Ahhh Smuttynose....
I so missed my father's presence on the island this year. I missed the way he never jumped in to Haley's Cove, but rather inched in slowly, as if waiting for the tide to submerge him instead of having to take the plunge himself.
I missed the quiet moments in the harbor, fishing silently together, connected by a mutual love of a moment that needed no words.
I missed the hike to the cairn and Maren's Rock with him smiling at his grandkids talking a mile a minute about what they might find on the trail.
I missed coming into the house at noon to find my dad sitting in the corner reading, trying to get out of the often intense sun.
I missed his amazing zest for life that was so evident off the cliffs of the dyke at sunset as he would fly through the air and land in the sparkling clear, wonderfully cold water with a tremendous splash and a huge gasping smile.
I missed him planting the hatchet with red paint on the handle into the sign for the Honvent House. Only some will understand that one...but I missed it.
I missed his kite flying.
The light of sunset on the windows of Haley just didn't look the same this year.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Friday, July 11, 2014
I am from...
At a writing camp this week, Megan was asked to write a poem about where she is from. Here is what she wrote:
I am from waves crashing on the shore.
I am from sap, oozing out of the tree onto my hands.
From warmth and my mothers arms.
From snuggling down under the covers on a cold night.
I am from the moon and the sun.
From butterflies and flowers.
I am from sparks flying from the camp fire.
I am from sledding and the sparkle of the snow.
From family and friends.
From the smell of pine trees.
From the croaking of frogs.
I am from the fun and disappointments.
From happy and sad.
I am from peace and fright.
I am from the fresh smell of books.
From the sounds of birds and sitting in the garden.
From rocks, sea glass, and shells.
I am from laughter and tears.
From writing and reading.
I am from my dreams.
I am from waves crashing on the shore.
I am from sap, oozing out of the tree onto my hands.
From warmth and my mothers arms.
From snuggling down under the covers on a cold night.
I am from the moon and the sun.
From butterflies and flowers.
I am from sparks flying from the camp fire.
I am from sledding and the sparkle of the snow.
From family and friends.
From the smell of pine trees.
From the croaking of frogs.
I am from the fun and disappointments.
From happy and sad.
I am from peace and fright.
I am from the fresh smell of books.
From the sounds of birds and sitting in the garden.
From rocks, sea glass, and shells.
I am from laughter and tears.
From writing and reading.
I am from my dreams.
Monday, June 16, 2014
Father's Day
My Dad's birthday was a few weeks ago...and yesterday was Father's Day. He hadn't wanted to celebrate either of those things lately, but maybe this year would have been different. Maybe we would have done something together, the way we used to--perhaps a sushi lunch in Portland, or a trip out to Smutty for some kite flying. Maybe we would have gone out for ice cream and, faced with 50 exotic flavors to choose from, he would have picked French Vanilla. Maybe he would have come to my house and let the kids make him a cake, even though he didn't like cake and would have preferred lemon meringue pie. Maybe.
Right now, as we head into a beautiful summer, I'm reminded to focus on the amazing way he lived his life, and not the sad loss that was his reality at the end. I'm grateful that, at his Celebration of Life, who he was became so apparent and the incredible depth of his talents and personality came shining through. My dad touched so many people's lives, and it was really nice to be surrounded by people who remember him the way he was before depression took him away.
I've spent the past few weeks thinking about this juxtaposition, this seeming incongruity between who he truly was and who he became. I've been wondering what would have happened in my own life if I had zigged instead of zagged at different points. And what it comes down to is that any different turn would have put me somewhere else and I'm so, so, so very happy with my life right now. As an example, I think all the time about where we would be if Sophie had lived. To have her live, however, means recognizing that I probably wouldn't have Evan and I almost definitely wouldn't have Jordan. And my life would be SO horribly incomplete without them that in a strange, sounds horrible kind of way, I'm okay with her death. My father is gone--and as horrible as it is, the possible inheritance (assuming the house sells!) will open up a HUGE world of travel that has been knocking on our door for AGES. Megan has wanted to go to Scotland since she first learned about castles. Erin wants to see Mt. Everest. Even...well, Evan just wants to travel the country and see all the baseball parks--but that is still something! So I know know know that I'll look back at this twist and be thankful. I know Dad is much better off now than he has been the past few years. He had SO MUCH holding him back. So much that he wouldn't or couldn't change, and that is all gone now.
And while I'm still sitting in a place of pain because of everything that could have, should have, would have, I also know it will get more integrated with time. I know this. I've walked this road before and I am intimately familiar with grief's path. My biggest hope is this--that in time, when I look back, my dad's death won't be a simple zig or zag...that it will be a significant life-changing turn for the better that I can look back on with the same yes my heart is broken AND it is FILLED TO THE BRIM with gratitude-type thoughts that I have about Sophie. My dad gave me so much in life and I want to make sure I come out of this fog of death a better person, as a final gift from my dad.
All that AND, I wish I could stop crying because he is gone.
Right now, as we head into a beautiful summer, I'm reminded to focus on the amazing way he lived his life, and not the sad loss that was his reality at the end. I'm grateful that, at his Celebration of Life, who he was became so apparent and the incredible depth of his talents and personality came shining through. My dad touched so many people's lives, and it was really nice to be surrounded by people who remember him the way he was before depression took him away.
I've spent the past few weeks thinking about this juxtaposition, this seeming incongruity between who he truly was and who he became. I've been wondering what would have happened in my own life if I had zigged instead of zagged at different points. And what it comes down to is that any different turn would have put me somewhere else and I'm so, so, so very happy with my life right now. As an example, I think all the time about where we would be if Sophie had lived. To have her live, however, means recognizing that I probably wouldn't have Evan and I almost definitely wouldn't have Jordan. And my life would be SO horribly incomplete without them that in a strange, sounds horrible kind of way, I'm okay with her death. My father is gone--and as horrible as it is, the possible inheritance (assuming the house sells!) will open up a HUGE world of travel that has been knocking on our door for AGES. Megan has wanted to go to Scotland since she first learned about castles. Erin wants to see Mt. Everest. Even...well, Evan just wants to travel the country and see all the baseball parks--but that is still something! So I know know know that I'll look back at this twist and be thankful. I know Dad is much better off now than he has been the past few years. He had SO MUCH holding him back. So much that he wouldn't or couldn't change, and that is all gone now.
