Apparently, the Nausea Bug and his henchman, Major Pukey, have not taken up residence under my bay window with the bumblebees, as I previously thought. See, my bay window is on the south side of my house, and the Bug and the Major have moved north. WAY north. Sing that Johnny Horton song with me--you know it--"NORTH! To Alaska, go North, the rush is on..." It seems these two twerps of impish proportion have chosen a cooler climate than the HuMidwest offers in the summertime, and they have invaded the home (and indeed the pregnant body) of my dear friend Megan.
The poor dear.
Megan is a treasure of a friend with a kind spirit, who shares with me a love of Mitford. We often discuss meeting at Happy Endings or the Irish Shop (unless it's winter, in which case it's the Irish Woolen Shop) and then stopping by Cynthia's Little Yellow House for tea. She is also the loving Mama of two boisterous sons, and she is expecting her third not too long after my Bean is due. She called me this morning, sounding rather battle-weary, and, indeed, defeated. "Go ahead and moan and whine to me," I said to her, "because I Actually Get It." She said, "I know you do," and began to wail piteously. If arms could stretch the nearly four thousand miles which separate us, I would issue an immediate hug, complete with a glass of cold water, kleenex, and a cold wash cloth.
So, with no further ado:
ATTENTION, NAUSEA BUG AND MAJOR PUKEY: You have exactly three days to pack your pitiful bags and plunge your ridiculous selves into the Bering Sea. Do not stop for sight seeing adventures. Do not attempt to take a position on a crab fishing vessel. They would merely laugh at you anyway. Just leave. Do not continue to harass my dear friend. She is a meek and humble soul who is not deserving of your putrid company. You are as unwelcome as a fake Irish cousin, who indeed empties the cupboards in seconds flat, refuses to eat flesh foods except on Sundays, overstays generously given welcome, and then turns out to not even be Irish, for Pete's sake. Your bags must be packed immediately, you wretched twerps. If you refuse to leave, more drastic measure will have to be taken. I am only giving you three days so that I have ample time to conjure an idea of what those drastic measures will be. Now off with you both!
There. That should fix them. It would probably be easier just to evict them along with the bumblebees, but we'll see how we do.
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I must continue about my dad, because it's not fair to leave him at the end of my last entry. It's only fair to warn you, dear reader, that this is a long entry because I don't know how to break it up...so I won't.
I must also mention that at the point that I was pregnant with my Frog, I was very close to my mom. At the time, I had no idea why C. had such a disdain for her, and I didn't really get the whole picture until my dad's illness. That will come in a later entry. But it's important to know now that once I moved home, I became nearly completely reliant on my mom. She served me very well during my bed rest, fixing my meals, taking me to appointments, making sure I had the medications I needed (and there were plenty of them, owing to pre-term labor which lasted from January until the birth of the Frog in March), and pretty much tolerating my taking over of the living room.
Understanding what took place between me and my dad will also mean that I get to tell the gist of my Frog's birth story. :) I've been wanting to do this.
After many false alarms, lots of pre-term labor, and general misery, I finally went into actual labor with my Frog. I had been in the night before, getting to the hospital at about 8:30 and being sent home (again) at about 11:30. The hospital was only about 5 blocks away from my parents' house, so when my water broke that morning at almost exactly 5:00, it didn't really trigger anything but excitement for me. No panic, no worrying--after all, labor for first babies takes 8-12 hours, and sometimes even longer. Since I had taken Lamaze classes, I now knew everything there was to know, and I had everything thoroughly under control. (Please kindly stifle your laughter.)
I got up to pee, having been awake with that particular urge for about 15 minutes already anyway, and also called my mom (remember dialing your own phone number and then hanging up to make the phone ring, and then talking to someone in your own house on your own phone? We did it all the time, since I was downstairs and Mom was upstairs.) to let her know that we would probably have to go to the hospital at some point that morning, and would she mind thinking about coming downstairs? She asked if she had time to take a shower, and of course, I said, "Take all the time you need. It's not like the baby's coming until suppertime, anyway."
Famous last words.
