Eleven Years

On this day eleven years ago, early in the morning, I was driving to east Texas with Savannah, then 20 months old, in the backseat. My sister Valarie had called a few minutes after six to tell me our father had died after a hard battle with bone cancer.

We knew it was inevitable he would be gone soon, I just wasn't ready for it to be that soon. I had just left his house 36 hours before. He had suddenly seemed to be getting a second wind. Wanting to eat and laugh, trying to get up from his bed, a hospital bed placed in his den so he could be with his family. We now know that was the surge of energy terminally ill patients get before they die. It can last for one hour, two days, or two weeks. I wish I would have known.

Today, eleven years later - hard to believe - I still find myself grieving. All day I've been quick to grow angry, cry, or feel overwhelmed. Dustin Hoffman once said you never get over the loss of a parent. I couldn't agree more. It seems strange that my three kids will never know their Grandpa Ralph and just how much he would have loved them.....does love them.

But as the day draws to an end, I want to remember the good things,

not the drive I had to take that morning,

or selecting his casket,

or walking away from the gravesite.


I want to remember his hugs.

How he smelled of saw dust and sweat when he came in from his workshop.

How he ate his fries with a fork.

And hearing him say, "Pass the sugar, Sugar."

10 Years

Today marks 10 years since my father passed.

10 years.

That's a long time to be without a father.

And an even longer time to miss someone like crazy.

This is an article I wrote about his death that was published in the United Methodist Reporter a few years back. I don't really have any words to describe how I feel about the significance of this day, so I thought I'd use this once again.

"A Holy Death"

It had been just a few months since my father’s death when I sat in a pew listening to my sister, Valarie, who was at the time the Associate Pastor of my church. The title of her sermon was, “The Divine Argument.” I could feel my husband’s hand squeezing mine as she described the pain and frustration my father and the entire family went through as he neared the end of his days. I’ll never forget her words: “This was a holy death.” I sat confused. I was still grieving. I still felt an ache in my chest every time I thought of him. I was still unable to eat a full meal knowing I would never sit at the table with him again. I could remember his anger as he lay dying. The pain from the loss of my father was palpable, and now my sister called it a holy death?

Our father had fought cancer for several years, always winning the battle, at least for a while. But in February of 2000 it was announced that the cancer had found its way into his bones. When they tested his bone marrow for a possible transplant, they were unable to remove a drop of liquid. The cancer had ravaged his body and was determined to win this time. Our father was only expected to live for a few months, so Valarie and I began making several trips from Dallas to East Texas to spend as much time with him as possible. In late September of that year he was placed in hospice care when his body began shutting down. Valarie and I took off work to be with him. He wasn’t expected to live longer than a week. We sat with him for three weeks and watched him hallucinate from the morphine.

Daddy had been a Minister of Music in the Baptist church for several years and was very skilled in woodworking. I sat next to his hospital bed in his favorite living room chair and watched him build things in the air. His hands gripped an imaginary hammer and nails, using the level to be sure everything was set just right. He also conducted his church choir. Though no music played, I could hear it in my head just by watching his movements. The most difficult thing to watch, however, was his argument with God. He wasn’t ready to go, and couldn’t understand why his time had come. He was only 74 and felt he had more to do, most importantly, watch his granddaughters grow and mature. He wanted to see where life would lead them. My father, a devoted Christian who held a Master’s degree in religious education, was pissed off and I was afraid he would never make peace with the inevitable outcome. I wanted to curl up next to him in his bed to comfort him, or maybe comfort myself, but I was afraid I would hurt his now frail body that was in constant pain.

My sister and I stayed in that house with our step-mother as we tried to tend to his needs, keep him company, and let him know he was not alone. The world stopped for us. Nothing else mattered during these three weeks. The house was like a cocoon, guarding us from everything outside those walls during this precious time.

During out third week with Daddy he experienced a second wind. His appetite returned, he could sit up a little higher in bed. He wanted to try to stand up and see if he could walk. We all knew he couldn’t, but we felt relieved to have him back, to hear him talk to us as Daddy always did. “Pass me the sugar, Sugar,” he would say with a twinkle in his eye. That night there was suddenly no anger and he wanted to begin his funeral preparations. Valarie sat right next to him writing down every word he said, wanting to be sure his wishes were met. I, on the hand, sat in the corner. Daddy’s bargaining with God may have stopped, but I wasn’t done with mine just yet.

