Productivity is relative.

 

Gentle hugs,

Chels

“The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.” – Cicero

Why is it that the holidays are filled with grief for so many people?

The year that we lost my grandmother was incredibly hard. It was close to Christmas, and, rather than our family coming together for the holiday, we came together to say goodbye to a woman who helped mold and shape us into the people we’d become. To top it off, I was in college, young, and self absorbed (it wouldn’t be long before I began living on my own,) and my world was being turned upside down.  It’s taken nearly a decade, but we’ve recovered by honoring some old family traditions, and starting new ones in an effort to move on. We share memories and visit her grave site. We keep her memory, and try to let go of the pain.

I find myself dealing with such similar pain again this year, but with more loss than I could have imagined in such a short period of time.

A couple of months ago, when I lost my dad, I thought back to how hard it had been to lose Nana so close to the holidays, and I think about how different this experience has been for me than that one was. As close as I was with my grandmother, losing a parent has been a whole different kind of grief. We also had time to prepare, as a family, for my Nana’s passing, and she had time to prepare for the funeral arrangements, and to express her wishes to her children. While Dad was sick, all of us were taken by surprise when he died. He had no will, and even though he had two filing cabinets filled with papers, I’ve yet to find a current bank statement or phone bill to take care of his accounts. I’m also the only child, so I’m just thankful that I have my mom and husband to help ease me through the process.

A couple of weeks ago, we lost my Uncle David (my dad’s brother.) He lived 30 years cancer-free after being treated for lymphoma in 1983, but suddenly became ill several months ago. What started as severe anemia lead the doctors to find an internal loss of blood, which lead them to find the tumors in his abdomen. They began treatment just days after Dad passed, and decided that we’d wait until Christmas to get together for the holidays, since his immune system would be so suppressed during chemo. After a short time in treatment, though, our family knew it probably wouldn’t be long before he joined Dad in heaven. My aunt and cousins stayed by his side for his remaining time here on Earth, which was spent mostly at the hospital. We attended his memorial today, which was filled with family, friends, fellow Army service members, and fellow firemen, including the Honor Guard, who performed their ceremony to honor him. We talked about how appropriate it was for him, the big brother, to follow closely behind the little brother on their way home.

Yesterday, my mom called me to tell me that her dog, our family dog, Jewel, had become disoriented and could hardly walk. When I was in high school, Mom thought I should have a dog, but after I spent the first few days away at a school tournament, she really became Mom’s. She had been severely abused and neglected, and was so grateful to have a loving home. She returned the favor and then some by warning us when my Nana had a heart attack, and warning my mom before she nearly went into a diabetic coma. For the past couple of years, there were times when we thought she was close to death, but she would spring back to life the next day, and act like a puppy for days or months before acting her age again. She was 15 years old, had gone blind, and could hardly hear or smell. Then the dementia-like symptoms started. Just within the past few weeks, she began snapping at Mom, and we knew that if she didn’t bounce back this time, we may have to have her put to sleep. We honestly believe that she waited until Mom was well enough, after her knee replacement, to walk on her own before “telling” us it was her time to go. The employees at the vet’s office were so kind and respectful, and the process was very fast. Even though my mom and I know it was the right thing to do, it’s heartbreaking to lose an animal that was so much more than a pet to us.

Needless to say, this has been a very hard time for our family. I don’t know what to do with this grief. It’s hard to speak with friends, because I have such little good news to give them. The tears often come unexpectedly, and I feel like my brain is only capable of meeting the minimum requirements right now. I barely even thought about Thanksgiving until a couple of days ago, and again today when my aunt and cousins invited us to share the dinner they decided to go ahead with this Friday. So, life goes on, and we deal with all this loss in the best way we can.

We do our jobs, and get back to our routines.

We have Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, and look for a new dog to rescue.

We’ll make new traditions, and maybe, in a decade or so, we’ll feel close to normal again.

Gentle hugs,

Chels

On losing a parent.