And while I'm still sitting in a place of pain because of everything that could have, should have, would have, I also know it will get more integrated with time. I know this. I've walked this road before and I am intimately familiar with grief's path. My biggest hope is this--that in time, when I look back, my dad's death won't be a simple zig or zag...that it will be a significant life-changing turn for the better that I can look back on with the same yes my heart is broken AND it is FILLED TO THE BRIM with gratitude-type thoughts that I have about Sophie. My dad gave me so much in life and I want to make sure I come out of this fog of death a better person, as a final gift from my dad.
All that AND, I wish I could stop crying because he is gone.
Friday, June 13, 2014
Pennies
Now comes the hard part. The part I have been dreading. I have to
continue to live the rest of my life without my father by my side. How
does that work, exactly? Over the past few months, I've been thrown so
many life lines--some I know are firmly attached at the other end,
having been thrown by family and friends who have always been there for
me. Other life lines feel loose, like there is a risk of losing them
again, as if they aren't as firmly attached at the other end. The past
few weeks, I have felt myself clinging to some of these and grieving
again as they slowly drift out into the sea of life. Each one that
drifts now feels unrecoverable. Maybe because it was attached to
someone who knew me through my father but doesn't necessarily know me
now. Or maybe because it was attached to someone who lives far away and
simply needed to head back to their life. Whatever the reason, as they
drift, I panic. If they all drift away, how do I continue to feel my
father's love and connection to my life?
Long story--so stop reading if you don't have the time, it is going to take a while to explain all this, as it goes back to Amy's life and death. Way back in 2010, after Amy stopped chemo but before she was too sick to live, she and I were hanging out in her apartment having just had lunch out. We were watching stupid daytime tv, some show about the paranormal and ghosts and stuff. In this episode, a woman was being kept up at night because her feet were feeling "wrong"--like they were under pressure or something like that. It turned out (if you believe this stuff), that her deceased husband was coming back each night and rubbing her feet. Apparently it was his way of telling her that he was okay and that he missed her. Whatever--it was creepy. Amy and I laughed and I made her swear that she wouldn't come back and haunt me like that. This started an interesting conversation in which her final question was, "Well? How am I supposed to make sure you know I'm okay?" I thought a minute and then remembered something I had read in a Dear Abby column called Pennies From Heaven. This is a collection of stories from readers who have found pennies with a year significant to them and/or their loved one in completely random places--places where they would later swear there was not a penny earlier. Anyway, I told Amy to leave me pennies. We sat down together and made a list of years that were important to the two of us; 1992, 1996, 1998, 2003.... We had about 6 or 8 years that were the most significant in our nearly 20 years of friendship. Fast forward to two days after Amy died. I was at a store buying something for her service and the woman in front of me was clearly in a hurry-the store clerk gave her some change and she moved too quickly and dropped it. Although she glanced at it, she was already on her way out of the store. I bent down to pick it up and hand it to her, but she was gone before I stood up. When I looked down there were three pennies. All three were on our list of significant years. Really. I did what any normal person would do--I brushed it off. Coincidence, obviously, and way too soon for Amy to be sending me "our signal." Three days later, I was out running, doing an out and back route on a low traffic, dirt road where running in the middle of the road is truly the safest option. On the way back, there, in the middle of the road was the shiniest penny you have ever seen. I'm quite sure I would have noticed it if it had been there on my way out. I picked it up--1992, the year we met. I stopped to catch my breath, but still thought it was simply a strange coincidence.
There were probably three more incidences like this one--pennies popping up at unexpected times. Finally, about 2 or 3 weeks after her death, our whole family went skiing because we simply needed to spend some time together after the significant toll Amy's final weeks had taken on us. This trip was made possible, in part, by some money Amy had left us. On the final ride up the chair lift, I was sitting with Megan, who would have been nearly 6 at the time. She was waving her mitten slowly back and forth, so I asked her what she was doing. "Oh, " she said, "I found a penny down by the lodge and I put it in my mitten." I looked at it. You guessed it, it was on the list.
I finally told one of our mutual college friends about all this and she laughed, clearly having believed in the pennies much earlier than me. She said, "If you don't start to open your mind to the message she is sending, she is going to resort to simply pelting you with pennies as you walk down the street!!" I gave in. I started believing, no, knowing that Amy is okay. I know this because when I was pregnant with Jordan, I had 4 ultrasounds and not once did I fail to find a penny either going in or coming out of the office. Not a single time.
Now back to the reason I'm telling you all this--my need to continue to feel my father's love around me. A few weekends ago, we were at a good friend's wedding. It was such a beautiful weekend that actually started off as a parent's nightmare. It was incredibly challenging to get there (the kids were tired of the car, Chris and I were tired of packing up and heading out, the driving is getting annoying, the kids fought and we yelled...)..But, we had promised the young, excited bride and her family we would be there, so we went, bad moods and all. We got there and it was at a beautiful YMCA camp that was deserted except for the wedding weekend people--there was a waterfront, tennis courts, a baseball field...basically my kids' version of heaven. We all began to relax a little. Of course we were late, so the girls and I quickly changed and went to the ceremony, while Chris played with and changed clothes on the little ones. We all went to the reception which started off what would become, simply, a really fun family weekend. Because the camp was empty, the kids were free to be kids, going back and forth between our cabin and the hall, or heading down to the waterfront to skip stones. I was having fun reconnecting with people I hadn't seen in years, and began to feel the stress of the very difficult past few weeks start to peel away. Then, while not paying attention at the reception, I found myself looking up to see the father/bride dance being announced. As I watched them take the floor arm in arm, I suddenly became overwhelmed, panicked, weepy. The weight of my father's death fell on me and I knew I couldn't stay in the hall. I stood up and calmly and (hopefully) casually, walked outside, heading to our cabin. I felt as if I was suffocating, but I knew the feeling would pass if I could just get to my family. I walked over to our cabin where the kids were playing and in various states of bathing suits, pjs, and baseball gear. Megan, who was wondering around the cabin, suddenly bends down and stands up again, "Hey mom! Look what I found!" She hands me a penny...1974 (the year I was born). And while I never sat down with my dad and made a list of years, I'm pretty sure that was an important one for the two of us.
