Why, when people are trying to comfort me, do they equate my sorrow with another? Tonight my husband referred to a friend's poetic words concerning the loss of his grandmother. I immediately took offense at the assumption that my loss is similar to the loss of one's grandparents. I am sure my husband didn't mean to insinuate that, but it isn't the first time someone has said something similar. It makes me want to scream, "Don't EVER tell me that losing a parent in your thirties is the same!" It is better to say nothing at all.
I want to be all understanding and appreciative but I can't, I just feel angry when people try to equate my loss.
Losing a parent is a loss most deal with, but not in their thirties. It hurts and the future of my dreams and my children's memories are at stake. It does not equate to losing ones grandparent.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Friends
I don't know much of the man that my father is. I know that he doesn't hunt (would never hunt), he abhors cigarette smoke, he enjoys the sun, and he leads a simple and honest life. I believe that you can gain a lot of information from the people who surround someone. The people who complete your life. My dad has friends that he has gathered from every job, every neighbor, and every softball team he has touched. Even three months after his diagnosis, there are still two bouquets of fresh flowers in his home~sent recently with well wishes from concerned friends and co-workers. He is loved and appreciated and I take that as a very large gift of comfort. He is surrounded by goodness.
On a similar note, so am I. Maybe this is his lasting gift that he has bestowed upon me: bring good people into your life, live a simple life, and be grateful.
On a similar note, so am I. Maybe this is his lasting gift that he has bestowed upon me: bring good people into your life, live a simple life, and be grateful.
Driving
My dad's wife, Karen, gave Kate her first driving lesson today. My dad should have been the one teaching her (as he did me) but he is unable to drive on his own. I know it is a little thing, but I just wanted my dad to be able to teach my daughter something. My dad wasn't around much to teach me many skills, but driving was one of those...and it meant a lot to me for him to be able to do the same for Kate. It was one of those bittersweet days: the pang of not seeing my dad waving from the car, but instead sitting inside the garage by himself. I watched my baby grow up today and my dad wasn't able to share in it. That hurt.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Visiting Dad
Today I drove down to see my dad for the first time in 6 weeks. He was sitting in his new leather recliner, warming himself by the fire. He was unable to get up and greet me but smiled from across the way. It breaks my heart to see him so incapacitated. In his previous life, a year ago, he would have done a little jig with his feet and welcomed me with a bear hug. He would have been grabbing every item of my luggage with force~insisting that I not carry anything but my pillow or purse into his home. Those days are gone.
He is bloated, like a bull frog. His neck is puffy and even his eyes seem squinted. His wife says that he has lost alot of weight but he doesn't look like it. She says that he is down to 165 pounds and his legs have atrophied. I believe her, but it is hard to comprehend when his belly is so bloated and his neck so full.
He has developed diabetes from the chemo and now takes insulin. Karen gives him a nightly shot and checks his blood sugar twice a day. This was news to me and I feel so removed from his care. I have a difficult time keeping straight the chemo and non-chemo days, the pills, the side effects.
I ate dinner with him tonight at the table. I find it hard to look into his face. I don't want to cry for the man he has become, but I want to miss this. I feel guilty for thinking such thoughts because I know that all too soon he will be gone.
The bright spot of today was he wanting to go over our cruise excursions together. He had highlighted things he thought that I would like to do. He highlighted a horseback ride on the beach...and so I will go.
He is bloated, like a bull frog. His neck is puffy and even his eyes seem squinted. His wife says that he has lost alot of weight but he doesn't look like it. She says that he is down to 165 pounds and his legs have atrophied. I believe her, but it is hard to comprehend when his belly is so bloated and his neck so full.
He has developed diabetes from the chemo and now takes insulin. Karen gives him a nightly shot and checks his blood sugar twice a day. This was news to me and I feel so removed from his care. I have a difficult time keeping straight the chemo and non-chemo days, the pills, the side effects.
I ate dinner with him tonight at the table. I find it hard to look into his face. I don't want to cry for the man he has become, but I want to miss this. I feel guilty for thinking such thoughts because I know that all too soon he will be gone.
The bright spot of today was he wanting to go over our cruise excursions together. He had highlighted things he thought that I would like to do. He highlighted a horseback ride on the beach...and so I will go.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Little Things
I didn't know my dad (and still don't) growing up. I spent one week in the summer, one week at Christmas, and 1/2 of spring break with him. That doesn't add up to a whole lot. My mom moved me to another state when I was three years old, it may have well been another country. This is a decision that I don't blame her for, but would never do to my own children.
Those weeks don't add up to much but this is what I remember~
1. eating sugary cereal and white bread which were foods my mom would never have fed me
2. roller skating around his kitchen floor to my hearts content
3. being given a tape recorder as a five year old and listening to his stories on tape~what I would give to have those old recordings, now
4. going to Disneyland at the age of four
5. traveling to the baja peninsula in Mexico at the age of twelve
6. golfing on pebble beach together~and me not appreciating it
7. being taught to drive on his 1970's yellow Datsun pickup
8. white water rafting from our self taught guide
9. knowing that my "chicken legs" were identical to my father's
10. eating white bread sandwiches with cheap lunch meat, and loving them
11. hearing the only advice he ever gave me, "Don't smoke or I will break your legs!"
