Good-Bye

Pa has been to see us twice this year. He is so feeble it makes me feel sad to look at him, and I feel each time I tell him good-bye I shall never see him again. - Frances, January 1891

It’s that time of year again. For me, mid-March is always a bit tough. I wanted to post something last week, but I just couldn’t think of anything to say. There is plenty going on in the world, and in my life, but March 16 always leaves me lacking a voice. Luckily, I came across this post from Frances about her father.

Last week marked the 11th year since my Dad passed away. I try to spend time remembering fun memories and experiences we shared. But inevitably, I remember the difficult parts of his final years. His lack of mobility and loss of vision. His fading memories and labored speech. The way his body failed him a bit more every day. That was the hard part, and it was my reality for a good bit of time. Frances seemed to experience something similar - each time she saw her father, she thought it would be the last.

Maybe this ‘anniversary’ was particularly hard because I’m heading back into a caretaker role (Mama). Maybe it was hard because I am writing about my Grandmother’s experience being pregnant with him. Maybe it’s just hard. And that’s ok.

The thing about grief is it never really goes away. If you haven’t heard the ‘ball in a box’ concept of grief, do a quick search. I’m not sure where it originated, but I’ll summarize. Basically, your grief is a ball bouncing around in a box. When the ball touches the side of the box, that represents a feeling of grief (sadness, anger…whatever). At first, the ball is really large so it touches the sides all the time. Gradually, the ball gets smaller, so it touches the sides less and less. But the ball never goes away, and you can never really predict when your grief will return. Rather than fighting it or trying to ‘get over it,’ you are allowed to just feel your feelings, whenever they occur.

To anyone experiencing grief, whether your ball is tiny or enormous, try to be gentle with yourself. Take some time. Take a break. Take a walk. Take a nap. Do whatever you can to be kind to yourself.

Why Is This So Hard For Me?

I haven't written much in the last few weeks.  Dad died on March 16.  Haven't felt like practicing.  Turned in my comps.  Why can't I just let go and be like everyone else?  Why is this so hard for me?  - Miranda, March 2008

March is always a weird month for me - particularly March 14-17.  There are a few nerdy holidays that I love (Pi Day on the 14th, Ides of March on the 15th), and one holiday that I don't care that much about (St. Patrick's Day on the 17th).  But stuck in the middle is the anniversary of my dad's death.  This year was a big one - 10 years gone.  That's a long time.   

On the anniversary, I always try to do something he would like.  Usually, I just hope I have a gig to take my mind off the day, and luckily, that was the case this year.  I was playing Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty with a ballet company and it was just the right thing to do.  The music was new to me, and I enjoyed the challenge.  Plus, Sleeping Beauty was my favorite Disney movie growing up - and they used Tchaikovsky's score in the movie!  

From this journal entry in 2008, it doesn't look like I did much to remember him.  My writing was so matter-of-fact.  I was finishing my Master's Degree, and working on my comprehensive exams when my dad died.  That month is still mostly a blur.  I do, however, distinctly remember going to Albertson's grocery store the night he died, so my brother, sister, and I would have some food in the house.  I bought stuff to make quesadillas.  Weird the things that you remember.

This entry hints at something I would struggle with for quite a while after his death - why couldn't I just be normal?  I was only 26 - I didn't want to be the girl who lost her dad.  I just wanted to get through the grieving process and move forward.  I spent a lot of time comparing myself to others.  Being jealous of other people's 'happy' or 'easy' lives.  Of course, you never really know what other people's lives are like, but in dark moments, it is tempting to generalize that everyone else is having a good time while you are stuck feeling sad.  Facebook really didn't help, either. 

I started using the mantra "Be gentle with yourself."  Sometimes it felt forced, but slowly I started to let myself feel my feelings.  Do what you feel you can do, or what you need to do.  It doesn't matter what other people do.  Now, 10 years later, I can choose how to honor my dad.  I can do it in a way that works for me - not anyone else.  It is still hard for me.  But it is on my own terms, now.

Time To Let Go Of Old Things

It's a new year.  New possibilities.   Time to let go of old things.  Old thoughts.  Old habits.  Sad to see so many things end this year.  But think how different things were last year.  I was about to start school.  Dad was still sick in the assisted living place.  Those are my measuring sticks for the last 2 years.  How sick was Daddy.  Where was he.  What hospital were we dealing with.  He's not struggling anymore.  He's not in pain.  I don't want to struggle anymore.  Goodbye 2008.  -  Miranda, January 2009 

I've always had a hard time with New Years Eve.  There's this pressure to dress up, wear silly hats, use paper noisemakers, and drink/eat a lot - all to celebrate the passing of a year.  I've always preferred spending New Years Eve alone.  At the stroke of midnight, I like to be at home, writing in my journal, making a list of resolutions and remembering the year.  Definitely an introvert, right? 