Long story--so stop reading if you don't have the time, it is going to take a while to explain all this, as it goes back to Amy's life and death. Way back in 2010, after Amy stopped chemo but before she was too sick to live, she and I were hanging out in her apartment having just had lunch out. We were watching stupid daytime tv, some show about the paranormal and ghosts and stuff. In this episode, a woman was being kept up at night because her feet were feeling "wrong"--like they were under pressure or something like that. It turned out (if you believe this stuff), that her deceased husband was coming back each night and rubbing her feet. Apparently it was his way of telling her that he was okay and that he missed her. Whatever--it was creepy. Amy and I laughed and I made her swear that she wouldn't come back and haunt me like that. This started an interesting conversation in which her final question was, "Well? How am I supposed to make sure you know I'm okay?" I thought a minute and then remembered something I had read in a Dear Abby column called Pennies From Heaven. This is a collection of stories from readers who have found pennies with a year significant to them and/or their loved one in completely random places--places where they would later swear there was not a penny earlier. Anyway, I told Amy to leave me pennies. We sat down together and made a list of years that were important to the two of us; 1992, 1996, 1998, 2003.... We had about 6 or 8 years that were the most significant in our nearly 20 years of friendship. Fast forward to two days after Amy died. I was at a store buying something for her service and the woman in front of me was clearly in a hurry-the store clerk gave her some change and she moved too quickly and dropped it. Although she glanced at it, she was already on her way out of the store. I bent down to pick it up and hand it to her, but she was gone before I stood up. When I looked down there were three pennies. All three were on our list of significant years. Really. I did what any normal person would do--I brushed it off. Coincidence, obviously, and way too soon for Amy to be sending me "our signal." Three days later, I was out running, doing an out and back route on a low traffic, dirt road where running in the middle of the road is truly the safest option. On the way back, there, in the middle of the road was the shiniest penny you have ever seen. I'm quite sure I would have noticed it if it had been there on my way out. I picked it up--1992, the year we met. I stopped to catch my breath, but still thought it was simply a strange coincidence.
There were probably three more incidences like this one--pennies popping up at unexpected times. Finally, about 2 or 3 weeks after her death, our whole family went skiing because we simply needed to spend some time together after the significant toll Amy's final weeks had taken on us. This trip was made possible, in part, by some money Amy had left us. On the final ride up the chair lift, I was sitting with Megan, who would have been nearly 6 at the time. She was waving her mitten slowly back and forth, so I asked her what she was doing. "Oh, " she said, "I found a penny down by the lodge and I put it in my mitten." I looked at it. You guessed it, it was on the list.
I finally told one of our mutual college friends about all this and she laughed, clearly having believed in the pennies much earlier than me. She said, "If you don't start to open your mind to the message she is sending, she is going to resort to simply pelting you with pennies as you walk down the street!!" I gave in. I started believing, no, knowing that Amy is okay. I know this because when I was pregnant with Jordan, I had 4 ultrasounds and not once did I fail to find a penny either going in or coming out of the office. Not a single time.
Now back to the reason I'm telling you all this--my need to continue to feel my father's love around me. A few weekends ago, we were at a good friend's wedding. It was such a beautiful weekend that actually started off as a parent's nightmare. It was incredibly challenging to get there (the kids were tired of the car, Chris and I were tired of packing up and heading out, the driving is getting annoying, the kids fought and we yelled...)..But, we had promised the young, excited bride and her family we would be there, so we went, bad moods and all. We got there and it was at a beautiful YMCA camp that was deserted except for the wedding weekend people--there was a waterfront, tennis courts, a baseball field...basically my kids' version of heaven. We all began to relax a little. Of course we were late, so the girls and I quickly changed and went to the ceremony, while Chris played with and changed clothes on the little ones. We all went to the reception which started off what would become, simply, a really fun family weekend. Because the camp was empty, the kids were free to be kids, going back and forth between our cabin and the hall, or heading down to the waterfront to skip stones. I was having fun reconnecting with people I hadn't seen in years, and began to feel the stress of the very difficult past few weeks start to peel away. Then, while not paying attention at the reception, I found myself looking up to see the father/bride dance being announced. As I watched them take the floor arm in arm, I suddenly became overwhelmed, panicked, weepy. The weight of my father's death fell on me and I knew I couldn't stay in the hall. I stood up and calmly and (hopefully) casually, walked outside, heading to our cabin. I felt as if I was suffocating, but I knew the feeling would pass if I could just get to my family. I walked over to our cabin where the kids were playing and in various states of bathing suits, pjs, and baseball gear. Megan, who was wondering around the cabin, suddenly bends down and stands up again, "Hey mom! Look what I found!" She hands me a penny...1974 (the year I was born). And while I never sat down with my dad and made a list of years, I'm pretty sure that was an important one for the two of us.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Dear Dad,
Dear Dad,
Oh you left a mess. You knew that, didn't you...that it was a mess. And yet, in the mess I'm finding myself so many memories! I'm scanning pictures of our life together and there are so many questions I want to ask you. Who is that woman we are with? Where are we flying those kites? Buck naked, Dad? Really? Did we need a picture of that? Oh, and what is with the fish and the chainsaw? No, seriously Dad...what is with the fish and the chainsaw?
