I Think I .....Can't

It has been three weeks since the loss of my Dad and while the initial numbness is easing, the hard parts are not.

When in the thick of a crisis  I tend to say to myself,  "If I can just get through X, I'll be fine."  X being a tough day, a week, an event.   I have a way of breaking things up in to manageable mental bits so I don't go completely postal and/or collapse.   "If I can get on the plane and get home to my family, I'll be OK.  If I can get through the wake and visitation, I'll be fine.  That's the hard part.  No, wait. If  I can get through the funeral....the burial....the exhausting plane trip back to Gloucester....." .  I just keep making those little goals because the big one is too much to comprehend or manage. Like the little train, I keep chugging along with "I think I can... I think I can..."  but seriously,  right now, I think I can't.

I forgot about the next part.

The aftermath, the physical exhaustion, the mental grief.  Yesterday was a good example.  I am working on a grant for the local library and spent most of the day on my 7-year-old computer (AKA the *#&$^%  boat anchor) trying to wrestle down documents and cope with incompatibilities in software.  I thought I would take a break and sync up my iPad and iPod touch so I can have some commute-worthy books to listen to on the road.

As I watched one device sync I noticed a lot of songs I didn't recall buying.  HYMNS, for heaven's sake.  "King of the Road" by Roger Miller!  Then it dawned on me - I downloaded those on wi-fi at the hospital so Dad could listen to some familiar music.  Dad  loved him some Roger Miller.  I don't even know if he could hear them, but I played them for him.

Then I got an email from my brother with a copy of the death certificate. (I'm going to release the (Sicilian) hounds -  my husband -  on American Airlines for being so heartless.)  When another brother requested the family address book, I (as the keeper of the family minutia,  ephemera, and other stuff) popped open my spreadsheet and saw the list  of addresses and phone numbers.... including the ones for Dad.  Hard to look at that. I  deleted those  before I sent it along, but when I popped open the browser to get back to my email I saw the bookmark for his Caring Bridge website where we kept far-flung relatives aware of his status.  Another thing to delete.  A thousand little things that appear and sting and compound the loss. Even hearing the TV  commercial about "setting up financial arrangements before a loved one goes in to a nursing home" sent me on a brief ,  "I wonder if  Gary got the billing sorted out before Dad moves to.....oh."   A thousand little things.

Mothers Day is thankfully past, but made even  more difficult this year by falling on my Dad's birthday.  Really, world?  Seriously?  Not enough stress for one day?  Then a sister wisely pointed out that we gave them both the gift they have surely wanted for almost ten years - we gave them back each other.  (Can I get a "thank God for sisters" from the choir?)

It helped.  But it is the thousand little things that  rain like  fine, thin shards of glass and fall  without warning  on your head and your heart.  I know it will let up,  I know it will get better.  I went through this when we lost Mom, but I really did forget (or blocked out) this part, and I can't break it up into manageable bits because that is not how it works.  I push through each day. I crave sleep.  I turn on my sound machine app to a quiet rainstorm to drown out the noise of traffic and motorcycles.  I want it to be quiet. I want peace. I want to stop crying at unexpected moments and inappropriate places. I want the roller coaster ride to level off.

I do not want to do this part but I do not  have a choice. Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.   Maybe someday, but I'm not feeling it now. I'm just sayin'.

Seriously?

The last two weeks have been a hazy blur, and not in the good way.

Dad suffered a  series of markedly down-turning events that necessitated a very quick trip home.  As a consistent target for TSA bitches  I'm not a fan of flying to begin with - much less when the day has to begin at 3AM to catch a 6AM flight. The TSA's were manageable on the outbound flights from Boston, no hammer complexes there.

After a few days of hospital roulette (never knowing who the next assigned doctor would be, ever getting an update on some test results, or wondering if the wastebaskets would EVER be emptied) we ended up moving him to a local rehabilitation center.  For reasons known only to fans of the movie Birdcage,  I have nicknamed the place Bob Fosse.  I spent the next few days there with my sisters and brothers trying  vainly  to honor my Dad's wishes about his health care proxy.

"Fosse" is a Catholic institution that currently has 3 local priests  with a parent/patient currently in-house; consequently the place is crawling with RC priests.  I'm ok with that, my little brother is one of them.  Here is what I am not OK with:  one of them (pretty much a stranger to me no less)  took the opportunity to get all pastoral on my ass at a time when I was trying to pull myself together and say goodbye to my Dad for what well could have been the last time I will see him alive.  I told him three times I was not going to have that conversation with him right now, and that I really had to concentrate on my father.   I understood his deal,   I knew he thought he was being helpful, put he pushed back with a lengthy  fairy tale  about how " your  Dad's suffering is  not in vain, his suffering will save other souls and that when he is in heaven there will be people lined up to thank him for his suffering because he saved their souls....."    and I threw a big, red bullshit flag.