My dad was found in his home on Sunday, August 15, and I found out the following day. When I got the message from the ME’s office, I understood. I didn’t need to check the other message from my Aunt, saying that Dad died. I had just gotten in the car to make a Wendy’s run for my mom and I, and I immediately got back out. I needed to be with my mom. I walked back into her apartment, and blurted out “Dad died.”

Instantly, I was blank. Swiped clean of all motor and brain function. Somehow, I called the ME’s office back, and as the nice but gruff investigator told me he was afraid he had bad news, I found myself getting irritated. I know he was just doing his job, but didn’t he think I knew why the medical examiner’s office would be calling me about my dad? Didn’t he know I needed him to get to the point and tell me what the hell I was supposed to do?

How long had it been since I spoke with him? A couple of weeks. What health problems did he have? Yes, that makes sense. The coroner says hypertensive cardiac disease was the cause. He did tell me what I needed to do, and the office was open 24/7 to calls, and if I had any questions I could call, and I should contact the VA, and a funeral home, and sorry for your loss …

Everything blurs together. I talk to my aunt. The internal bleed my uncle has been suffering from is from cancer (which he now has for the second time in his life,) and they’re waiting on results from the biopsy. They won’t be able to do anything, physically, but they can help financially, and please keep us updated on whatever you decide. We trust you and support whatever decisions you make.

First, the apartment has to be cleaned out. The manager complains to me that the apartment smells, and I need to get the food out of the apartment as soon as I can, and she can give me until the end of the week, if that will help, and we can leave anything we can’t move or don’t want for her guys to move, and sorry for your loss, sweetie.

My husband goes with me the next day, and we can’t get into the apartment, because I’m not listed as an emergency contact. My uncle could come, though, or we could get a letter notarized saying we can enter the apartment. I have the urge to yell at the manager. I calmly say that I wish she’d mentioned this on the phone, and she says she assumed I had a key. I don’t explain that if I had a key, I wouldn’t have needed to call her to ask her all those questions in the first place before driving out there. “Is there anything else I should know,” I had asked. We walk out the door, I curse, and my husband, who now has my sanity in his hands, is calm and collected. He drives us to my aunt and uncle for another 25 minutes or so, and we get the one key my uncle has. We talk to the family. Everyone is sick. Everyone is struggling. Everyone prays for each other. Then, we go back.

I won’t describe the state of the apartment. I will say that it infuriates me that our poor, our elderly, our disabled, and our veterans are treated with such disrespect. We cover our faces with masks and peppermint oil, armed with sprays and scrubs and bags, and I’m numb until I’m suddenly crying over a photo, a handwritten song, a report card from 4th grade. The apartment was never in such a state when I visited before.

It takes us until the end of the week, 4 days total – Tuesday and Thursday, Saturday and Sunday. The neighbors flock and tell stories, give condolences. Most are sincere, a couple debatable. Most are desperate for a microwave, a blanket, a chair, and are you taking that with you? We give. Dad would have given, and we don’t have room in my small car and his small truck to move everything. They give to us. A hug, some tea – are you thirsty? Can we help you move anything? We use trash bags for trash and for keepsakes. We tread a path in the grass from the patio to our parking spaces. We’re an army of strangers, and I’m glad to know they were looking out for him when they could. We left a bed frame, a sleeper sofa, filing cabinets. We pile the rest in our garage for the estate sale later.

Then the funeral home, the cremation. My mom goes with me. We’re not allowed to identify him. We sign papers and hand over checks and cash, and this is much more expensive than I expected for a cremation. I buy a beautiful box for him. I go back for death certificates, for ashes. Ashes are much heavier than I expected.

I create a wreath, a memorial candle, a shadow box. I scan photos, and create online memorials, and notify friends and family. I speak with a pastor who I’ve never met, who was Dad’s pastor, and he says come have church and would you like me to ask the members to bring a covered dish? It’s a potluck memorial in a barn. Then a potluck picnic in a local park the next week. One for one set of friends and family, one for another.