I had to move your memorial service--Moritomo simply couldn't hold all the people coming. You touched so many lives. Mark is coming from California. Heather and her mom are coming, but you know they would never miss this. You were so important to them. I asked for 30 seconds of audio for your slide show and, true to form, Heather sent 30 seconds and Mark sent 7 minutes. So many people, Dad, so many people.
I'm feeling a lot of pressure to Get This Right. I have once chance, Dad, one chance to say goodbye to you. One chance to help all these people say goodbye. One chance to share everything you were with the world. I'm not sure I'm doing a good enough job. I'm working hard on this video, but as I add audio, the slideshow part gets altered and then I add a picture and then the whole thing is off. Technical problems, really, but I just want it to be right. So I keep working. And the food...what do you want me to order for food? I'll definitely get sushi, but what else? And how much will we need? I guess I just have to do the best I can.
These are the things I lie awake thinking about at night. And know what else I'm thinking about? How scared I am for all of this to be over. For the past 6 weeks, your life and death has been my whole world. This week is going to be awesome--to reconnect with Mark and Mark, to hear all the stories (many I've heard before!), to sit at your house and cry with Heather. It is going to be amazing. And then? And then it will be over. I'll come back here with my family, Chris will finish the business of your estate, we'll sell your beloved house...but there will be no more. Then what? Do you really expect me to live the rest of my life without you? This is the part that scares me. What do I do next week? And the week after? All the work I have done on the slide show has put me right back into the past--you are so alive and so present in all those pictures. When the last slide goes up at your service, when the last note rings out, when the last person wipes their eyes and heads for the door...does that mean you are really gone? I'm so afraid of what I'll feel after that and I'm terrified of the expectations next week.
But that is all part of your lesson, isn't it? Like Heather said so amazingly for the slide show. Life, in all its precarious little twits and turns, is meant to be lived forward. So forward we will go--savoring every bit of this week.
And I'll try to find out what the deal was with the fish and the chainsaw. Because I really want to know.
Love,
Your Daughter
Oh you left a mess. You knew that, didn't you...that it was a mess. And yet, in the mess I'm finding myself so many memories! I'm scanning pictures of our life together and there are so many questions I want to ask you. Who is that woman we are with? Where are we flying those kites? Buck naked, Dad? Really? Did we need a picture of that? Oh, and what is with the fish and the chainsaw? No, seriously Dad...what is with the fish and the chainsaw?
I had to move your memorial service--Moritomo simply couldn't hold all the people coming. You touched so many lives. Mark is coming from California. Heather and her mom are coming, but you know they would never miss this. You were so important to them. I asked for 30 seconds of audio for your slide show and, true to form, Heather sent 30 seconds and Mark sent 7 minutes. So many people, Dad, so many people.
I'm feeling a lot of pressure to Get This Right. I have once chance, Dad, one chance to say goodbye to you. One chance to help all these people say goodbye. One chance to share everything you were with the world. I'm not sure I'm doing a good enough job. I'm working hard on this video, but as I add audio, the slideshow part gets altered and then I add a picture and then the whole thing is off. Technical problems, really, but I just want it to be right. So I keep working. And the food...what do you want me to order for food? I'll definitely get sushi, but what else? And how much will we need? I guess I just have to do the best I can.
These are the things I lie awake thinking about at night. And know what else I'm thinking about? How scared I am for all of this to be over. For the past 6 weeks, your life and death has been my whole world. This week is going to be awesome--to reconnect with Mark and Mark, to hear all the stories (many I've heard before!), to sit at your house and cry with Heather. It is going to be amazing. And then? And then it will be over. I'll come back here with my family, Chris will finish the business of your estate, we'll sell your beloved house...but there will be no more. Then what? Do you really expect me to live the rest of my life without you? This is the part that scares me. What do I do next week? And the week after? All the work I have done on the slide show has put me right back into the past--you are so alive and so present in all those pictures. When the last slide goes up at your service, when the last note rings out, when the last person wipes their eyes and heads for the door...does that mean you are really gone? I'm so afraid of what I'll feel after that and I'm terrified of the expectations next week.
But that is all part of your lesson, isn't it? Like Heather said so amazingly for the slide show. Life, in all its precarious little twits and turns, is meant to be lived forward. So forward we will go--savoring every bit of this week.
And I'll try to find out what the deal was with the fish and the chainsaw. Because I really want to know.
Love,
Your Daughter
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Sigh...
Grief is so different in this fast-paced world of Facebook and high-speed connections to everything and everyone all the time. I'm looking at some of my FB posts in the past two weeks and I just have to laugh. If you only know me from FB, you would think, "Oh...her dad died.....but oh look, she's taking her kid to baseball practice--she must be over it!" If you only know me from the parenting group I help lead, you think, "Oh, her dad died...but look! She's totally able to help me breastfeed and listen to all my problems, so she must be over it!" If you only know me from the dozens of activities I bring my kids to each week, you would think, "Oh, there she is...wait, didn't her dad just die? Well she is here, so she must be over it!" Obviously none of these are right. I'm not "over it" by any stretch, but life with kids hasn't stopped! It isn't fair to make them stop and it seems so awful to me to keep going. The world SHOULD have stopped spinning because such an important part of my life is gone, but it hasn't, so I have no choice but to keep going.
My dad passed away three weeks ago, today. Three weeks ago. I look at things I agreed to a month, two months, six months ago, and I realize I was a completely different person then. I feel like a whole lifetime has passed in the last three weeks. Three weeks is nothing--but here we are more than halfway through April, heading to May, and I'm not sure where that time has gone. Do you have it? Can you bring it back?