Seriously?  A line of people thanking Dad?  It sounded like a coffee shop in a bad Disney movie.  I am  RC by faith and by grace but what heaven will or will not be is not definitively known to any of us. We can hope, conjecture  and read Catherine of Siena until we are blue in the face but I believe our puny human minds cannot begin to comprehend what lies ahead.  I think it is much bigger and better than anything we could ever come up with and I am content with that knowledge.

Father Get-All-Up-In-My-Grill was shocked when  I threw that BS flag and tripled his horrifically patronizing efforts to educate me on the error of my thinking. It set off an avalanche of reprimand and judgment.  ( I was also told to go to confession.)  He started peppering me with questions, all of which I answered pretty calmly.  Here is a sample:

Father Grill:   Are you married?

ME:  Yes.

Father Grill:  Children?

ME:  No.

Father Grill:  (One eyebrow critically raised)

ME: I had ovarian cancer.

Father Grill:  Oh.  (Evidently that was pardonable)  What is your married name?

ME:  Ciolino.

Father Grill:  Ciolina?

ME: No.  Ciolino - with an O at the end.

Father Grill:  Oh, is he Italian?

ME:  No, Sicilian.

Father Grill:  (Scared look)  Ohhh, Sicilian.  Did you learn to make the pasta?   (SERIOUSLY, HE SAID THAT.    I SWEAR I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP. )

ME:  No.  I don't have to.  My husband makes it when he wants it.

It went on longer than I ever should have permitted and he left the room wearing more skin on his body than I ever should ever have left on it.  I was angry and shaken and grieving - and all at the same time.   I refuse to dwell on it or give it any more time or thought than I already have.  Instead, I will take that experience and offer the following suggestions for visiting the sick that all of us can use:

1. Speak softly.  Noise in the sickroom is anathema.  Ditto for perfumes and well-intentioned  aromatherapy.


2. Be brief.  The family and the patient are both exhausted.


3. Be useful.  Ask  them if you can bring them water, coffee, dinner - anything. Walk the hall with them.  Anybody need to be picked up at the airport?  Anybody need a ride to the hospital?


4. Be present.  You don't need to regale them with stories of your own family illnesses and/or deaths, it isn't a throw-down.  Just be present.


5. Be honest.  Spare them the "oh wait and see, he'll be good as new in no time, " especially when that is NOT going to happen.


6. Be cognizant. It is about what they need, not what you want to give them.

I remember years ago when we lost mom and people started showing up at my folk's house with all kinds of food.  It was all home cooked and all wonderful.  Since there were about 24 of us there at the time (children & grandkids, spouses, etc.) it made meal times much  less difficult. Then, and I'll never forget this,  someone showed up with a huge box of stuff and just left it very quietly.  It was filled with big packages of paper plates, cups, napkins, rolls of paper towels.... and toilet paper.  It was the most incredible, thoughtful,  useful thing ever.  Who knew?  Someone did, and I'm happy to pass it along.  We should all be so useful.  Seriously.

iNeed iPad Distraction

My cup runneth so far over I can't see daylight.  If you are a praying reader, please remember 3 dear souls (and their families) who are negotiating life passages as we   e-speak.  That's all I'm gonna say for now.

I need a project that will occupy and  ease my mind for a while.  Nothing is quite as capable of  soothing my spirit (and confusing my brain) as making a project that involves a zipper.  I was recently (and most magnificently) gifted with an iPad and a wireless keyboard.  I decided to take some trip-treat fabric from a friend's recent journey to Paris and fashion myself a stylish little tote bag for my newest, bestest iBuddy.  I'm not sure which handles to use (the pink ones are much pinker than they appear here) or how it will all sort out, but I'm home for a day and I have nothing to do until 8PM when Joe gets home and I whip up a simple carbonara for supper.  Wish me luck.  Pray for my peeps.  Thank you.

Melancholy Meteors

The annual Perseid meteor shower is underway but I won't be watching this year.  I'm away from home (and too surrounded by city lights) to get a glimpse of the magic. It's probably a good thing as my dark Irish side kicks up and I go into a full "have a pint, dear" funk.

I didn't know it at the time, but the last time my parents came to Gloucester for a visit was during the Perseid meteor shower of about 1998.  We had friends who were members of a local beach club so we were able to troop down to the beach with a hibachi, wine, dessert and sand chairs to make a perfect evening in a perfect setting even more....perfect.  We had a marvelous supper, topped off by peach pie made by my mother from peaches picked in our own backyard.  Dad was the official peach peeler (he's a hound dog for peach pie) and Mom could whip up a pie so effortlessly it was all done in a blink.  I can still remember the setting in vivid detail, but I can't conjure up the taste of Mom's peach pie.  It's been too long and while my own peach pies are pretty good (from good DNA) they aren't hers.  They aren't from peaches in our own backyard, they weren't peeled with love by my Dad, and ..... well, you get the idea. We watched the sun set and the stars come out, the moon rose perfectly between the twin lighthouses of Thatcher Island, and the meteors began.  It was an experience we all talked about for years to come - but especially during the annual event.

