My Gift

Mom is doing better than I would have expected of her at 5 1/2 weeks after my dad's death.  Today I went with her as she visited the care center where my dad lived his last year.  I have no strong emotions about the place, but Mom was there two times a day for over a year.  The love of her life was there, and she also bonded with nurses, aides, and other residents.  It was hard for her to go back there today, but I think it was good.  In less than an hour, she got at least a week's worth of hugs and good wishes.

There are two young men who work as aides at the care center, and they are the epitome of kindness and compassion.  How does a 20-something year old do that?  I was not so mature...  Each of their hearts is bigger than this world.  I wish that their salaries were at least twice what they're making.  Not only do they do the hard work to earn that, but in my dream world, the good guys would at least make a nice living wage. 

After we visited the care center, we drove to the city's senior center for our first Sit and Stay Fit class.  I know... you don't think I'm old enough to be able to participate in senior classes.  (Snicker)  Well, this place has a low bar for considering anyone old enough to partake in its offerings. In fact, years ago, I took the yoga class they offered.  Just like in this class today, in the yoga class, I was at least 20 years younger than the next youngest participant..  And that class beat my butt!

The Sit and Stay fit class is not a challenge for me, but next time, I'll know to get the strongest bands and some heavier hand weights so I can spice things up a little.  I will stick with this, because this class is a gift to my mom.  Twice a week, we will go mingle with THE SWEETEST ladies and get ourselves A-MOVIN'!

And if Mom complains about this exercising, I'll tell her she can drop it if she will replace it with a woodworking or computer class.  That oughta get her excited for a bicep workout.

Fences

He was some kind of hound dog.  Black with white spots.  And jowls that funneled water and half-eaten food out of his mouth and onto the floor or any other surface within a twelve inch diameter from his head.  He found his way to me when he was just a few months old.

It was the mid-seventies, and I worked at an answering service in Little Rock, Arkansas.  I sat in front of a switchboard and answered phones for about fifty businesses, including the local animal shelter.  When some young man called and described the puppy he had found but couldn’t keep, I broke all rules and told him to hold on – I would be over as soon as I got off work.  I hadn’t even been thinking about getting a dog, but fate or karma or the magnetic field of two souls pulled this lanky pup and me together.

We named him Jethro, because there was no name more appropriate for such an easy-going, southern dog with jowls.

I was living in a rental house in a low-income neighborhood with the man I loved.  We had no fence.  And Jethro had no leash.  So when Jethro wasn’t with us in the house, he was free to roam the neighborhood.  Today, I find it hard to believe that not once did the police or animal control or an angry neighbor haul Jethro away or ticket us for not fencing in the dog I considered to be the most wonderful dog in the world.

Jethro used his freedom to perform acts of public service.  The elderly woman next door shared with me that, when she walked to the grocery store – a distance of about four blocks – Jethro would trot by her side and then wait outside the super market door to escort her home.   I know, too, that my sweet hound walked another neighbor to her fence line every time she went home after a visit at our house.  Obviously, it would have created a safety issue if a person of authority had taken Jethro away from his duties.

No one is perfect, though, and Jethro had a little flaw.  He was a kleptomaniac.  He brought home naked dolls, socks, and a cowboy boot.  With no way of finding out who these things belonged to, we started displaying them in the corner of our yard in hopes that their owners would claim them.  But no one ever did.  The thought of some man with one black cowboy boot or a little girl whose doll magically disappeared haunted me for a long time.

Jethro stayed in shape by barking as he did his best to climb trees, enticed by the squirrels twenty feet above his head.  He was smart enough to teach our new German shepherd puppy that peeing in the house was not cool.  Jethro had a mind of his own, and he wasn’t out to please, but that hound dog could teach classes on how to win over even the toughest heart.

Eventually, we moved into a house with a fenced-in backyard.  Living within the confines of a suburban lot, Jethro was no longer allowed the pleasure of caring for the neighbors.  He made do by scraping the bark off a line of elm trees in our backyard while trying to climb up to the squirrels that teased him from the topmost branches.  The people of that neighborhood only knew Jethro by the barking sound that seemed to help propel him higher up the tree.  The hound that people loved so much they cried when they had to say goodbye was now irritating those around who couldn’t get to know him because of a fence.