In the 20 minutes it took my mom to shower and come down the stairs, my labor had progressed from mild contractions to intense I-can't-stand-up-through-them contractions. We walked out to the car (a Mustang convertible--try getting in and out of one of those in heavy labor!), me with a bath towel to sit on so I didn't mess up the leather seats with amniotic fluid, for Pete's sake, and my mom helping me walk in between the contractions.
When we arrived at the hospital, I was found to be at 5-6 cm and progressing so rapidly that there wasn't even time to fill out paperwork. My mom called my friend M. who was to be my labor coach, and I think she arrived somewhere around 7 or 7:30-ish--just in time for the last bit of transition.
My dad came in at about 8:05. I had been pushing for 5 minutes already.
I remember one of the nurses saying, "Your dad is here. Would you like him to come into the room?" I'm pretty sure I said something along the lines of, "I don't care who comes in, just get this baby out of me."
My dad's memory later was that on the way down the hall, it sounded like a crowd at a baseball game--everyone was cheering and shouting at me to PUSH!! My memory is thinking, "Why the heck is everyone yelling at me? All I want to DO is push!!"
The Frog, fat, pink and healthy, made her entrance into the world of air breathers at 8:43 A.M. That would be three hours, forty-three minutes, for those of you keeping track.
Eight to twelve hours, my foot.
When the Frog was handed to me for the first time, my parents (who had taken their places in the corner on the hide-a-bed) came over to see their first grandchild. My mom declared her "very pretty" (which she was), and my dad couldn't even speak.
No one had prepared me for those first few moments. I guess, though, that that first time, for those first moments, there is no real way to be prepared. The rush of love, the intense desire to weep and laugh at the same time, the overwhelming feelings of fear and elation--those were a lot to take in, to be sure. And on top of that, I began to shake uncontrollably. It's normal, I guess, when your body goes through that much in such a short amount of time. But my instinct was to hand my baby to someone who was not shaking, someone who's hands were steady and safe, someone who would love her just as much as I did and who would feel that same need to protect her.
So, naturally, I handed her to my dad.
It turned out to be the best thing I ever did in my entire life, ever.
My dad, as I said earlier, was not able to speak at first. His eyes teared up, and he brought his granddaughter closer to his face. He smiled at her, rubbed her nose with his, and said, "Well hello there, Little K.J." His voice was thick with emotion, and he was smiling so big it practically took over his ears.
While the doctor finished with me, my dad walked into the nursery with the Frog for her exam, never leaving her side, and taking the only pictures I have of those first few moments of her life.
From that morning until his death, my dad and the Frog were inseparable. He held and rocked her when she had colic. He cared for her when I worked long hours at a restaurant. We moved out, the Frog and I, when she was almost three months old, to an apartment about two blocks down the street from my parents' house. This suited my dad just fine--he could take a walk, get a little exercise, and come see the Frog anytime he wanted. He would come for breakfast, sharing oatmeal with her when she was old enough to eat it. He would come take her to his house for lunch, giving her the opportunity to mess around in the flower beds and strawberry patch. She swam in the wading pool on his patio, learned to chop vegetables for soup, gained an appreciation for the music I had grown up with, watched him practice conducting (and even had a little baton to use herself), and grew and flourished in his nurturing love for her. When she learned to talk, she called him Papa. It was the same name we had called him when we were little.
They would take walks on the riverbank, take pictures of the bachelor's buttons and poppies in his garden, read stories, eat liver sausage sandwiches, and talk in the alley with the neighbors. They loved each other dearly, and the best part of it was seeing my dad have the chance to love his granddaughter as fiercely as he had loved me when I was little. I learned to love him again through her, too.
My Darling and I, though we had spent lots of time together up to this point, hadn't had any one-on-one dates until the Frog was about 2 months old. We never did have very many--we came to love one another no matter who was near or what we did. Usually we were with my family or his, and almost always, we had the Frog with us. In April of 1997, My Darling asked my dad if they could speak alone regarding me. I don't think my dad knew that anyone still did that, and I doubt he required it, but it surely impressed him. They talked. With brandy. My dad shared things with My Darling (and likely vice-versa) that I will never hear, and that's OK with me. Some things shared between men should stay between men. Suffice it to say, my dad gave My Darling permission to marry Yours Truly, and, just as importantly, to be the official Daddy to the Frog.