I woke up this morning and listened to the news about the meteor shower.  I got a little weepy - I'm up here for the Lowell Quilt Festival and I thought about how perfect it would be for my quilt-making mother to come out for the show, see me working at a museum of quilts, and then go home and enjoy the meteor shower.  Some things aren't meant to be - but at least I know Mom has a fabulous view of the Perseids, and that helps.

A Father - Daughter Thing

I've been thinking about my Dad a lot lately; he turned 80 this past May and I can't believe he is that old.  Even when I go home and see him, it just doesn't seem like him.  He's been deeply changed by Parkinson's disease; his macular degeneration has pretty much robbed him of his sight and simple speech is difficult for him.

I am one of those textbook daughters who grew up thinking her dad could do anything. ANYTHING.  One of my life's earliest memories was waking up in my bed and finding my pillow was missing.  (Even at a very young age, I valued  sleep above my life.)  I looked all over the bed, made sure my sister didn't have it, looked under the bed, etc. and by then had worked up some pretty tragic angst.  I was so upset that I padded in to my parent's bedroom and woke up......my dad.  (I knew early on not to mess with my mother.)  I woke him up and told him my sorrows. He got up, took me back to bed, and managed to find my pillow wedged between the mattress, the headboard and the wall.  I thought he was a genius.

Shortly after that I remember Dad coming home from work and being greeted by the mayhem of 6 kids and a tired wife.  (If I came home to that every night I think I would shoot myself.)  Dad tended to roll with it. As a father in the days when the 'bonding' thing wasn't so much, he didn't feel too obligated to share every second of our lives.  He did do one thing that still makes my head explode when I think about it.  He would pick me up around the waist, lift me up,  bump my head on the ceiling and whisker me.  Dad had a serious 5 o'clock shadow and he'd rub his cheek on mine until I would scream with laughter.  Just sitting here writing about it makes me giggle and weepy, all at the same time.

I loved watching my Dad do things around the house. I helped him (well, I held and fetched the tools) when he was making a new bedroom in the basement. I knew about hanging drywall and taping seams and the different kinds of hammers before I was out of the 5th grade.  Even in college I'd haul home the odd broken thing that needed some fixing - and he always managed to fix it up like new.  I have my own set of paintbrushes, cutting brushes and tools that I hide from my husband. My tools are  cleaned when I am done with them.  Guess who taught me that?

One of the biggest father-daughters moments happens in the back of the church before any dad walks his daughter down the aisle.  Mine was steady as a rock, but I was 30 years old -  certainly no child bride.  My brother (a priest) claims I was the calmest bride he has ever seen.  So it was a little weird when Dad turned to me and said, "Are you sure about this?"  I thought he was joking.  And he was.  Kind of.  I said, "Yeah, this is the right guy and I want to do this."  There was a pause, and then he said, "Well, I just want you to be sure. Because if you have any doubt we can go right back home and it won't be any big deal."    And he meant it.  And I loved him for loving me so much.

There is a strange and wonderful thing that happens now when I go home to see my Dad.  I am  so deeply grateful he still recognizes his children because that moment when I walk in to his room and see him I feel like that 9-year-old girl in the picture.  He looks at me like I am still the nine-year-old girl in the picture  and he wraps his arms around me and hugs me as hard as he can.  For those few seconds he is my Daddy, and I am his Joannie Kay.  It feels blissful. It is that most priceless gift of a parent's love for a child and a daughter's ardent love of her father.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy.    I won't be able to see you tomorrow, but I'll probably spend some time watching the Weather Channel -  because I know that far away, you'll be watching it too.

Design Wall Monday - Sort Of

When I'm surfing quilt blogs, I have noticed many of them feature a "Design Wall Monday" thingie. I've always thought that was an interesting way to start the week - taking a look at what you are currently working on, exploring options, etc.  Then I went in to my sewing room and looked at my design wall and realized that while mine is not the conventional quilter's design wall, it serves the same purpose.

There are all kinds of things on my design wall.  I have blocks I've attempted, first shots at paper piecing, some old blocks that I just love to look at, pictures, mementos and all kinds of things that inspire me, make me think about color, and make me laugh.  There is a picture of my mother on there, one my DAD printed out and sent to me when I brought home her Bernina.  At the bottom, he typed up this little note that says, "NO JO, I TOLD YOU TO BACK STITCH IT ON THE BACK OF THE MATERIAL FIRST!!!!!  JEEZ, DO I HAVE TO SHOW YOU EVERYTHING???????"  How amazing is that.  This man knew his wife,  he knew me, and he knew exactly what she would say to me.

My design wall is wonderful composite of things and people I love.  Having Mom up there keeps me on track, she channels her thoughts about what I am making. (We disagree a lot, but that is par for Mom.  She still thinks my 12th grade Dorothy Hamill haircut is the one I should be wearing today.  She also thinks I should wear lipstick. )   Dad is up there too - on the lower portion there is a picture of him when he opened the store in Nebraska sometime around 1969 or 1970.  He's so young - and so handsome. And so smart.  It is thee most inspiring design wall ever.

PS - Father's Day is this Sunday - tell your Dad (wherever he is) how much you love him.