You know the ending to this story.  Dogs’ lives are short.  They steal our hearts and in return, they teach us how to love.  Then, their passing breaks us wide open. 

When Jethro began to struggle hard just to get up off the floor and he could no longer try to corral the squirrels, I knew it was time for him to go. 

I still miss him.

This Weather's Crazy

Yesterday when we drove into Rocky Mountain National Park, people were having picnics, roasting marshmallows and playing volleyball.  Not quite what we would expect this time of year at elevations of 8,000 feet and above.  And what is normally our snowiest month will probably go on record as our driest March in history.  Dry and warm like summer.

This one is for G.G.

It's water over the dam.

Bighorn sheep.  The lighting was very harsh and the photos of these creatures didn't come out too interesting, but by playing with Picasa's new features, I made this one more fun - for me, anyway.

On a Warm March Day

Once again, bare feet,
daffodils burst, finches nest.
Earth!  I hear you sing.

 For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils. 

 - William Wordsworth

Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.

 - Mark Twain

The Best Grandpa Ever

What My Daughter Said At My Dad's Funeral  

(I am very proud of her)

Hello and thank you for coming today.  I’m John’s granddaughter, Jamie.  Grandpa once challenged himself to join Toast Masters and told me that when people made errors in their speaking someone would drop a nail into an empty tin can.  If he were listening now I’m sure he’d have a handful of nails ready to go.  I hope you left yours at home, and I hope I can do him some credit.

My grandpa wasn’t a person who would typically be called a hero.  He didn’t have a red cape, wasn’t splashed across the front page of the newspapers for his most recent athletic feat, and never pulled a child out of a burning building. What my grandpa did accomplish, and what was just as important, if not more so, was to live an admirable life.  His example of how to live changed and inspired those who had the honor of knowing him.

I admire my grandpa’s kindness.  He was a genius at fixing things.  If it was broken, through some inconceivable mix of materials and methods of his own invention, he would fix it.  And this was one way his kindness was always clear—he loved fixing things for the people he cared about.   Grandpa was never one who wanted or expected anything in return—helping those he loved was his reward.  Too many times to count I remember Grandpa fixing our car, washing machine, toaster, and even building me a custom table to fix the problem of needing a place to put books at beanbag level.

To the end of his life, Grandpa’s kind spirit won over the hearts of those who knew him.  As he became less and less verbal, he would still wave to people he passed in the halls of the nursing home.  And he always had a special place for kids and anything with fur.  As a grandchild I know I’m a bit biased on this account, but children always caught Grandpa’s eye and made him smile, and he could pet a dog or cat for hours.  The love was mutual, too--kids and animals knew that this was a person who “got” them.

I admire my grandpa’s passion for knowledge.  Rarely have I met someone so dedicated to learning and understanding. He was interested in everything, and you never saw him far from a book.  Gathering information wasn’t enough for Grandpa though, he wanted to enrich the lives of others by sharing what he was reading with anyone who would listen. It was always comical when Grandma would try to serve dinner and the table would be covered with encyclopedias or whatever else Grandpa was discussing that particular day.  I know that Grandpa’s example helped nurture my own love of reading and learning.

I admire the depth of love and caring that Grandpa felt for his family and friends.  I can honestly report that my Grandpa was the best grandpa ever.  I know that Paul, Steven, and I will always treasure our memories of countless hours spent on his lap, doing yard work with him, getting tucked in at night, and hearing the stories that he loved to share.  The legacy he left behind in our parents and in us is a testament to the power of a loving family.

Perhaps most of all, I admire the way both of my grandparents truly lived their wedding vows every day of their lives. The devotion and love they had for each other through everything that sixty-one years of marriage can bring was boundless.  When I picture my grandparents, I see them holding hands, kissing hello, goodbye, and goodnight, and saying I love you.  Even when dementia had stolen all of his other memories, his love for my grandma endured. It had become an inextricable part of who he was to the very end.  And that ending proved to be a real-life happily ever after: before departing this life in his sleep, my grandpa’s last words were to say, “I love you” to my grandma. 

Goodbyes

The skies were Colorado blue and the sun was nourishing yesterday as we said goodbye to my dad.

This man was my undoing.  He played Taps. What is it about that song that says "goodbye" so profoundly?