In August of that same year, when the Frog was about 18 months old, my dad walked me down the aisle with tears in his eyes, and My Darling and I were married in the Church. And about 2 years later (after the birth of the Pickle, and while I was pregnant with the Reepicheep), My Darling adopted the Frog as his daughter. This provided another opportunity for my dad to become incredibly emotional, and gave him yet another reason to love My Darling.
When Reepicheep was exactly two weeks old, and quite unexpectedly, my dad collapsed while directing the community chorus in rehearsal of Handel's Messiah (First Part). Preliminary examinations had him diagnosed with necrotic pneumonia--meaning he had had it for a long time. About a week later, the biopsy of lung tissue revealed the real culprit--my dad had lung cancer. That diagnosis came about 10 days before Christmas, 1999. Further scans showed the cancer to be inoperable; it was encompassing his trachea and vena cava. The only hope was chemo and radiation. He was up for it, but he was also 75 years old.
I remember that one of the first things I did was to call my friend, My Darling's cousin, J.L. Her mother had died in 1998. Though she was suffering from scleroderma, her death was still a shock when it came. No one expected it to be so sudden, so soon. I told her my dad's diagnosis, and asked her, "If you knew your mom was going to die when she did, what would you have done differently?" She said she would have talked more with her about the things that really matter. She would have spent time with her Just To Spend Time With Her, not just because there was something going on. And she would have told her I Love You one last time...and said goodbye. J.L. celebrated her birthday with her parents on September 13th. Her mom died only a few days later.
I'm so glad we had that conversation. It enabled me to really talk more with my dad about important things, and to tell him I loved him and that I forgave him. I got to tell him that I loved seeing him with the Frog, and he thanked me for the gift of her. Though there will probably always be things to wish I'd had a chance to say better, at least I had a chance to tell him those things, and to say goodbye.
His chemo began in January. It was as awful as chemo always is, robbing him of strength, energy, appetite, and it meant that his study was turned into his bedroom. My brothers cleared everything out, making room for the double bed, a headboard (custom-made by my Darling, complete with outlet and light switch for a reading lamp), a couple of bookshelves to hold medications and various supplies, and the rocking chair.
When my dad came home from the hospital, he was a completely different man. We had seen him change so much with the birth of the Frog, and subsequent grandchildren softened him even more. I think we kids saw a side of our dad that we needed to see. I know I did. Cancer softened him in a different way. It brought out his faith. I saw my dad, who's spoken prayers consisted only of "Bless us, oh Lord..."--at least where we could hear him--begin to ask for prayer. We had a Mass said in the study for him (he was Episcopalian...long story). The priest from our local church came to anoint him.
Many pastors from other churches in town came to pray with him. His profession had been building and tuning pipe organs, so he knew a good many clergy from many different denominations. Over the course of the next six months, people he had known for years, decades, came from all over the country to visit with him.
His radiation treatments began on Ash Wednesday. He looked forward to seeing the wonderful staff at the center, and wore the same yellow chamois shirt every day to his therapy sessions. Though initial scans didn't show great progress, he continued with the radiation, with either My Darling or my sister C., home from Kansas, driving him the 35 minutes to the radiotherapy center and then home again. The Frog went along often, charming the staff, collecting stickers, and providing about as much medicine as any other treatment had. She called the radiation machine the "Sunshine Machine," understanding that the way it worked was to give Papa as much sunshine in three minutes as she could get in a year.
He weakened further, despite efforts with Ensure, juice made from fresh, raw fruits and vegetables, and apple juice from the pharmacy that looked like boxes of Juicy Juice, but packed three hundred calories. The radiation, because of the location of the tumor, had burned his esophagus so much that he could no longer eat the things he loved. His diet consisted largely of yogurt (which he and the Frog called Yogur-Tea) and canned peaches.