I feel like I'm riding a bicycle on a trail and I just hit a rock. I haven't fallen off, yet, but I'm in that brief moment where you are madly adjusting the handle bars, trying to balance and still maintain forward momentum. I can't look ahead on the trail so I just have to hope another rock isn't in front of me. All I can do is cling desperately to belief that my center of gravity is okay--that I'm not going to fall off--not this time. With a few more adjustments, I'll be riding on down the trail. But right now, in the moment of swinging handle bars and held breath, right now, I'm struggling. FB doesn't show it, can't possibly show it, because one lives life in two sentence bursts. Yesterday I bought a kayak so our summer adventures could fit our expanding family. On FB, this seems so nice and normal. It seems uncomplicated, like a fun thing to do with my gang on a random Friday morning. But do you know where my love of sea kayaking and everything ocean came from? Dad. Do you know where Erin is excited to use the boat? Smutty. So that little adventure to go buy a boat, that simple, uncomplicated action that we did with no tears or regrets and I then summed up in 2 sentences on my FB status...well, it turns out it isn't as simple as it seems.
I know three weeks is a short amount of time to regain your balance after hitting this kind of rock. I know I have to be gentle with myself. I also know that it is painful to have the world continue to spin the way it is. I WANTED to go to Fenway with Evan last week, I WANT Erin to do her fencing tournament this weekend, I WANT Megan to perform in the state meet. I want all this stuff...AND, I want to crawl under a rock. I'm pretty sure I can't have it both ways.
My dad passed away three weeks ago, today. Three weeks ago. I look at things I agreed to a month, two months, six months ago, and I realize I was a completely different person then. I feel like a whole lifetime has passed in the last three weeks. Three weeks is nothing--but here we are more than halfway through April, heading to May, and I'm not sure where that time has gone. Do you have it? Can you bring it back?
I feel like I'm riding a bicycle on a trail and I just hit a rock. I haven't fallen off, yet, but I'm in that brief moment where you are madly adjusting the handle bars, trying to balance and still maintain forward momentum. I can't look ahead on the trail so I just have to hope another rock isn't in front of me. All I can do is cling desperately to belief that my center of gravity is okay--that I'm not going to fall off--not this time. With a few more adjustments, I'll be riding on down the trail. But right now, in the moment of swinging handle bars and held breath, right now, I'm struggling. FB doesn't show it, can't possibly show it, because one lives life in two sentence bursts. Yesterday I bought a kayak so our summer adventures could fit our expanding family. On FB, this seems so nice and normal. It seems uncomplicated, like a fun thing to do with my gang on a random Friday morning. But do you know where my love of sea kayaking and everything ocean came from? Dad. Do you know where Erin is excited to use the boat? Smutty. So that little adventure to go buy a boat, that simple, uncomplicated action that we did with no tears or regrets and I then summed up in 2 sentences on my FB status...well, it turns out it isn't as simple as it seems.
I know three weeks is a short amount of time to regain your balance after hitting this kind of rock. I know I have to be gentle with myself. I also know that it is painful to have the world continue to spin the way it is. I WANTED to go to Fenway with Evan last week, I WANT Erin to do her fencing tournament this weekend, I WANT Megan to perform in the state meet. I want all this stuff...AND, I want to crawl under a rock. I'm pretty sure I can't have it both ways.
Monday, April 14, 2014
My Dad
I've been here before--these early days of grief. I've walked in this foggy state of being completely lost and confused. I've dealt with the feelings of anger that result whenever I see people (who don't know me or my father) callously going about their lives as if nothing has happened, as if the Earth hasn't completely stopped spinning. I've been through this feeling of being exhausted without having done anything of substance all day (grief is tiring). I've been this sad before. And yet this time, it is so, so, so very different. Losing Sophie was so medically complicated, that it was days after her death that I even knew what was happening and it was months before I was physically able to grieve. Losing Amy was horribly unfair and sad, but we knew it was coming. We had a year to prepare. Losing my Dad is different--not easier, not worse--just different.
For those of you who don't know, my father suffered from bipolar disorder. What this meant when I was younger was nothing significant. He had ups and downs, but he was usually full of energy, forever doing something fun, and always involved in my life. He was perpetually late--I can't think of a single time he was supposed to pick me up from something that I wasn't the last one of my friends to be picked up. (My freshman year of high school, I had a very small, tiny, itty-bitty role in the drama club's production--I can't even remember the play--but my part was within the first 5 or 10 minutes of the show. While it didn't take much begging to convince my dad to come, after the show, Dad was mad at me that I had "dragged him" to this show and I wasn't even in it! Of course, it turns out that he gotten there late and missed my part.) He LOVED live music. He never missed one of my concerts--late to them often, but never missed one. He couldn't get enough of the ocean. People wonder where I got my love of all things ocean and boating and kayaking...it was him. While my earliest memories of the Isles of Shoals are on my grandfather's boat, I spent more time out there with my Dad than with anyone else and probably more than anyone else did with him (with the exception of Janice, his partner of nearly 20 years). It is something that connected us more than anything else. Watching my kids play out there is amazing to me because it is all his doing.
This all changed about 3 or 4 years ago--his love of life, his joy, his interest in what was going on in the world--it all slowly disappeared as he sunk into a depression. It started in 2003, with the passing of Janice, his amazing partner of nearly 20 years. A piece of him died with her. His spark came back a bit as his collection of grandchildren grew, but he was never fully recovered. When he bought a new boat in 2006, I thought he was finally going to come back to life. I suggested the name: Snap Out Of It. Years later, after a series of poor financial decisions, he was forced to sell the boat and that was another gigantic blow to everything that was my father. Since then, he has gone farther and farther into a depression. While I'm not writing this to air all the dirty laundry my father carted around (we all have that, don't we?), I want people to know the truth--that these last few years my father has not been my Dad. He's been a person I've checked up on, invited to family events (he usually didn't come), and called to make sure he was okay. He has been a shell of his former self.
