeezed my hand and raised his arm, again and again throughout the night. In a not-awake-yet-not-asleep state, I began to cry and comforting him, "I'm right here Dad", "It's OK Dad", and "I love you". When I awoke, I sobbed because it felt so authentic; crying because he was really gone, but also because I was overwhelmed by the feeling of holding his hand again - it felt like his hand in mine. My husband didn't realize he was moving his hand or arm at all, but promised to never hold my hand while sleeping, in hopes he wouldn't bring about this reaction again. But I truly felt blessed to have had the experience, because it was almost like having a few minutes with him again.
I had a few dreams that week in which he visited me. Each time for only a short while, without much conversation at all, but each time with a long and amazing embrace. I actually felt his arms wrapped around me, holding me tight. And each time I woke up mid-hug, tears streaming down my face immediately for the same reasons - the reality was unbelievable.
Those dreams have since ceased, and it's been months since the last one. I've often prayed that I could receive a visit again, but have not experienced one yet. I think perhaps my Dad is afraid to come to me during my dreams, because he does not want me to awake so emotional, but honestly it's totally worth it to feel his presence, to see his face, and hear his voice so clearly, so absolutely, in this other world where we can both exist together.
The Bracelet
The truth is, although most of these posts are about how much I miss my Dad, there are many days that I carry on just fine and don't think about it too much. I definitely have my moments, of course, but for the most part I am living my life and taking it one day at a time.
There are also some days, amazing days, where I feel my Dad's presence. It breaks through the sullen clouds like rays of sunshine and fills my heart with joy that is simply indescribable. The day I found the bracelet was one of those days.
It had only been a day or two since he had passed, and I returned home from the hospice center. The weekend before was the local Pancreatic Cancer Action Network Run. We had signed up to captain a team, and had recruited a few friends to run in my Dad's honor. In light of everything that was happening with him, we could not attend the race that weekend, but it was ever more important to me that our friends participated on our behalf.
This particular day, about a week following the race, I was walking through my bedroom and something caught my eye. A purple bracelet (the rubber kind), was sitting on my wood chest. I picked it up to look at it, and realized it was stamped with insignia for the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network Foundation. I couldn't believe it was just sitting there. I certainly had never seen it before. I went to my husband and asked "Did you put this bracelet on the chest thinking you would wear it for the run last weekend?" He looked at it and said to me "I've never seen that before in my life. Where was it you said?" I told him where I found it and that I didn't put it there either.
Now the likelihood is that somewhere, somehow, one of us had that bracelet and didn't remember putting it on the chest. But I'm telling you that neither of us had seen it before ever, and I choose to believe that my Dad put it there for me. I believe it was his way of connecting with me right after he passed, and letting me know it was him by using something that I would identify as him, such as PanCan. I put on the bracelet and have worn it almost every day since then.
There are also some days, amazing days, where I feel my Dad's presence. It breaks through the sullen clouds like rays of sunshine and fills my heart with joy that is simply indescribable. The day I found the bracelet was one of those days.
It had only been a day or two since he had passed, and I returned home from the hospice center. The weekend before was the local Pancreatic Cancer Action Network Run. We had signed up to captain a team, and had recruited a few friends to run in my Dad's honor. In light of everything that was happening with him, we could not attend the race that weekend, but it was ever more important to me that our friends participated on our behalf.
This particular day, about a week following the race, I was walking through my bedroom and something caught my eye. A purple bracelet (the rubber kind), was sitting on my wood chest. I picked it up to look at it, and realized it was stamped with insignia for the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network Foundation. I couldn't believe it was just sitting there. I certainly had never seen it before. I went to my husband and asked "Did you put this bracelet on the chest thinking you would wear it for the run last weekend?" He looked at it and said to me "I've never seen that before in my life. Where was it you said?" I told him where I found it and that I didn't put it there either.