Home health nurses had been making regular appearances, along with companions who would stay with him when we couldn't, and people who brought in meals and helped with household tasks. Soon, though, the term was no longer "home health," but "hospice." Scans showed that the radiation had not been successful, and that the tumor was growing rather than shrinking. The radiation was slated to end on Good Friday.
My dad did get to come to the performance of the Messiah that spring. (Sidenote: Yes, I know. Spring is the time for the Second Part, with the Hallelujah Chorus and all that, but to state it plainly, my dad just liked the First Part better, so that's what we did.) His fine friend of nearly 30 years had agreed to both conduct and play harpsichord--one that my dad had built. We had a lovely orchestra, and two of my brothers and I were in the chorus. It was as fine a performance as any I've heard or been part of. And it pleased my dad.
On Sunday, July 16th, 2000, I received word just before the beginning of Mass (I was supposed to cantor) that I should go home to my dad. Word came via a man who had been my dad's surgeon and friend, and who had gone to great lengths to lead my dad to Jesus through prayer. He found a replacement for me sitting in the congregation and drove me to my parents' house.
All that day we gathered around my dad and helped him begin to die. We fed him for the last time that day--he never asked for food after that afternoon. We gave him his medications for pain or anxiety whenever he indicated he was in need. We reminded him who we were when he would wake from his naps. We helped him to the toilet. We calmed his fears. We rubbed his legs and feet, stroked his hair, and loved on him the best we knew how. This was the most love I'd ever seen happen in my family--all the love we never showed our whole lives, and there it was for my dad when he was on his way Home.
He would begin praying, "Our Father..." and we would take over. My sister and I prayed Rosaries together. We didn't know about the Chaplet of Divine Mercy--I have no doubt we would have prayed that, too. When he spoke in those strange and fearful phrases before death, my sister crooned to him and answered him in soothing words, "You did everything you were supposed to do. We all have exactly what we need to keep going. We'll take care of Mom. It's OK for you to follow Jesus. We'll be right behind you..."
He slept fitfully that night, with the Frog sleeping on the couch near his chair, and woke a few times Monday morning. That afternoon, a hospital bed was brought in for his comfort. It was set up in the living room. By Monday evening, he was slipping away. He didn't wake much at all on Tuesday. One or two of us was always with him though, making sure he had anything he needed.
Wednesday morning, at about 5:00, the phone at our apartment rang. "Come home," said my brother. "His breathing is different, and we don't think it'll be long." The Frog and the Pickle had spent the night at my in-laws' house, so we grabbed the 8-month-old Reepicheep and drove the six blocks to my parents' house. We all sat around the bed. We took turns listening to his heart, because he only breathed about once every 8 or 9 minutes. We all knew this was an electrical impulse from his brain--that he had gone. His heart stayed strong though, and we marveled at this. My brothers, all three, worked together to stop the oxygen machine that had been helping our dad for the past six months: one unplugged the machine, one turned it off, and one removed the cannula from him. None could see the others, so my sister counted to three and they each did their jobs at the same time. Still, his heart kept beating.
Eventually, my exhausted brothers and sister, My Darling, and I chose to lie down. My sister and one brother went upstairs, one brother was on the couch, one in Pop's chair, and My Darling and I were on the bed in the study. Mom went out for a cigarette. It was about 9:00. The hospice nurse came in at 9:10, and took his vitals. My dad's heart beat once or twice, then stopped.
She timed his death at 9:15, Wednesday, July 19th, 2000.
Showing posts with label Loss--Pop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Loss--Pop. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
More to the Story
I can't believe how well I have been feeling. I haven't updated as frequently as I'd first hoped to, but it's entirely the fault of the gorgeous weather, and the fact that June has had us busier than the hummingbirds, for Pete's sake.
The Nausea Bug and Major Pukey, have, I think, moved into the nest of bumblebees who currently reside in some old insulation underneath the bay window. This is great for me, just fine for the Bug and the Major, and probably doesn't matter a hill of beans to the bees, especially since they're being evicted very shortly.