My mom, receiving the flag and a moment of thanks

Dad served in a submarine in World War II.  He was in the South Pacific.  I can't imagine what it must be like to be in a tube underwater with torpedoes coming after me.

Me and my momma

The View From Here

This has been my life for the past five days:  grief, love, family, logistics, Michael's cancer, my mom's overwhelm, having my daughter in town, meeting my son's lovely girlfriend, tired to the bone, amazingly beautiful spring weather, medical bills, acts of kindness, hearing of more and more friends and family with cancer, healing of family issues, shortness with each other, knowing it's time for flexibility and letting everything go. 

I think that's the short list.

Below are a few words that I just wrote to my friend.  I mean them.

Life is only grace - not just because we are brought dinner when we are being stretched thin, but also because we get cancer, our parents and beloved dogs die, and our colons go berserk and have to be removed so that we can feel better than ever.  It all feels like one big, colorful kaleidoscope, and we are a dash of blue or green or purple moving around amid the other colors in what can feel like a jumble, but what looks like exquisite, changing patterns.  No control, just chaotic perfection.



(Or maybe it's not really all so chaotic.  It only seems that way when we find ourselves wanting to make a human kind of sense out of it.)

and today as we drove to the funeral home to make final arrangements a bald eagle flew overhead 
some people believe that such auspicious moments are their loved ones giving them a sign
i have no way of knowing if my dad was flying high above me, white head and tail, finally free, finely free
i love bald eagles and to see one here is so rare
i just want to say thank you
to eagles and dads and skies and friends and family and myself and baby crocus bulbs peeping out of the ground and the great mystery

Liberation

Yesterday, around 4:00 in the afternoon, while peacefully napping, my dad escaped his body.  It was the death that everyone says they wish for for themselves.  His last words, before he closed his eyes to nap were to my Mom:  "I love you."  Then he slept.  And, at some point, he was gone.

Even though his final act of leaving this earth was peaceful and easy, the labor that got him to that point took more than a year.  Throughout the last 15 months, there were many times that we thought Dad wouldn't make it and, overall, his last year of life was a long, slow decline.

Last night I asked the universe - or anyone and anything else who might be listening - the question, "Where is he?"  And absolutely nothing returned in answer.  Nothing.

How could I even be sure that the body in the wheelchair this past year was my dad?  The only evidence came from the fact that that old body looked somewhat similar to the body I have always called "Dad".  Anything dad-like in behavior has been gone for a long time.

So when did he take leave of this world?  I don't know.

It is very easy for me, for a lot of people, to think that we don't contribute enough to this world.  We think we need to stop wars, eliminate hunger, save the planet, etc., etc.  In his last months, my dad taught me that, just by being who we are, we contribute far more than we can ever know.

For a long time, Dad rarely knew who I was.  He contributed nothing to a conversation.  So often, we wondered why he was still here.  But in the last 15 months, his hanging around wore down so much resistance in us that, at his death, there was nothing left of the roughness that has characterized the relationship between me and my mom throughout my life.  The old stories had been melting for a while, and the love and acceptance that was being nurtured was apparent as we stood by my dad's bedside.  It is as though Dad was willing to barely inhabit his worn-out body for as long as it took for healing to occur in his family.  I don't think that he set out to be someone who changed the world, but the world changed because of his being.

After the call, when we went to the nursing home to see Dad one last time, he was lying on his bed, peaceful and at ease.  There was nothing tragic about it.  My dad was liberated.  Still tears flowed and we held each other.

Something big in me has surrendered to life.  There is less resistance to what is taking place.  No more resistance to my mom or nursing homes or keeping alive a tired body.  The miracles are all around, and I am in awe.

Last night, the full moon.  My dad was out there dancing with it.

Haiku Monday

Ms. Foam is hosting the weekly Haiku Monday over at her place.  I have never even contemplated participating.  How could I ever put myself out there like that?  But for some reason, tonight it sounded like a fun challenge.  Maybe I've found my inner "who gives a shit", due to walking this road with Mr. CfP's cancer.  The theme is "silence"

Rust-colored desert
sands rest after spring rainstorm.
Listen for its breath.

Blood pulsing through veins,
Wind in trees, belly gurgling.
I can't hear silence.