Now the likelihood is that somewhere, somehow, one of us had that bracelet and didn't remember putting it on the chest. But I'm telling you that neither of us had seen it before ever, and I choose to believe that my Dad put it there for me. I believe it was his way of connecting with me right after he passed, and letting me know it was him by using something that I would identify as him, such as PanCan. I put on the bracelet and have worn it almost every day since then.
Friday, March 1, 2013
Helpful Books
Shortly after my Dad passed, I received a book in the mail from one of my clients (who had lost her brother). She explained that the book was a bit unconventional. She explained that this book helped her feel more connected to her brother's spirit. The book could not have come at a more perfect time. It had only been a few weeks after my Dad's passing, but already I was feeling very incomplete - almost like a piece of me was amputated and everyone was telling me that it was still there, but I couldn't see it or feel it.
"Do Dead People Watch You Shower" http://www.concettabertoldi.com/books/
I read this book in only a few days. It was an easy read. It brought me great comfort. I wholeheartedly believe in the presence of my Father's spirit with me each day, and I also believe in the ability of a medium to make contact with spirits. This belief is not for everyone, but it certainly works for me.
After finishing this book, I read another book that expanded my knowledge and belief in this subject.
"Talking to Heaven" http://www.vanpraagh.com/store/books
More recently, I have read a book written by a doctor who had an extreme Near Death Experience of being comatose for a week with no neocortex brain activity, during which time he experienced the afterlife. As a man of science, he had always discredited the possibility of life or consciousness after death, until he experienced it himself, and made it his mission to share his story. Really quite remarkable, and yet comforting to know that life does continue after death in such a beautiful and loving existence as he describes.
"Proof Of Heaven" http://www.lifebeyonddeath.net/
I mention these books because they were helpful for me, and may be helpful for others, but I'm open to suggestion for other books that people found helpful when healing after the death of a loved one.
"Do Dead People Watch You Shower" http://www.concettabertoldi.com/books/
I read this book in only a few days. It was an easy read. It brought me great comfort. I wholeheartedly believe in the presence of my Father's spirit with me each day, and I also believe in the ability of a medium to make contact with spirits. This belief is not for everyone, but it certainly works for me.
After finishing this book, I read another book that expanded my knowledge and belief in this subject.
"Talking to Heaven" http://www.vanpraagh.com/store/books
More recently, I have read a book written by a doctor who had an extreme Near Death Experience of being comatose for a week with no neocortex brain activity, during which time he experienced the afterlife. As a man of science, he had always discredited the possibility of life or consciousness after death, until he experienced it himself, and made it his mission to share his story. Really quite remarkable, and yet comforting to know that life does continue after death in such a beautiful and loving existence as he describes.
"Proof Of Heaven" http://www.lifebeyonddeath.net/
I mention these books because they were helpful for me, and may be helpful for others, but I'm open to suggestion for other books that people found helpful when healing after the death of a loved one.
Greeting Cards
While going through my Dad's things, I found several greeting cards I had given him over the years. Some I had made and colored myself during early childhood years, and some were store bought with handwritten messages. I couldn't believe he had kept so many of them. While reading through my personal messages, I found myself wishing I had written so much more. Wishing I had written about how much he meant to me, how much I valued the time he spent with me, that he drove hours just to have dinner with me (even when he was sick).
Immediately I combed through all of the things I had saved in albums and scrapbooks. I saved every card my husband had given me. I saved only two greeting cards from my Dad. My heart hurt so much to recall the many wonderful cards I remember him sending, full of hand-written messages of how proud he was of me, how much he loved me, and all the wonderful things he never hesitated to say. All of those cards now gone. I somehow saved one random Christmas card, and the card he gave me at my wedding. Both were beautiful and wonderful, but I longed for so many more.
