Dad's anniversary

They say that when someone has died, it takes a while for that feeling of loss to become something we can manage. I was reminded that one day I would think of the happy times, not the last months of my father's dying. Today, 7 years later, on the anniversary of his death, I think of the life he lived, that I knew of and was part of. Not the years before, when he raised his first family, my brothers and eldest sister. But of the second family I felt intimately part of, made of my my second sister and I.

Tonight I am thinking about my father sitting next to his desk lamp, painting life on red clay. I am thinking of him flying gliders, particulary the red one he loved so much. I am thinking about the short time that my parents separated and how happy I was to be reunited with him again. To sit at the same kitchen table where he made art, watching him preparing a cup of tea for me.

But my mind moves back and forth from his living hours to his dying hours. I can still see him on the hospital bed, the smell of chemicals, a curtain drawn between him and his roommate. Moments when he was conscious, and lovingly acknowledged my presence. Moments when he was unconscious, not responding to light, to sound. And I think about the the times I visited him at the hospital and how I prayed that the loud cries of pain that came from a pain-ridden dying body, trapped in a bed, in a cold green room, under thin white blankets,belonged to someone else.

Iremember his asking us, when he was aware, and could talk to help him die.Then days later, watching him cry, his face wet with tears. Wanting so desperately to talk, to walk, to be well again. Letting us go, but not ready to let go. Watching us come and go until he slipped away into unconsciousness.

I think of our final choice, which I did not consider at the time to be a gift of kindness. But now looking back, it was the only gift we could give him. To release him. The doctors pulled his feeding tube. Then one August day, he took his last breath. And now, somehow, we breathe his breath, because we are part of him and he is part of us. The pain has become tolerable, but the memories are a mix of great joy and tremendous sadness.

A place for thoughts

I am sitting in the place I love the most..my gloriously green, and leafy backyard. This is certainly a different garden from the one I had when I moved in. Back then it was a large backyard, full of weeds and scorchingly hot places..lit by the sun. Since our big, happy move into this house, we have added numerous plants. David added this wonderful pergola that I am sitting under..it gives so much shade. He also added a fantastic side garden which is part ornamental and part herb garden. In addition, the children enjoy their playfort which David and my father-in-law lovingly built together on a hot summer day. My mother in-law helped too.

This garden is a wondeful place for quiet, roaming thoughts. For the preservation of spoken or unspoken words. For quiet play or boisterous play. For bird watching, and watching the dozens of squirrels get so close they get underfoot. This is how it is for ou rlittle chipmunk that has become a little more confident and gets very close to us when we are hanging up our clothes on the line or having a snack outside.

I have really needed this place of thoughts to go to. Currently I am thinking about what to do in terms of my child who has a learning disability. I want what is best and to promote the learning process in a way that is encouraging. I wish I knew what to do. I have to think things through and plan ahead somehow. We have spent so much time here learning and growing together. I remember him sitting on the grass, watching the clouds roll by. I have always been impressed by his sophistication and incredible vocabulary. Life has many surprises and guess the L.D. is one of them. I hope one day he will see it as a gift, not a challenge when he can use to it help other people.
our

fuzzy pink pajamas

I haven't blogged in ages. I'm sitting here with a sinus infection, in fuzzy pink pajamas, feeling like I've been run over by a truck.

My children will be home soon.

It is dark and the singular sound of a robin calling to its mate punctuates the silence..

Tomorrow, I will need to sort through the piles of laundry on our blanket box. Remove the roll of tissue paper on the antique desk. Actually the top of the desk will be a task on its own to tidy. A balled up kleenex, a pile of paper, a hairdryer, David's camera. My phone book. Lip balm.

I hope I'll be able to sleep soon. That I'll wake up feeling healthy. That I'll get to spend time in the garden, playing with my kids.