This is the part that makes his death so very, very different from the others I've dealt with. The fact is that he died years ago. In the past few years, he hasn't wanted to be involved in our lives and (if I have to be brutally honest), I haven't truly wanted him in ours. I felt a very strong need to protect my kids from his depression and the resulting lifestyle choices. So in addition to the suddenness of the actual death and the sadness and shock that brings, there is the struggle with the guilt and anger I feel at myself for letting our relationship get to the point it did. There is the anger I feel towards him due to the fact that I begged and begged him to sell a house that was too big and move into something smaller and closer to us--but he refused, never wanting to be a part of our lives or community. How am I supposed to come to terms with this? How can I reconcile the man he was with the man he became? I know the answer to all of this, of course, is time. As different as this death is, I know next week, next month, next year will be different. I know I'll start remembering my REAL Dad, and not be trapped in the guilt and anger. I'll remember the time we flipped over on the ATV, and the time and energy he spent making sure my brother and I had the absolute BEST tree houses on the street. I'll remember all our trips to NYC and the time spent there with some of the best friends a family could have. I'll remember the time he set me adrift on a row boat with only one oar. I'll remember the time he was in tears over the beauty of the best performance of my high school career. I'll remember the pride in his eyes when I graduated from college, and the way he held my arm as he walked me down the aisle on my wedding day. Time....
Dad, I can't take back the past few months and years, and for that I am sorry. I hope you know that as much as it frustrated me, I never gave up on you. I never gave up hope that someday you would join our family, and my kids could see the man I remember and the man I will always love. I wish it hadn't ended like this. More than anything, I wish it hadn't ended like this. I love you more than words can say and I'm going to miss your presence in our life. You asked me once, when I was in high school or college, to come to your bipolar support group and talk about what it was like to grow up with a bipolar parent. I didn't want to go. I felt like I wouldn't be able to answer the question because I had never known any differently. How could I explain what life was like WITH a bipolar parent when I had never had life WITHOUT a bipolar parent. And know what? I can't imagine any other Dad, bipolar or not. I can't imagine my life without the memories of the boat and the island. I can't imagine kids who never got to sled down the driveway on their dad's back. I can't imagine life without kites, snowshoes, cameras, Broadway shows, camping trips, and fishing from a canoe. I can't imagine growing up without ever having to pull over to the side of the road because the light was "just right" and would never be that way, in that moment, on that day ever again. There is so much more--so, so, so much more to say to you. I hope you are finally at peace and that you can see what is truly in my heart. I love you, Dad, and I cannot express how much I'm going to miss you.
For those of you who don't know, my father suffered from bipolar disorder. What this meant when I was younger was nothing significant. He had ups and downs, but he was usually full of energy, forever doing something fun, and always involved in my life. He was perpetually late--I can't think of a single time he was supposed to pick me up from something that I wasn't the last one of my friends to be picked up. (My freshman year of high school, I had a very small, tiny, itty-bitty role in the drama club's production--I can't even remember the play--but my part was within the first 5 or 10 minutes of the show. While it didn't take much begging to convince my dad to come, after the show, Dad was mad at me that I had "dragged him" to this show and I wasn't even in it! Of course, it turns out that he gotten there late and missed my part.) He LOVED live music. He never missed one of my concerts--late to them often, but never missed one. He couldn't get enough of the ocean. People wonder where I got my love of all things ocean and boating and kayaking...it was him. While my earliest memories of the Isles of Shoals are on my grandfather's boat, I spent more time out there with my Dad than with anyone else and probably more than anyone else did with him (with the exception of Janice, his partner of nearly 20 years). It is something that connected us more than anything else. Watching my kids play out there is amazing to me because it is all his doing.
This all changed about 3 or 4 years ago--his love of life, his joy, his interest in what was going on in the world--it all slowly disappeared as he sunk into a depression. It started in 2003, with the passing of Janice, his amazing partner of nearly 20 years. A piece of him died with her. His spark came back a bit as his collection of grandchildren grew, but he was never fully recovered. When he bought a new boat in 2006, I thought he was finally going to come back to life. I suggested the name: Snap Out Of It. Years later, after a series of poor financial decisions, he was forced to sell the boat and that was another gigantic blow to everything that was my father. Since then, he has gone farther and farther into a depression. While I'm not writing this to air all the dirty laundry my father carted around (we all have that, don't we?), I want people to know the truth--that these last few years my father has not been my Dad. He's been a person I've checked up on, invited to family events (he usually didn't come), and called to make sure he was okay. He has been a shell of his former self.
This is the part that makes his death so very, very different from the others I've dealt with. The fact is that he died years ago. In the past few years, he hasn't wanted to be involved in our lives and (if I have to be brutally honest), I haven't truly wanted him in ours. I felt a very strong need to protect my kids from his depression and the resulting lifestyle choices. So in addition to the suddenness of the actual death and the sadness and shock that brings, there is the struggle with the guilt and anger I feel at myself for letting our relationship get to the point it did. There is the anger I feel towards him due to the fact that I begged and begged him to sell a house that was too big and move into something smaller and closer to us--but he refused, never wanting to be a part of our lives or community. How am I supposed to come to terms with this? How can I reconcile the man he was with the man he became? I know the answer to all of this, of course, is time. As different as this death is, I know next week, next month, next year will be different. I know I'll start remembering my REAL Dad, and not be trapped in the guilt and anger. I'll remember the time we flipped over on the ATV, and the time and energy he spent making sure my brother and I had the absolute BEST tree houses on the street. I'll remember all our trips to NYC and the time spent there with some of the best friends a family could have. I'll remember the time he set me adrift on a row boat with only one oar. I'll remember the time he was in tears over the beauty of the best performance of my high school career. I'll remember the pride in his eyes when I graduated from college, and the way he held my arm as he walked me down the aisle on my wedding day. Time....