No one knew just how long Daddy would hold, so Valarie and I worked out a plan to take turns going back and forth between Dallas and his house in East Texas. When my turn came to return to Dallas for three days, Daddy and I had a fight just before I was to leave. I ended up walking out of the house without giving him a kiss or an “I love you.” I just threw a goodbye at him and walked out the door. I was fuming. I had to stop for gas before I could begin my three-hour drive, so I pulled over at the gas station just behind his home. As I stood outside the car, the cool, autumn wind gently blowing, something told me to go back. It was as if the wind had whispered to me. I walked into the house and headed straight for my father’s bed. Leaning down over him I whispered, “I love you, Daddy,” and laid a kiss on his forehead. I can still remember how soft his skin felt. He looked at me with his crystal blue eyes, and what seemed to be relief, and said, “I love you, too Sugar.” I drove back to Dallas in peace. At 6:08 AM two mornings later I received a call from my sister. “He’s gone,” she whispered in the phone.

It has taken me a few years to understand what my sister was saying in her sermon. Now when I ponder the question if Daddy’s was a holy death, I think, yes. It wasn’t pretty like the images this term conjures up. A holy death is not a stream of light falling down around the dying as you sit next to them, your hands cupped under your chin. A holy death is feeling tired and broken, but you stay beside them. A holy death is cleaning the disease, like used coffee granules, from their chin with a soft touch. A holy death is being given the gift of time as you sit and watch their bodies shut down. It’s being given the nudge to go back and say goodbye.

Yoga Makes the Family Come 'Round

I love Yoga.

Yoga has kept me flexible as I’ve aged.

It eases the lower back pain I developed after carrying Sarah.

I even found a routine that alleviates menstrual cramps all day without having to take a single Ibuprofen.

And when Pat was traveling while Savannah was a toddler, it gave me respite from her terrible two’s.

A few years ago after Savannah got over those terrible two’s, my sister Valarie, a Yoga enthusiast herself, gave Savannah her very own Yoga DVD complete with a mat. Savannah and I spent many weekends with our mats next to each other, leaning on one another during Tree Pose, laughing until we cried doing the rocking Beetle Pose, and I frequently ended up in Corpse Pose, my favorite of all poses (Duh!), with Savannah sitting on top of me giggling. It didn’t have quite the calming effect on her I hoped it would, but we had a blast.

Now when I exercise at home Sarah waits for me to finish and then asks me to put in that same yoga DVD.

“Lay down, Mommy. Lay down,” she says and I go through all the poses once again with a different child, and she doesn’t lie on top of me in Corpse Pose. She’s too busy talking. Again, not quite fulfilling the purpose of Corpse Pose, but I enjoy it.

Corpse Pose is meant to give you total relaxation, a meditative moment at the end of your practice. You lie on your mat, eyes closed, hands open, and let the relaxation come.

The power of Corpse Pose came to me not long after I began practicing Yoga on the weekends. It was the week after my father died and I had been back at work for a couple days. I had a gym membership through work and they offered a Yoga class every Friday during lunch. I decided to take advantage of it to see if I could get any relief from the grief that completely consumed me, if just for a moment.

I had never taken a Yoga class before. I had only used videos and books. The instructor announced we would be concentrating on our feet that day. Interesting, I thought. And then we spent the next 20 minutes looking at, stretching, and massaging our feet.

Interesting, turned to, This is just weird.

Finally, about half way through, we began doing the traditional poses and ended with Corpse Pose. Aaahhhh! I sunk down into the floor, took in a deep breath, and closed my eyes. I hadn’t been too impressed with the class, but I was ready to just be alone, away from work, away from the phone, and even away from family.

After a couple moments the instructor’s voice faded and I felt like I was in my own cocoon. Suddenly I found myself in my father’s living room. He was lying in the same hospital bed the hospice care company had set up for him 3 weeks before he died. During those 3 weeks I had wanted to lie down next to him so badly, but he was in so much pain from the cancer, I was afraid of hurting him. He seemed too delicate.

But that day, in that Corpse Pose, in that imaginary cocoon, I walked to the bed and laid down next to my father. His arm, attached to many tubes, wrapped around me, and we clung to each other in silence.

I don’t know how long I stayed that way before I heard the instructor’s voice call to me. I was the last one in the room. Tears were streaming down my face.