My Darling has continued to work long hours both for his job and on the house. He has put the last of the windows into the sun room, which has led to us spending oodles of time out there. We moved the patio table into the huge room (since it's glass-topped, and since it's been raining and hailing on and off for two weeks, for Pete's sake, and we'd like to actually use the thing!), and have had our coffee and morning prayer time out there for the past week. It is already my Favorite Room in the House, and it's decorated only in Plywood Brown and Insulation Pink/Yellow. I bet those hot shots over on HGTV and TLC don't even know those colors are options for the latest in home decorating!
The past few days, though, have been sunny and mild, thanks be to God, and so my days--almost in their entirety--have been out in the sun room. Hence the eviction of the bees: the bay window will shortly be removed, allowing the living room and sun room to be completely open betwixt the two. The insulation beneath said window will of course have to be removed as well, and there's the rub, if you happen to be a bee. And since I am rather allergic to the bites and stings of fuzzy buzzing things, and since the windows are now all in place, and since My Darling seems to rather enjoy applying Spray Foam Insulation into nooks, crannies, cracks and crevices (who doesn't? Have you ever? Oh, but you should...), there is no longer the multiple choice gamut of entrance and exit points for the pesky pests. Therefore, eviction is imminent.
And so it goes. The children are bathing in Vitamin D even as we speak, making holes in dirt, digging far enough to find clay (and sculpt unrecognizable forms from it), shrieking with laughter, and praying for more rain so that they can sploosh in the gigantic puddles that pool up in the yard. The laundry comes in stiff and fresh from a day in the brisk breeze, with that scent that only means summer.
And I am feeling unbelievably good. It is reminiscent of being pregnant with Reepicheep. Oh, how I loved that pregnancy! The Nausea Bug and Major Pukey retreated at exactly 13 weeks with her, and never again reared their nasty little heads. They didn't even bother sending scouts to see if the coast was clear for an encore. Not that I minded. That's how it's been with this Bean--which induces My Darling to constantly tease me that there may be more than one. Honestly, I can't imagine that to be the case...I would think I'd be carrying much bigger than I am. But you never know, I guess. (Though I will never say that to him!)
We will go see Chris again when I'm feeling regular, obvious movement. I have small moments when I think I might, but until I'm sure, I'm just going to go along being pleasantly surprised from time to time. At 15 weeks, 2 days, it's just barely early to begin feeling that little secret. I absolutely love this point in pregnancy (especially when I'm feeling so well!), when the knowledge of the little one becomes more concrete--but only for me. I revel in the glory of being the only one to know this little person, whoever they are.
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I left off yesterday with the point at which my relationship with my dad changed significantly. Before I continue, though, a few things need to be noted for perspective's sake. First, the age thing. My parents had a very large gap in their ages (17 years), and when I was born, my dad was 50. Fifty. This comes in to play later. Secondly, things got so bad at home during middle and high school that I stayed with my grandma for several months at a time. This is one of the gazillions of reasons I love her so and feel so close to her. She protected me and cared for me and made me feel safe in ways that should happen at home. But she did not spoil me! She was strict about house rules, homework, manners, and all the things a good parent or grandparent worries about. She didn't mince words (and still doesn't) if something was on her mind.
Thirdly, I moved out of my parents' house long-term shortly after graduation, first staying again with Grandma, and then with friends for whom I nannied. This was, for me, the beginning of what I call The Bad Choice Years.
Those were the years when I (like so many people) searched for the love I really needed in my life. Since I had never been taught by my parents what that was supposed to be, I had no idea what I was really looking for. I tried the usual on my scavenger hunt--alcohol, mild drugs, smoking, vulgarity and promiscuity. I never found it, of course, but dammit, I wasn't about to stop looking. I became deeply entrenched in the despair of depression, and at one point, even attempted to end my life.
I saw this video linked on Jenni's blog and could not believe what I was seeing...I felt like I was on This Is Your Life. I can't not link it here . (One of these days I'll figure out how to put a video right here in my entry.....today, though, I have bigger fish to fry.)
Back to the story.
After several failed relationships and near-misses, I fell pregnant with the Frog.