Some years we don't want to remember.  2008 was one of those for me.  It's strange, because so much of that year was a blur - what gigs I played, who I spent time with, what I wrote for my Comprehensive Exams.  Then again, there are moments that I remember so very clearly, like going to the grocery store right after Daddy died because there was no food in the house and we would need to make quesadillas.  And this entry.

Reading back, the end of this entry sounds a little harsh, if not outright depressing.  But that's not how I felt.  I felt free.  After a year (plus) of fighting to help Daddy, fighting to finish school, fighting to keep my gigs so I could pay my bills, I felt like I could let go a little.  I could give myself permission to walk away from the pain and the hurt and the anger and the tears from 2008.  Of course, it's not like I was 'cured' of my grief - those feelings would certainly return now and then - but on that New Years Eve, I was able to step back from my grief and say out loud - I don't want to struggle anymore.  Whatever this new year brings, I don't need to fight anymore.  Clean slate.  One day at a time, and that's enough.  

After the ups and downs of 2017, maybe we can all start fresh and take things one day at a time.  Cheers to 2018.  May it be filled with joy, compassion, and love.

And December Is Just Starting

I'm exhausted.  And December is just starting.  Thanksgiving was nice.  Sold Daddy's house.  He loved that house.  We worked so hard to keep him there.  I get so sad when I think about him.  I should be more gentle with myself, but I am so tired of being so emotional.  I'm just tired all the time.  - Miranda, November 2008

For me, the November-December transition can feel like a blur, rolling from a major holiday to a major month of performances.  A few years ago, I started intentionally keeping Thanksgiving weekend clear on my calendar.  No gigs or teaching obligations - just one last quiet moment before the December craziness begins.  Now, the Christmas trees are going up, and I'm happily dusting off Sleigh Ride and The Nutcracker for another season of holiday concerts, instead of feeling like Scrooge.  

This was not always the case.  2008 was a challenging year for me, all around - I remember being exhausted all the time.  Thanksgiving happened, and before I knew it, I was practically living in my car with my clarinet, concert clothes, and a Santa hat.  Through it all, I was grieving the loss of my Dad.  No time to sit around, though!  I had to get out there and earn that money!  I can even see it in my diary entries - lots of short sentences and repeated phrases.  Variations on 'just so tired' were particularly prevalent.  On top of that, we sold my Dad's house around that time.  Talk about emotional!  I spent a lot of time trying to process my grief and deal with it logically.  Sometimes, I ignored it all together.  Any guesses on how that turned out?? 

We don't always have the luxury of clearing our schedule to deal with our emotions.  As we head into the holiday season, maybe we can all steal a few moments for ourselves.  In this time of giving, maybe we can give ourselves a break - and be a little more gentle.

I Don't Want Him To Be Scared

Trying to keep my regular life going.  Worked today, went to the gym, practiced 1 hour.

But Daddy is dying.

All that work and planning for Assisted Living facilities, budget, disability, social security.  Now the cancer is back.  And here are the options:

1 - no treatment - die soon

2 - methotrexate into spine - 3-4 months

3 - port into his brain to do smaller doses of methotrexate - 3-4 months

I just want him to talk about it.  I'm scared he won't be ready for death.  But he has never dealt with the reality of his body.  I don't want him to be scared.  I don't want him to be alone.  He's in denial or maintaining hope.  I want someone to tell me how to deal with this.  I'm angry.  I get angry at people.  And I'm angry with God.  It's not fair.

Look at me, trying to tell a dying man how to feel about death.  I just don't want him to be scared.  to be afraid until the very end.  - Miranda, July 2007 

I had just turned 26.  This was my dad's third round of cancer.  Tumors on his adrenal glands were treated with chemotherapy.  The metastasized brain tumors brought rounds of radiation.  During all those treatments, I was handling his finances - making sure bills were paid, etc.  My brother, sister, and I were looking at facilities for my dad, because he could barely walk and was becoming increasingly blind.  I learned all about different chemo drugs, ports, radiation masks - information I wish I never had to learn.  I wish that no one had to learn about that.  I was trying to live my life, just like anyone else, but I was also a caretaker.  Emotions came in waves, or all at once.  Reading (and writing) this makes me cry.  I don't really remember much from that time in my life.  Grief is a funny thing.  The things I remember are the simple ones, like a stranger holding the door for me at a store.  You never really know what someone else is going through.  Patience and kindness can sometimes do more for someone than we will ever know.