I thought to myself, "Maybe I have some old emails full of kind words" and I searched my email folders for any correspondence between us. I found only a few brief messages that read something like "Looking forward to seeing you this weekend for the baseball game", some email forwards of cute animal pictures or patriotic stories, and a reply for an old eCard he sent me on my Birthday. Those were always so wonderful and had a touching message. I attempted to open it, but the link was expired. During the last couple of years while he was battling cancer, he rarely checked his email, so we got out of the habit of communicating that way. I had hoped there would be some sort of tangible message full of loving words that I could print and save as some sort of mantra to repeat to myself when I began to miss him. To somehow remind myself of how much he loved me, and how readily and poetically he made that love known. But I only had these 2 greeting cards left.
I've tried not to torture myself over having thrown so many things away over the years, as I'm sure I'm not alone in this. But to anyone out there reading this, I hope you will save these special messages from your loved ones, because you really never know how important they will seem later. These words can renew your spirit, like the embrace I remember and wish I could feel again, these words are like my Father's arms wrapping around me telling me that he loves me. I only wish I had more of them, but I am so grateful to have any of them at all. He never hesitated to tell me all the wonderful things he felt about me; so often in fact that I automatically hear his voice when I think of those affections. I guess I'm lucky that I knew so clearly, so undoubtedly, so truly, how much he loved me.
Immediately I combed through all of the things I had saved in albums and scrapbooks. I saved every card my husband had given me. I saved only two greeting cards from my Dad. My heart hurt so much to recall the many wonderful cards I remember him sending, full of hand-written messages of how proud he was of me, how much he loved me, and all the wonderful things he never hesitated to say. All of those cards now gone. I somehow saved one random Christmas card, and the card he gave me at my wedding. Both were beautiful and wonderful, but I longed for so many more.
I thought to myself, "Maybe I have some old emails full of kind words" and I searched my email folders for any correspondence between us. I found only a few brief messages that read something like "Looking forward to seeing you this weekend for the baseball game", some email forwards of cute animal pictures or patriotic stories, and a reply for an old eCard he sent me on my Birthday. Those were always so wonderful and had a touching message. I attempted to open it, but the link was expired. During the last couple of years while he was battling cancer, he rarely checked his email, so we got out of the habit of communicating that way. I had hoped there would be some sort of tangible message full of loving words that I could print and save as some sort of mantra to repeat to myself when I began to miss him. To somehow remind myself of how much he loved me, and how readily and poetically he made that love known. But I only had these 2 greeting cards left.
I've tried not to torture myself over having thrown so many things away over the years, as I'm sure I'm not alone in this. But to anyone out there reading this, I hope you will save these special messages from your loved ones, because you really never know how important they will seem later. These words can renew your spirit, like the embrace I remember and wish I could feel again, these words are like my Father's arms wrapping around me telling me that he loves me. I only wish I had more of them, but I am so grateful to have any of them at all. He never hesitated to tell me all the wonderful things he felt about me; so often in fact that I automatically hear his voice when I think of those affections. I guess I'm lucky that I knew so clearly, so undoubtedly, so truly, how much he loved me.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Parting with Possessions
Recently my sister and I had the task of going through my Dad's condo and combing through his personal possessions, deciding which items we wanted to keep, and which items we wanted to donate or throw away. The only part of this process that made it a little bit easier was the fact that my Dad hadn't lived in the condo for a few years (he lived with his girlfriend during his illness) and his condo was more of a "vacation" home to him.
I have to admit that I only vaguely remember having visited his condo, even though he lived there for about 4-5 years before moving in with his girlfriend. When I walked in the condo, I looked around at all of these personal items that he acquired and treasured, and I felt overwhelmingly guilty for not having spent more time here. I felt immediate regret also for the fact that during that time, I really didn't see much of him at all. The few times we spend together over those years, he drove to visit me.
I'm sure everyone has these feelings of regret and remorse after a loved one passes. Thinking "what if...", and "I should have..." This has certainly been true for me. It sounds so simple, but if I had known how short our time together would be, I would have jumped in the car and made the short trip to spend a weekend together - whatever I was doing those weekends instead, I don't even remember.
