Nothing like being greeted with the fat, balding head of your ex-husband as a friend suggestion.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Fifth Child Syndrome
In the car...
"Toots, I can't find his paci, so you are going to have to keep Baby E happy."
"OK, mom!"...
"Wow, he's being so quiet. He really likes you!"
"Yup, but he likes my lollipop better!"
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Homeschool Hooky
"Toots, let's play hooky today!"
"What does 'hooky' mean?"
"It means leaving the house."
"Actually, honey, it means not going to school."
"I know, that's what I said. Leaving the house!"
Friday, April 24, 2009
Life, Death, Life
I saw my dad last week.
It had been too many weeks, too many days and too many hours since I had seen him last. He stood up and smiled while I told him how much I missed him.
In early autumn, his doctor saw a shadow where none had been.
I told him that he looked good. He nodded and smiled again.
I wanted to hug him, but guilt hung over me, so I stayed at arm's length and rambled for a minute.
During Thanksgiving, we ate guiltily, hushed the kids more quickly, went home early and left our fears unvoiced.
As he smiled at me again the memory of our last meeting washed over me. March 8th, 2009.
How many times had I opened that door in the last three weeks? How many times had I seen his body, then his head, then his eyes rise to greet me? Not this time. He was there, just as I had left him a few hours before the phone call to come quickly. The hospital bed was no less sterile, even with mom's sheets and pillows. The side table loaded with every possible comfort stood untouched, unneeded. My brother came quickly to my side to tell me that even though his blood pressure was unmeasurable, he was still responding to their final good-byes. I was urged to talk to him again. Then my mom told me to go over to him because everyone else had already had a chance to say good-bye. My sister encouraged me to be with him and that he had responded to her last words. The room started to spin. Using the baby as an excuse, I rushed into the back bedroom.
Christmas was special. His body was frail and fading, but his spirit was strong and his heart ever-growing. Although I knew that another miracle was not impossible, my brain told me to prepare.
My other brother came in to help with the baby. He started to tell me that I needed to go talk to dad because he was still resp..."STOP!," I screamed. "I have said everything I need to say to Dad. I am not going to pour my heart out in front of an entire room full of people to a man who can do nothing but moan! It's not going to happen."
On February 14th, 2009, exactly four years to the day that he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, my father was admitted to the hospital for the last time. The cancer was back with a vengeance. Four days later, he was sent home to die. We were told that intense vomiting would start immediately and that he could not possibly live more than three days.
My brother was wonderful. He calmed me down and told me that we all had spent three amazing weeks pouring our love and appreciation into Dad. He reassured me that it was enough. And then he went back into the living room. The dying room.
Three days came and went. Hundreds of visitors poured into my parents' house. Person after person shared their love and amazement and appreciation of this great man. My mom teased that he was getting to hear everything that would be said at the funeral. The vomiting never began. His appetite and strength began to return. He left the hospital bed and starting sitting on the couch. He went to church. He started writing again. He tried to drive, but my brother reminded him that driving on morphine was most-definitely illegal, so he allowed himself to be driven. Several times, the morning Hospice nurse would come in the front door only to have Dad pop in behind her having spent several hours at the office. We still came by every day, but the sense of urgency began to wane. My brother went back to Los Angeles. The days went by.
I walked back in and the room was cleared. My sister remained by his side, but every one else had graciously stepped outside. I held his hand and cried. I looked at him and wondered, as I had so often those last few days, how amazing the human body is. He hadn't eaten in days and had only a small appetite for weeks, maybe months. His skin was hanging in folds and his face was skeletal. His stomach was grotesquely swollen and misshapen by tumors and weeks of blocked intestines. His breathing was erratic and accompanied by haunting moans and semi-formed words. But his heartbeat was strong and fast. He was alive, but not alive and as I looked at his eyes, big beyond belief in that cadaverous face, no words would come.
Two weeks later, the sense of urgency returned, but was soon replaced by a sense of foreboding. What had been beautiful days of remembering, laughing and reflecting, were soon replaced by tedious hours of medicating, adjusting and sitting. Nineteen days after he was sent home to die, I got the phone call to come quickly.
I wanted to tell him that I loved him, that I needed him, that I am who I am because of him. That he was the perfect father and that I loved his imperfections. That he was a living example of wisdom, integrity and generosity. That the mirror I hold to my self reflects him. I wanted to tell him everything, but there was no time and no words, so I told him nothing. A few hours later, he was dead.
Standing before him, the shame of not saying a final good-bye filled my heart and spilled my eyes. Still not talking, he reached his arms out to me.
"But Dad, you're supposed to be dead. I mean, I know you're dead. I can't hug you, can I? Will I be able to feel you?"
He laughed and said yes, he was dead, but that I could hug him anyway.
His arms wrapped around me as I breathed him in. His smell, his touch, his breath were real. I felt his body as strongly as I had felt my own children's embraces a few hours prior.
And in that moment I wasn't a wife or a mom or a teacher or a friend. I was a daughter. I wasn't thirty-three. I was ageless. I wasn't fatherless, but in my father's arms. I wasn't in my bedroom sleeping. I was out of body, out of time, out of this life that allows cancer and takes lives too soon. I was telling him everything I had already said and everything that I left unsaid.
I knew it was a dream, even while I was dreaming it. But it made it no less real. I awoke with a huge grin on my face and peace in my soul.
Watching my father die was the most horrific experience I have ever had. I watched a young woman become a widow and an old man become dust again, while a new child nursed at my breast. I tasted life as I didn't know it existed and I smelled death.
But I was given twenty-nine carefree years, four miracle years and nineteen glorious days with the greatest man on earth. And I know I will see him again. And next time, there will be an eternity to say everything I need to say.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Actually, I'm a Pretty Darn Good Cook
"What are you making for breakfast, Mom?"
"Well, what do you think I'm making. I have sausage, onions, green peppers and tomatoes in this pan and I'm making eggs over here. If we put them together, what is it called?"
"YEAH, MOMMY'S MAKING A VOMIT!!!"
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