This is my little secret that isn't really a secret. Those really close to me know this. Those who are my friends find the kindness to use perspective, seeing this huge event in my life as the turning point that it truly was. This was the point where I actually began to grow up, when I learned what true love really is, and when I began to walk that amazing road back to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, praise God. Those who aren't my friends try (and try, and try...) to use it to hurt me. Sadly, even people in my own family use it this way at times.
But surprisingly, my dad never did.
At the time I became pregnant, I had mostly settled down. I was holding three jobs--cleaning motel rooms, working with the local marching band, and tending bar at a supper club. I was renting a room from a family I knew, and was in what I thought was a great relationship. It was the last remnant of the Bad Choices, and was The One I just Knew Would Work Out. Ah, the wrong assumptions of youth.....
I became so battle-weary from the Nausea Bug and Major Pukey that I was in the ER for IV rehydration multiple times. As soon as I learned the reason for my exhaustion and indigestion, The One decided he had better things to do, and promptly moved on. Because of the Battles, my doctor ordered me on absolute bed rest and high caloric intake so that I could gain weight, for Pete's sake, and so I had to make the decision to end all of my jobs. Which meant no income. Which meant no rent money.
Which meant moving back to my parents'.
My father did not speak to me for about two months.
Then one night, he just opened up. I guess it was probably just a little at first. And I think it might have been because right around that time, I met My Darling. And my dad really liked him.
Sidebar: My Darling and I met through his cousin J.L., whom I have known since the two of us were five and in the first grade together. J.L. and I reconnected through my mom (another story entirely), and I learned that this dear friend spent lots of time with two of her cousins--one of whom, of course, was My Darling. We all began to spend quite a lot of time together, and although I Knew From The First Moment That I Had Been Wrong About Everyone Else My Whole Life And This Was The Man God Made For Me And For Whom I Was Made, as I began to get to know him even better, eventually he would even come over to visit all on his own. I think this endeared My Darling to my dad--that My Darling didn't at all mind spending time getting to know me in the presence of my parents, especially my father. What man does that? I'll tell you: one with integrity, good intentions, and a good head squarely on his shoulders.
Again back to the story.
I don't remember the first conversation we had. I remember spending lots of time in the rocking chair in the study, with my dad drinking brandy and playing computer pinochle or spades or hearts.
He was never a drinker when I was growing up. His first wife was an alcoholic, and ironically, he detested people who could not control their impulses. Perhaps age softened him about this, and he allowed himself to enjoy the occasional snifter. Rarely to excess, or even a buzz. And only the good stuff--20-year aged Scotch. Expensive brandy. Really good wine.
When the brandy came out, so did his emotions, which was another new facet to my dad.
The conversation that meant so much to me, that really broke the barriers to my heart with him, was the one that made it OK for me to tell him, "I was afraid of you for years. I dreaded your presence, and wanted to be farther from you than I could ever get. And by the way, it hurt me deeply that all the discipline fell on me and C. and K., with none being meted out to J." And lots more, but that's the gist.
He told me lots of things about himself, some that I knew, and lots that I didn't. We both cried, and I although I knew that my dad could be a sentimental man, that part of him rarely seemed to manifest itself unless he was crying in the brandy.
I learned that he didn't really know how to discipline well, having grown up in the 20's and 30's in the South. Most times he was punished, it was with a switch of his selection. He was raised largely by his Aunt B. and a very kind woman he referred to as Mamie, but he didn't have a good male role model in the home until his Aunt B. married his Uncle A. Sadly, this was after a disastrously abusive marriage to a man who beat his Aunt B. when she was heavily pregnant, causing the loss of the baby's life, and ending the possibility for Aunt B. to ever have another baby. That baby was her first and only.
And though the politically correct TV psychobabble trend is to say, "That excuses all the bad choices he made when parenting his own children," I don't believe that. Because I was raised in a violent, loud, unloving home, where the thing that mattered most was what other people thought about our family--especially about our mother--and I flatly refuse to raise my children that way.
But it did help me to understand why he did some of the things he did.