Dad, I can't take back the past few months and years, and for that I am sorry. I hope you know that as much as it frustrated me, I never gave up on you. I never gave up hope that someday you would join our family, and my kids could see the man I remember and the man I will always love. I wish it hadn't ended like this. More than anything, I wish it hadn't ended like this. I love you more than words can say and I'm going to miss your presence in our life. You asked me once, when I was in high school or college, to come to your bipolar support group and talk about what it was like to grow up with a bipolar parent. I didn't want to go. I felt like I wouldn't be able to answer the question because I had never known any differently. How could I explain what life was like WITH a bipolar parent when I had never had life WITHOUT a bipolar parent. And know what? I can't imagine any other Dad, bipolar or not. I can't imagine my life without the memories of the boat and the island. I can't imagine kids who never got to sled down the driveway on their dad's back. I can't imagine life without kites, snowshoes, cameras, Broadway shows, camping trips, and fishing from a canoe. I can't imagine growing up without ever having to pull over to the side of the road because the light was "just right" and would never be that way, in that moment, on that day ever again. There is so much more--so, so, so much more to say to you. I hope you are finally at peace and that you can see what is truly in my heart. I love you, Dad, and I cannot express how much I'm going to miss you.
I think I'm on his back and my brother is holding onto his leg--but I could be wrong! We took turns riding like that--calmly, fairly, and never fighting about it, I'm sure!
I have no idea...
Out at Smutty--before there was a kitchen in Haley, one would cook on the pier. We had hamburger meat and hot dog buns on the boat, so my dad made hot dog shaped hamburgers.
College graduation
Our wedding...I love both these pictures--in the first one, while everyone in the church is either in prayer or listening to the pastor, my dad is grinning at the camera. And the one above is my dad doing what he loved for people that he loved.
I love you, Dad.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
And Now She Is 11
I'm a little late with this, but here goes:
When I was younger, I was a babysitter. And not just any babysitter, I was a fantastic, highly sought after babysitter--one of the most popular in my (very) small town. Middle school, high school, and even much of college was financed in this manner. But do you want to know a secret? I never really liked taking care of the older kids (there are a handful of exceptions to this, and they know who they are!). I loved, loved, loved the babies, toddlers, and even preschoolers. I loved reading to them, cuddling with them, rocking them, doing arts and crafts...all of it. I just loved the little ones! When I was pregnant for the first time, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would love that baby. I knew I would know how to care for that baby, and I knew that the first few years with that baby would be the best years of my life. However, I always secretly worried that when that baby got older, my love would fade, my interest would wane, and I would have to fake enthusiasm for whatever they were doing. Of course, like so many of my preconceived notions about parenting, I really never had to worry about this! (Love fade??? What?? The things you learn...)
My first baby, the one that made me a mother, the one that changed our lives in so many awesome ways, is now 11 years old. She has entered the years that I never thought I would enjoy and here I am, soaking up every minute of it. Today, we were riding back from one of her fencing lessons and we were talking about her first big tournament that is coming up. She is excited and nervous and scared and eager...everything you would expect of someone about to really stretch their wings for the first time. It was at that moment that it really dawned on me how very much I LOVE LOVE LOVE having an older kid! She and I are going to head out next weekend, on our own! We are going to get a hotel room and hang out. We are going to a fencing tournament where I will support this amazing kid as she does something SHE loves, and I will love every second of it! We will share meals and treats and a long car ride. We will talk about everything and nothing. We will laugh and joke and connect in ways that we simply can't when surrounded by younger siblings. I'm so lucky to have a kid on the cusp of the rest of her life and I can't put into words how much I'm enjoying being with her. A friend of mine with older kids (in their 20s) told me that having grown kids is so much fun--I was hesitant to believe her, but now I'm sure she is right. If my 11yo is so awesome and just gets more and more awesome with each passing day and year, I can only imagine what having a 20yo will be like! (But not too soon, Erin, let's enjoy being 11 first, okay??)
Happy Birthday to my biggest kid--you are simply amazing, really and truly AMAZING.
When I was younger, I was a babysitter. And not just any babysitter, I was a fantastic, highly sought after babysitter--one of the most popular in my (very) small town. Middle school, high school, and even much of college was financed in this manner. But do you want to know a secret? I never really liked taking care of the older kids (there are a handful of exceptions to this, and they know who they are!). I loved, loved, loved the babies, toddlers, and even preschoolers. I loved reading to them, cuddling with them, rocking them, doing arts and crafts...all of it. I just loved the little ones! When I was pregnant for the first time, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would love that baby. I knew I would know how to care for that baby, and I knew that the first few years with that baby would be the best years of my life. However, I always secretly worried that when that baby got older, my love would fade, my interest would wane, and I would have to fake enthusiasm for whatever they were doing. Of course, like so many of my preconceived notions about parenting, I really never had to worry about this! (Love fade??? What?? The things you learn...)
My first baby, the one that made me a mother, the one that changed our lives in so many awesome ways, is now 11 years old. She has entered the years that I never thought I would enjoy and here I am, soaking up every minute of it. Today, we were riding back from one of her fencing lessons and we were talking about her first big tournament that is coming up. She is excited and nervous and scared and eager...everything you would expect of someone about to really stretch their wings for the first time. It was at that moment that it really dawned on me how very much I LOVE LOVE LOVE having an older kid! She and I are going to head out next weekend, on our own! We are going to get a hotel room and hang out. We are going to a fencing tournament where I will support this amazing kid as she does something SHE loves, and I will love every second of it! We will share meals and treats and a long car ride. We will talk about everything and nothing. We will laugh and joke and connect in ways that we simply can't when surrounded by younger siblings. I'm so lucky to have a kid on the cusp of the rest of her life and I can't put into words how much I'm enjoying being with her. A friend of mine with older kids (in their 20s) told me that having grown kids is so much fun--I was hesitant to believe her, but now I'm sure she is right. If my 11yo is so awesome and just gets more and more awesome with each passing day and year, I can only imagine what having a 20yo will be like! (But not too soon, Erin, let's enjoy being 11 first, okay??)