While sorting through his items, I attempted to categorize them into those I would keep, my sister would keep, to be donated, or to be thrown away. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, that I found myself wanted to keep everything. Everything seemed like a piece of my Dad. My husband convinced me that we did not need the two old tube televisions, and they went in the donate pile. I remember finding his childhood pictures, his medals and awards from the Navy, and his Lacrosse items. Initially I thought my Uncle (Dad's older brother) would like these items (as a fellow Navy and Lacrosse colleague). But then I thought that he would only have these items for a few years, and then who would inherit them and determine their fate? I decided to keep these, and SO MANY things, in an attempt to find a way to honor my dad with them.
I made my husband try on so many jackets, as if somehow one might grow longer arms and actually fit him. But standing a good 4" taller than my Dad, nothing did fit him right. Bag after bag I loaded clothes to be donated. I couldn't bare to part with his military jackets, or a few pieces of his Oriole and Gator garb. I also held onto all of his white handkerchiefs - something I will always associate with him. At moments I felt like I was just going through the motions; trying to get complete this mission.
I knew I couldn't hold onto everything, so we decided to take any remaining items and have an 'estate sale' with a portion of the sales being donated to the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network. During the sale, I resented haggling with people over prices and defending the value of some items, but also found myself wanting to send these items home with people who enjoyed them the way my Dad did. The leftover items we decided to donate to a thrift shop that benefited Hospice.
Today I was walking through the thrift store, searching for a great find, and I noticed my Dad's fishing net propped in a corner. I felt such a mix of emotions. It reminded me of him, and made me question if I should have given it up, but also wish that someone liked it and wanted to take it home. I left before discovering any more of his items on display.
I have to admit that I only vaguely remember having visited his condo, even though he lived there for about 4-5 years before moving in with his girlfriend. When I walked in the condo, I looked around at all of these personal items that he acquired and treasured, and I felt overwhelmingly guilty for not having spent more time here. I felt immediate regret also for the fact that during that time, I really didn't see much of him at all. The few times we spend together over those years, he drove to visit me.
I'm sure everyone has these feelings of regret and remorse after a loved one passes. Thinking "what if...", and "I should have..." This has certainly been true for me. It sounds so simple, but if I had known how short our time together would be, I would have jumped in the car and made the short trip to spend a weekend together - whatever I was doing those weekends instead, I don't even remember.
While sorting through his items, I attempted to categorize them into those I would keep, my sister would keep, to be donated, or to be thrown away. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, that I found myself wanted to keep everything. Everything seemed like a piece of my Dad. My husband convinced me that we did not need the two old tube televisions, and they went in the donate pile. I remember finding his childhood pictures, his medals and awards from the Navy, and his Lacrosse items. Initially I thought my Uncle (Dad's older brother) would like these items (as a fellow Navy and Lacrosse colleague). But then I thought that he would only have these items for a few years, and then who would inherit them and determine their fate? I decided to keep these, and SO MANY things, in an attempt to find a way to honor my dad with them.
I made my husband try on so many jackets, as if somehow one might grow longer arms and actually fit him. But standing a good 4" taller than my Dad, nothing did fit him right. Bag after bag I loaded clothes to be donated. I couldn't bare to part with his military jackets, or a few pieces of his Oriole and Gator garb. I also held onto all of his white handkerchiefs - something I will always associate with him. At moments I felt like I was just going through the motions; trying to get complete this mission.
I knew I couldn't hold onto everything, so we decided to take any remaining items and have an 'estate sale' with a portion of the sales being donated to the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network. During the sale, I resented haggling with people over prices and defending the value of some items, but also found myself wanting to send these items home with people who enjoyed them the way my Dad did. The leftover items we decided to donate to a thrift shop that benefited Hospice.
Today I was walking through the thrift store, searching for a great find, and I noticed my Dad's fishing net propped in a corner. I felt such a mix of emotions. It reminded me of him, and made me question if I should have given it up, but also wish that someone liked it and wanted to take it home. I left before discovering any more of his items on display.
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