And the reason for J. not being treated the same way? To his credit, my dad knew that he had messed things up terribly with me and C. and K., and he wanted to change...but at that late date, he simply didn't know how. Rather than beat J. and have him afraid of his dad, like the rest of us were, he just did....nothing. And by that time (J. was 15 by the time my dad and I came to this point), he also knew that he had been terribly wrong with J., and again, didn't know how to fix it. So he continued to do....nothing. I don't believe he ever forgave himself for that.
Oh, the dysfunction of it all.
There was so much more, so many conversations over lots of salty brandy, and it was then that I finally found the love of my father that I had scavenged for and craved for most of my life.
After years of anger and vile hatred of my dad, I was beginning to feel sorry for him, if not starting to have some idea of who he was as a man. And there I was, on the cusp of parenthood, terrified of what was to come...and needing my dad.
And finally, he was there.
The Nausea Bug and Major Pukey, have, I think, moved into the nest of bumblebees who currently reside in some old insulation underneath the bay window. This is great for me, just fine for the Bug and the Major, and probably doesn't matter a hill of beans to the bees, especially since they're being evicted very shortly.
My Darling has continued to work long hours both for his job and on the house. He has put the last of the windows into the sun room, which has led to us spending oodles of time out there. We moved the patio table into the huge room (since it's glass-topped, and since it's been raining and hailing on and off for two weeks, for Pete's sake, and we'd like to actually use the thing!), and have had our coffee and morning prayer time out there for the past week. It is already my Favorite Room in the House, and it's decorated only in Plywood Brown and Insulation Pink/Yellow. I bet those hot shots over on HGTV and TLC don't even know those colors are options for the latest in home decorating!
The past few days, though, have been sunny and mild, thanks be to God, and so my days--almost in their entirety--have been out in the sun room. Hence the eviction of the bees: the bay window will shortly be removed, allowing the living room and sun room to be completely open betwixt the two. The insulation beneath said window will of course have to be removed as well, and there's the rub, if you happen to be a bee. And since I am rather allergic to the bites and stings of fuzzy buzzing things, and since the windows are now all in place, and since My Darling seems to rather enjoy applying Spray Foam Insulation into nooks, crannies, cracks and crevices (who doesn't? Have you ever? Oh, but you should...), there is no longer the multiple choice gamut of entrance and exit points for the pesky pests. Therefore, eviction is imminent.
And so it goes. The children are bathing in Vitamin D even as we speak, making holes in dirt, digging far enough to find clay (and sculpt unrecognizable forms from it), shrieking with laughter, and praying for more rain so that they can sploosh in the gigantic puddles that pool up in the yard. The laundry comes in stiff and fresh from a day in the brisk breeze, with that scent that only means summer.
And I am feeling unbelievably good. It is reminiscent of being pregnant with Reepicheep. Oh, how I loved that pregnancy! The Nausea Bug and Major Pukey retreated at exactly 13 weeks with her, and never again reared their nasty little heads. They didn't even bother sending scouts to see if the coast was clear for an encore. Not that I minded. That's how it's been with this Bean--which induces My Darling to constantly tease me that there may be more than one. Honestly, I can't imagine that to be the case...I would think I'd be carrying much bigger than I am. But you never know, I guess. (Though I will never say that to him!)
We will go see Chris again when I'm feeling regular, obvious movement. I have small moments when I think I might, but until I'm sure, I'm just going to go along being pleasantly surprised from time to time. At 15 weeks, 2 days, it's just barely early to begin feeling that little secret. I absolutely love this point in pregnancy (especially when I'm feeling so well!), when the knowledge of the little one becomes more concrete--but only for me. I revel in the glory of being the only one to know this little person, whoever they are.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I left off yesterday with the point at which my relationship with my dad changed significantly. Before I continue, though, a few things need to be noted for perspective's sake. First, the age thing. My parents had a very large gap in their ages (17 years), and when I was born, my dad was 50. Fifty. This comes in to play later. Secondly, things got so bad at home during middle and high school that I stayed with my grandma for several months at a time. This is one of the gazillions of reasons I love her so and feel so close to her. She protected me and cared for me and made me feel safe in ways that should happen at home. But she did not spoil me! She was strict about house rules, homework, manners, and all the things a good parent or grandparent worries about. She didn't mince words (and still doesn't) if something was on her mind.
