My Father's Prayer

I have read that cats can sleep as much as 20 hours a day.  At this point of my dad's life, he does that, too. 

When Mr. CFP and I arrived at the nursing home today, Dad had just awakened from a nap.  As I wheeled him out of his room, he repeated over and over, to no one in particular, "Thank you.  Thank you."  I don't know what he was being thankful for, and I don't know who he was thanking. 

But it was beautiful and it brought to mind this quote:

If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough. - Meister Eckhart

Dad was awake for about an hour before he slipped back into the quiet place where he spends most of his time.

My dad... still teaching me.  Thank you.  Thank you.

Midwifing My Dad

Yesterday, the voice said, "Carol, go sit with your dad tomorrow.  Go before your mom gets there."

I listened and this morning, I went.  I sat and breathed with Dad.  He was resting, but his breath was labored.  We breathed together: 

Opening, letting go of attachments - to this body and to identification.  Letting go of the identification of being a dad, a husband, someone who "does". 

Bringing in open-ness, light, freedom

Opening, letting go of all attachments, all pain

Bringing in peace and ease, going to be with mother and father and brothers who have gone before.

Over time, his breath softened, became easier.  Sometimes I could barely tell he was breathing. 

And as I breathed with my dad, midwifing him into his next step, I realized that it was not just him opening to letting go of attachments and bringing in light, peace & ease, it was DadCarolEverything.  There was only this one beautiful moment of peace and alrightness.  No one healthy and helping, no one sick and in death's labor.  Just one thing. 

Some people call that one thing Love.  It can also be called Wonder.  Awe. 

Unshocked

This is what it feels like:

I'm holding it together (whatever "it" is) and then a big bird flies overhead and shits - right on my noggin.

Have you ever had a bird shit on your head?  I have.  On my wedding day.  After I had already showered, but not yet dressed myself in the off-white-with-roses-patterned dress I had made for the occasion.  I was out under the trees in our backyard when I felt something hit me.  When I asked my daughter if there was something in my hair, I knew the answer by the way she almost rolled on the lawn, howling.  As I went inside to re-wash my hair, I told my rude daughter not to tell anyone what happened - especially the soon-to-be Mr. CfP - until after the wedding.  So what did she do?  Oh, you must know my daughter...

I swear that the universe waited for that perfect time to shit on me. I had owed it a debt for about 35 years.  You see, I had once laughed until I couldn't breathe after watching my little brother, about three years old at the time, get splattered from head to shoulder with bird poop.  Yes, I was an innocent five year old, but the stars keep score, I swear.

So when I talk about getting shit (shitted?) on, I know what I'm talking about.  You may, too.

Which takes me back to my unshocked title.  Even though it takes a lot of fortitude to get through this parent thing right now, it isn't more than I can handle.  But I'm walking the edge enough that things, like that near miss a short while back and then another little family trauma which occurred a couple of days ago, feel like the little bird dropping that can be enough to knock me over the edge.  A certain shock sets in and I get all into myself and my story.

And a story with one character is usually boring - for the character and for the reader.

I would like to say that I recover within minutes, but the truth is that it takes a couple of days before I start to feel the ick of it all and to again hear Don Juan's words to Carlos Castaneda: "You indulge like a son of a bitch." That knocks the shock off of me and I remember that there is more happening here than the little world which I seem to have created.


Thank you for all of your support.  I'm truly getting that this is a very supportive world.  We are all held up - I just forget sometimes.

Retreating

I will be off of the intertubes for awhile.

Never have I left for Crestone with such a wiggly mind and body.

A bird is singing outside my window.  I don't recognize the song.  A toot-toot... toot-toot sound.

Yesterday when I went to visit my dad at the skilled nursing facility that is his new home for the moment, I saw a beautiful dog sitting next to the long front desk.  As I asked the man behind the desk how to find my dad's room, I felt something nudging the back of my leg.  I knew what it was.  I turned to see that sweet dog, who looks like the Buddha dog but heftier, smelling every dog-nose-height wrinkle and fold of my pants.  Awwwww... you don't know what that did to my heart.  Or maybe you do.

The dog at the skilled nursing center looks a lot like Buddha.

 
I used to give massage to people in hospice.  I loved that work.  Now that I'm no longer able to do that, I have often thought that I would like to be a person who brings visiting dogs into hospitals and hospices.  Our Buddha dog has never been the visiting kind.  He's somewhere on the Asperger's continuum and I know that he would rather duck a hand reaching out to him than to be loved up by anyone.  He's just that way.

Maybe someday a dog of the right temperament will find its way into my life and heart, and together we will be able to play with strangers while they find acceptance and love from a four-legged kind of friend.

Now, though, I'm just looking forward to listening to the coyotes punctuate the silence while I sit and do nothing.  Maybe that will happen and maybe it won't.  Maybe the trip will be shortened by events, but maybe I'll sit in the sun for days with no cares.

We never know what the next second will bring, let alone the next ten days.  I like to pretend that I know, but right now, pretending isn't even possible.  I'm aware of the "best laid plans..." and "If you want to see God laugh, make a plan" lines of wisdom.  I can't "not plan", but I guess I might as well have a little sense of humor about having my best laid plans come crashing down.