Happy Birthday to my biggest kid--you are simply amazing, really and truly AMAZING.
(Erin after this year's Polar Bear Plunge on January 1st)
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Three years...
And, of course, I cannot let February 12th, my amazing son's birthday, go past without also thinking of the tremendous loss that happened three years ago--the day he turned two. We had just finished up cake and ice cream when I got the call that Amy, my dearest friend and strongest supporter, had lost her battle with cancer. It was a call that we knew was coming, we all expected, but nobody was ready for. So now, three years later, when I can still hear her voice and laughter and still see her amazing smile, I need to take a moment to be with the fact that I miss her more than words can say. Always.
Amy and Megan at a Red Sox game in 2010
Five already!
There is something to be said for being 5. Five is just about the coolest age (you know, like all the others that I love!). Five is independent, but not quite (how does making a pb and j take 37 dishes and 17 knives? Just ask a 5yo to do it!). Five is rambunctious days and still loving the cuddly stories at night. Five is running down the street to a friend's house ALL BY MYSELF! Five is passionate about life and discovery. Five is insightful questions followed immediately by ridiculous knock-knock jokes over and over and over. Five is just awesome!
Here is Evan with Brian Butterfield, the Red Sox Third Base Coach. He came to Orono with the trophy, so of course Evan was there!
Here he is with his "general manager" fancy clothes on (usually when a uniform is in the wash), helping Daddy trim a tree.
And here he is in his first mountain bike race--a rare moment without Red Sox gear on!!
Happy Birthday to my incredible, baseball-obsessed, loving, lively, funny, happy, amazing bundle of little boy! Let's see if we can make it to 6 in one piece!
Here is Evan with Brian Butterfield, the Red Sox Third Base Coach. He came to Orono with the trophy, so of course Evan was there!
Here he is with his "general manager" fancy clothes on (usually when a uniform is in the wash), helping Daddy trim a tree.
Happy Birthday to my incredible, baseball-obsessed, loving, lively, funny, happy, amazing bundle of little boy! Let's see if we can make it to 6 in one piece!
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Terrific Two!
I hate the Terrible Twos. No, that's not right. I hate that people think there is even such thing as the Terrible Twos. Two-year-olds happen to be among the most incredible, funny, enjoyable, wonderful, emotional, happy, loving creatures on Earth. I can't imagine ever NOT loving every minute of this time! Yes, I even love those tantrums--oh those tantrums! I feel so sad for my little kiddo who has come across some limit in life that cannot be explained well enough to soothe and is felt so deeply and harshly. The tantrums remind me how much my little one is growing and learning and how I just need to guide, hold, cuddle, and love to the ends of the world.
I didn't get to enjoy Erin being two. When she was two, we had this new little bundle of colic enter our life, we had just moved, and life was completely overwhelming me. (Looking back, it seems funny to be overwhelmed by two kids, but at the time, I was just getting through the days.) I have some cute video of Erin being two, but I don't remember it as well as I would like to and I know I didn't fully enjoy it as much as I could have. Screaming newborns will do that to you.
I have very little memory of Megan being two. When she was two, we had just lost Sophie. I spent a lot of her second year fighting for my physical health and then fighting depression, struggling under the weight of grief so deep few people ventured in to help us. Megan got a whole year at home with just me (Erin was at a Montessori school at the time), and I was not the mother I should have been for that little girl. So while I regret the lack of memories of Erin being two, I still feel so so so so so much guilt for the lost time with Megan. It is hard for me to talk about this lost year--for so many reasons.
Evan being two was amazing. Chris and I marveled time and time again how much we loved having a two-year-old. We lived and breathed the whole thing, noting over and over how it took us 4 kids to get a 2yo! He language skills, his independence, his absolute love for anything his sisters did. Amazing. A 2yo's antics never stop and are filled with so much love and good will. Truly incredible!!
And so here we are--on the eve of our final 2nd birthday. As Jordan embarks on the journey from 2 to 3, we know she will bring as much love and joy to our family as each of her siblings has. And me? I'm ready for the ride. I will do whatever I can to savor each moment, video/photograph what I can, snuggle up close whenever the moment presents itself, and just love the heck out of this little girl. I can't wait!
I didn't get to enjoy Erin being two. When she was two, we had this new little bundle of colic enter our life, we had just moved, and life was completely overwhelming me. (Looking back, it seems funny to be overwhelmed by two kids, but at the time, I was just getting through the days.) I have some cute video of Erin being two, but I don't remember it as well as I would like to and I know I didn't fully enjoy it as much as I could have. Screaming newborns will do that to you.
I have very little memory of Megan being two. When she was two, we had just lost Sophie. I spent a lot of her second year fighting for my physical health and then fighting depression, struggling under the weight of grief so deep few people ventured in to help us. Megan got a whole year at home with just me (Erin was at a Montessori school at the time), and I was not the mother I should have been for that little girl. So while I regret the lack of memories of Erin being two, I still feel so so so so so much guilt for the lost time with Megan. It is hard for me to talk about this lost year--for so many reasons.
Evan being two was amazing. Chris and I marveled time and time again how much we loved having a two-year-old. We lived and breathed the whole thing, noting over and over how it took us 4 kids to get a 2yo! He language skills, his independence, his absolute love for anything his sisters did. Amazing. A 2yo's antics never stop and are filled with so much love and good will. Truly incredible!!
And so here we are--on the eve of our final 2nd birthday. As Jordan embarks on the journey from 2 to 3, we know she will bring as much love and joy to our family as each of her siblings has. And me? I'm ready for the ride. I will do whatever I can to savor each moment, video/photograph what I can, snuggle up close whenever the moment presents itself, and just love the heck out of this little girl. I can't wait!
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