“You okay?” she asked kneeling beside me. I just nodded and wiped my face. She helped me fold up my mat and put my things away, and we parted ways with a smile to each other.

Yoga has continued to be what I turn to when things get to be too much, or I feel as though I’m sinking. I’ve tried to make time for it while working through this postpartum funk. Three kids don’t allow a lot of free time for a full routine, but I try to sneak in a Corpse Pose every once in a while, even if it’s with a babbling toddler next to me and a sleeping baby in the swing. It still gives me just a moment.

Namaste.

The Meeting

I lost my father to cancer the morning of October 24, 2000. My oldest daughter Savannah was just 18 months. There was 180 miles between my and my father’s homes, but when we realized that previous January that the cancer had come back with a determination to win, I made every effort to visit my dad every other weekend with Savannah by my side. She doesn’t remember “Grandpa Ralph” today, but I'm glad he was given time to be with her during those last few months.

Seven years after his death I had my second child. A couple years later my third came along. It has disturbed me that I have two more children that my father has never met.

That is.....until now.

Stay with me here. I’m not necessarily a believer in the paranormal, but my husband and his sisters shared a common dream after their grandmother’s death that gave me chills. I myself had a dream of my father a couple years after his death. I walked into the convenience store I stopped at each morning on my way to work for my AM caffeine hit. I stepped up to pay the same lady who was there every Monday – Thursday and then I heard his voice behind me: “Hi, Sugar.” I turned to see my daddy smiling at me. I threw my arms around him and we hugged each other tight. To this day I believe that was him coming to say hi.

And I believe he came to meet Sarah last night. It was another vivid dream. I walked into the living room to find him sitting with Sarah on the couch. They were drawing together. (Daddy had a talent for art. I have one of his paintings hanging in our family room.) Sarah was chattering away while she colored. Dad looked up and smiled at me. I took the drawing pad from him. He had drawn a field with one tree, but it was blurry. I said to him, “Daddy, this isn’t how you usually draw.”

And that was it. I woke and couldn’t hold it back. I sobbed. I knew he had come to see the granddaughter he had never met. It was good to see him.

Now I’ll just wait for his meeting with Pace.

A Father's Day Card, of Sorts

I want to take some time today to say “Happy Father’s Day” to a few of the men in my life.

To my father-in-law,

“Big Pat” and I share the same birthday, therefore the same sign, and therefore a (slight) stubborn trait that can get us in trouble.





He's a fantastic grandfather, and he’s coming to meet his first grandson in less than two weeks.


To my brother-in-law,



Rick and I share a few traits that I don’t care to admit. He’s been there for us whenever we’ve needed him, though, be it with a lawnmower, a truck, or an extra key to our house. I sure will miss you when you move, Rick. A special dessert is coming your way soon.




To my father,



Last Father’s Day I sang a song titled, “Finally Home” by the band MercyMe at church. It sums up how I feel.

“Finally Home”

I’m gonna wrap my arms around my daddy’s neck
And tell him that I’ve missed him
And tell him all about the (woman) I became
And hope that it pleased him
There’s so much I want to say
There’s so much I want you to know
When I finally make it home.



You can listen to it hear. It's a beautiful song.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tnTu0i9cj-I


And to my husband,

Thank you for being such a hands-on dad.



For loving your children with all of your heart and making sure they feel that love.



I haven’t said it near enough since the birth of our son, but I appreciate all of you’ve done, and are doing, to try to make it easier on me.

For feeding him at night so I can sleep.

For taking your turn holding him when he cries (and not wanting to give him up).

For offering to do anything I need.



I love you so much.

Happy Father’s Day, Honey.

And Happy Father’s Day to all you daddies out there!

Speechless

Today would have been my father's 84th birthday, but we lost him to cancer on October 24, 2000. I've been trying to think of what I can say about him on this blog for the last 24 hours, but nothing comes to mind. What can I say about a man I miss so much, my heart still literally aches when I think of him 10 years after his death.

The only thing that has continually popped in my head is this photo taken before he walked me down the aisle at my wedding. Pat and I have wished since our wedding night that we had just taken the money we spent on the cermony and reception and eloped to Vegas. It would have been so much simpler. But then I wouldn't have this picture.



Happy birthday, Daddy.

I love you.

From: Your "Sugar"