Thinking about it, just what's so bad about hearing God laugh anyway?


Goodbye for awhile!

The Amusement Park

It took me until I was fourteen to begin to LOVE riding roller coasters.  My friends and I would go to the old Elitch Amusement Park or to Lakeside Amusement Park (which still exists, I think) and roller coaster until we were sick of it.

These days, I don't need to go to an amusement park in order to ride a roller coaster.  Roller Coasters R Us (how do you make a backwards "R" on this thing?)  I am Roller Coaster.

It's been a little over a week now and my dad has been on a roller coaster whose high points have gotten lower and lower and whose low points have done the same.  I'm pretty much okay with that - it's what happens under these circumstances - but it's my mom's emotions which get to me as they go along on the ride.   I mean, think of it - over 60 years of never being apart.  She was just a baby (not yet 21) when this story began.

Wednesday:

On the way to qigong class, I made a left turn onto a side street.  A big, dark truck was coming from the opposite direction and was turning west like me.  It turned first and I followed.  I don't really know how it happened. All I know is that suddenly a man about 60 years old with a long beard and a skateboard (yes, that's what I remember) was right in front of my car.  I slammed on my brakes; he stopped in his tracks.  I mouthed, "I'm sorry."  He motioned for me to go on.

That was my last straw.  I parked and sat in the car and bawled.  And even though I didn't want to, I had to go to qigong because Mr. CfP would be there and would wonder if something happened to me.

Something DID happen to me.

For two days, I was a little girl.  Previously, I had been trying to hold everything up, but I now could no longer do that.  That is, I could no longer even try.  The truth is, it's impossible to hold things up anyway.  It's all bigger than me.

In many ways, it was a relief.  And in some ways, it felt like grief.  And it was about time.

Sometimes I wonder if that man was really an angel sent to help me become more real.  I had been trying to be the one in control of herself.  What a crazy act!


Today:

Months ago, I signed up to do my 4th retreat in Crestone.  If I could only do one nice thing for myself each year, it would be to go to Crestone and spend a week mostly in solitude and silence.  This Thursday is the day we retreatants are scheduled to head south to the San Luis Valley and the tiny village of Crestone.  Over the last week, the roller coaster has given me views where I saw myself going, but it has also gone so low that I couldn't see anything - there was no view.  Today I will clean my house (I have a guest coming before the retreat) and pack - after all, I only have four days until I leave.  If I leave.

The Rolling Stones are playing in my head:

Time waits for no one, no favours has he
Time waits for no one, and he won't wait for me

Men, they build towers to their passing yes, to their fame everlasting
Here he comes chopping and reaping, hear him laugh at their cheating

And time waits for no man, and it won't wait for me
Yes, time waits for no one, and it won't wait for me

Drink in your summer, gather your corn
The dreams of the night time will vanish by dawn

And time waits for no one, and it won't wait for me
And time waits for no one, and it won't wait for me

One reason I love Crestone

Have Fun!

As I was growing up, the last words I would usually hear from my mom as I was about to head out were:  "Be careful." 

Those words wore a deep groove into my brain.

A few years ago, to counteract that message that life is something to be afraid of, to be careful of, I painted these words above my front door:  "Have Fun!"  They were a reminder, as one crossed over the threshold into the world, to forget "careful" and instead to be aware of joy and wonder, to play in this play we call life.

As my dad's dementia has progressed, he has begun a ritual of  always thanking us for our visits and then as we prepare to leave, he tells us to "Have fun!". 

Yesterday, as my dad lay in his hospital bed, unable to keep his eyes open, my mom loudly told him that my brother and I were leaving.  Dad opened his eyes and said, "Have fun!"

There were many times that I resisted minding my dad.  I'm sure that I often had an attitude about doing what he said to do.  But now I'm going to make him proud by doing my very best to Have fun!

Happy 90th, Dad!

During this Memorial Day weekend, my dad, a WWII veteran, celebrates his 90th birthday. My dad and his four brothers all served in World War II and they are all still alive today. The oldest is 92.

When I was a kid, I thought my dad knew everything. I remember when he used to come tell me goodnight after I had snuggled into bed. Before he got to my room, I would think up at least one question to ask him because I knew that would keep him with me longer. I asked questions about how we see color, about lightening, and about the universe. More than having an interest in the answers, I wanted my dad to spend time with me. I'm sure I asked "Why?" or "How?" at least ten times just to keep him sitting on the side of my bed.

I don't remember at what point my dad quit knowing everything. He was always the one I would call when something needed fixing - I knew that, no matter what, he was the best at such things. But when it came to the big questions of life, for the longest time, I got the idea that somehow I surpassed him in wisdom.

Now all of my dad's "fix-it" skills and knowledge are stored away somewhere where no one can find them. Gone are all of the smart and wise answers he used to give me as he sat in the dark on the side of my bed. But now, more than ever, I realize that my dad is the very best dad a woman like me could have. Through his beautiful example, I am learning about life lived in pure kindness, effortless patience, and endless gratitude. How lucky am I to be able to learn from the best of 'em?

Happy Birthday, sweet Dad!