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.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
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.
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