I don’t sleep well. I don’t sit still well. There’s not much time to be still, anyway, and business is an effective distraction. I plan a yard sale. The neighbors ask, can they participate? Is that allowed? Why not. The internet says that “multiple family sales” attract more customers, and we need the money.

The dog seems to think I need extra licks on my face. It makes me laugh.

I zone out, going somewhere that makes up for the lack of stillness and rest. I miss chunks of conversations, paragraphs of things I’m supposed to be reading.

I’m handling this all so well, they say. They couldn’t do it. They’d be a mess.

I don’t tell most of them about the appointment with my new psychiatrist days after it happened, and that he prescribed a drug most often prescribed to people with PTSD and nightmares. It’ll assist the other med I’m taking, he says.

He’s right. And I have a lifetime to grieve.

Grief and pancakes.

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.

Oh yeah, and large amounts of bread-y breakfast foods.

Today is the first official day of our 2-week break from the Tri C (even though we still need to clean it,) and my husband from school. Not from life, of course. Darn it.

Tom finished his last summer final on Thursday, so yesterday he decided to host a humongous pancake breakfast for UTA students here at the center. The pancakes were many. As were the piles of bacon and turkey bacon, plus the giant bowls of a variety of fruits, and industrial sized jugs of syrup. As I’m typing I’m wondering if there are any left over for me to eat for dinner …

Anyway. I helped a bit with the preparation, but my dear husband let me sleep in so that all I had to do was come out and eat with friends. Then I went back inside the apartment to work on some painting and plan a little date for the two of us involving all the spare change I could scrounge. The date included dollar menu items and a beautiful local park. complete with sub-100 degree temperatures!

Breaking from the fun, I’d like to mention that since the beginning of the month (well, really all the time,) I’ve had the death of my aunt looming just behind the everyday thoughts. So, whether I’ve been conscious of it or not, it’s affected my mood and my physical health considerably. Now, since I’m in a flare up, the brain fog has gotten worse, and I can barely even track the day of the week, let alone the actual date.

It’s probably for the best, because today I woke up thinking it was the 10th. Even though I distinctly remember looking at my phone for the date to write on a bill I paid yesterday. Denial is a river in Egypt. So, I woke myself up early this morning to do one of my favorite things (though I’m sure I didn’t appear particularly thrilled with life to my perkier than is natural, morning-happy husband.) I got dressed up! Today’s church luncheon in honor of the ladies of the “Greatest Generation” (nicer than “We’re Not Sure How We Made It This Long,” though I’m sure a few of those witty ladies would appreciate that title, too) was a lovely excuse to wear my newly thrifted green dress. Tom commented that it reminds him of a vintage nurse’s uniform, and I have to agree. I also got to wear the beautiful black Austrian crystal necklace a sweet friend gave me on Thursday. I put on my peep-toe shoes and headed for church, ready for whatever my friends needed me to do, since I wasn’t able to participate in the planning. Ice was scooped into cups and fancy, tearoom style dishes were plated. There were decorations in pink and gold, and couples even brought their Keurig coffee machines to grace the drink table. The honorees were so appreciative, and we were all glad to learn more about them. It really was a beautiful event; a new tradition I hope will be carried on for years to come to honor more women.

After helping with cleanup, I stopped by a few local businesses to leave flyers for next week’s fashion swap. Then I headed home, changed into comfy clothes, sat down, and it hit me. Today isn’t the 10th, it’s the 11th. Mom and I bought some silk flowers a few days ago to arrange and put on my Nana’s grave in honor of her and my aunt, since we don’t have a grave site to visit for her. I called my mom to see how she was doing and to see if she wanted to take the flowers to the cemetery, and we decided we’d do it tomorrow when Tom and I come over for lunch.

It’s all the same when you can’t remember the date, right?

Gentle hugs,

Chels