Those weeks don't add up to much but this is what I remember~
1. eating sugary cereal and white bread which were foods my mom would never have fed me
2. roller skating around his kitchen floor to my hearts content
3. being given a tape recorder as a five year old and listening to his stories on tape~what I would give to have those old recordings, now
4. going to Disneyland at the age of four
5. traveling to the baja peninsula in Mexico at the age of twelve
6. golfing on pebble beach together~and me not appreciating it
7. being taught to drive on his 1970's yellow Datsun pickup
8. white water rafting from our self taught guide
9. knowing that my "chicken legs" were identical to my father's
10. eating white bread sandwiches with cheap lunch meat, and loving them
11. hearing the only advice he ever gave me, "Don't smoke or I will break your legs!"
Cruise Talk
I spoke with my dad last night and he wanted to share his good news...
He went to OHSU yesterday for a scan and found that not only has his main tumor not grown, but it may have shrunk a bit as well. He was very excited by this news.
I say that "he" was very excited because I had to feign enthusiasm. I should be more heartened by this news, and I suppose it buys him time, but I feel so saddened everytime I talk to him. It is painful hearing him search for words or thoughts and whole sentences. It is painful to constantly talk about the cruise. It seems to be the only thing he can talk with me about and I just want to scream, "Cruise be damned...let's talk about something real!" Or, maybe I just want him to talk about how much he loves me and how I will be okay in the end. Remind me that I am strong and wise and good...and I will survive this. Make me feel better, please. Because I don't feel very well right now.
Talking to him on the phone seems to be difficult for him. He gets easily distracted and a bit confused. He says that it takes all of his "faculties to concentrate and walk, let alone talk." I was impressed that he said "faculties" and took that as a good sign. He is excited to show me all of the cruise pamphlets and discuss the cruise. Everytime I call he wants to talk about it, go over which deck I am on, etc.
I will be seeing him this weekend and will update with more information and pictures next week.
He went to OHSU yesterday for a scan and found that not only has his main tumor not grown, but it may have shrunk a bit as well. He was very excited by this news.
I say that "he" was very excited because I had to feign enthusiasm. I should be more heartened by this news, and I suppose it buys him time, but I feel so saddened everytime I talk to him. It is painful hearing him search for words or thoughts and whole sentences. It is painful to constantly talk about the cruise. It seems to be the only thing he can talk with me about and I just want to scream, "Cruise be damned...let's talk about something real!" Or, maybe I just want him to talk about how much he loves me and how I will be okay in the end. Remind me that I am strong and wise and good...and I will survive this. Make me feel better, please. Because I don't feel very well right now.
Talking to him on the phone seems to be difficult for him. He gets easily distracted and a bit confused. He says that it takes all of his "faculties to concentrate and walk, let alone talk." I was impressed that he said "faculties" and took that as a good sign. He is excited to show me all of the cruise pamphlets and discuss the cruise. Everytime I call he wants to talk about it, go over which deck I am on, etc.
I will be seeing him this weekend and will update with more information and pictures next week.
Alone
Here I am, alone. I feel like I am slipping away, tears streaming down my face to this silent hole. I don't want to talk to anyone, all they have is sympathy. The only person I want to talk with is an ex boyfriend who lost his dad in his late teens. This doesn't seem to be good for my marriage, so I am alone.
I cry everyday. Sometimes more. I drive around town wiping tears out of my eyes, thinking that this may be my dad's last spring. His last time seeing daffodils emerge from the earth. The last time he sets his clock forward. It is ridiculous for me to worry about all of this finality. It is what it is, but it is just so gut wrenching for me.
I put on a brave face, brush people off when they mention my dad. And, now, no one really does. My mom mentions him and asks "How is your daddy?" which makes me want to cringe since it is so sugary sweet and she has never before referred to him as my "daddy." It was always, "your dad said he would pay for your college" or "when is your dad coming up to visit?" Now that he is dying, he has become my daddy~reducing me to a young child. I don't need to be reminded that I am not a young child but secretly feel infantile most of the time.
I think what I am most sad about is the future. I feel like I can lose him right now, but I am so sad at what all he and I will miss. I don't know him and always imagined that I would get to know him. Now it is too late. The tumors have robbed him of himself. He isn't the same and he won't ever be. He doesn't play softball, play cards, golf, or white water raft anymore. He now sits in a chair with potty pads on it and stares into space.
Where do I go from here?
I cry everyday. Sometimes more. I drive around town wiping tears out of my eyes, thinking that this may be my dad's last spring. His last time seeing daffodils emerge from the earth. The last time he sets his clock forward. It is ridiculous for me to worry about all of this finality. It is what it is, but it is just so gut wrenching for me.
I put on a brave face, brush people off when they mention my dad. And, now, no one really does. My mom mentions him and asks "How is your daddy?" which makes me want to cringe since it is so sugary sweet and she has never before referred to him as my "daddy." It was always, "your dad said he would pay for your college" or "when is your dad coming up to visit?" Now that he is dying, he has become my daddy~reducing me to a young child. I don't need to be reminded that I am not a young child but secretly feel infantile most of the time.
I think what I am most sad about is the future. I feel like I can lose him right now, but I am so sad at what all he and I will miss. I don't know him and always imagined that I would get to know him. Now it is too late. The tumors have robbed him of himself. He isn't the same and he won't ever be. He doesn't play softball, play cards, golf, or white water raft anymore. He now sits in a chair with potty pads on it and stares into space.
Where do I go from here?
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