Thirdly, I moved out of my parents' house long-term shortly after graduation, first staying again with Grandma, and then with friends for whom I nannied. This was, for me, the beginning of what I call The Bad Choice Years.
Those were the years when I (like so many people) searched for the love I really needed in my life. Since I had never been taught by my parents what that was supposed to be, I had no idea what I was really looking for. I tried the usual on my scavenger hunt--alcohol, mild drugs, smoking, vulgarity and promiscuity. I never found it, of course, but dammit, I wasn't about to stop looking. I became deeply entrenched in the despair of depression, and at one point, even attempted to end my life.
I saw this video linked on Jenni's blog and could not believe what I was seeing...I felt like I was on This Is Your Life. I can't not link it here . (One of these days I'll figure out how to put a video right here in my entry.....today, though, I have bigger fish to fry.)
Back to the story.
After several failed relationships and near-misses, I fell pregnant with the Frog.
This is my little secret that isn't really a secret. Those really close to me know this. Those who are my friends find the kindness to use perspective, seeing this huge event in my life as the turning point that it truly was. This was the point where I actually began to grow up, when I learned what true love really is, and when I began to walk that amazing road back to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, praise God. Those who aren't my friends try (and try, and try...) to use it to hurt me. Sadly, even people in my own family use it this way at times.
But surprisingly, my dad never did.
At the time I became pregnant, I had mostly settled down. I was holding three jobs--cleaning motel rooms, working with the local marching band, and tending bar at a supper club. I was renting a room from a family I knew, and was in what I thought was a great relationship. It was the last remnant of the Bad Choices, and was The One I just Knew Would Work Out. Ah, the wrong assumptions of youth.....
I became so battle-weary from the Nausea Bug and Major Pukey that I was in the ER for IV rehydration multiple times. As soon as I learned the reason for my exhaustion and indigestion, The One decided he had better things to do, and promptly moved on. Because of the Battles, my doctor ordered me on absolute bed rest and high caloric intake so that I could gain weight, for Pete's sake, and so I had to make the decision to end all of my jobs. Which meant no income. Which meant no rent money.
Which meant moving back to my parents'.
My father did not speak to me for about two months.
Then one night, he just opened up. I guess it was probably just a little at first. And I think it might have been because right around that time, I met My Darling. And my dad really liked him.
Sidebar: My Darling and I met through his cousin J.L., whom I have known since the two of us were five and in the first grade together. J.L. and I reconnected through my mom (another story entirely), and I learned that this dear friend spent lots of time with two of her cousins--one of whom, of course, was My Darling. We all began to spend quite a lot of time together, and although I Knew From The First Moment That I Had Been Wrong About Everyone Else My Whole Life And This Was The Man God Made For Me And For Whom I Was Made, as I began to get to know him even better, eventually he would even come over to visit all on his own. I think this endeared My Darling to my dad--that My Darling didn't at all mind spending time getting to know me in the presence of my parents, especially my father. What man does that? I'll tell you: one with integrity, good intentions, and a good head squarely on his shoulders.
Again back to the story.
I don't remember the first conversation we had. I remember spending lots of time in the rocking chair in the study, with my dad drinking brandy and playing computer pinochle or spades or hearts.
He was never a drinker when I was growing up. His first wife was an alcoholic, and ironically, he detested people who could not control their impulses. Perhaps age softened him about this, and he allowed himself to enjoy the occasional snifter. Rarely to excess, or even a buzz. And only the good stuff--20-year aged Scotch. Expensive brandy. Really good wine.
When the brandy came out, so did his emotions, which was another new facet to my dad.
The conversation that meant so much to me, that really broke the barriers to my heart with him, was the one that made it OK for me to tell him, "I was afraid of you for years. I dreaded your presence, and wanted to be farther from you than I could ever get. And by the way, it hurt me deeply that all the discipline fell on me and C. and K., with none being meted out to J." And lots more, but that's the gist.
He told me lots of things about himself, some that I knew, and lots that I didn't. We both cried, and I although I knew that my dad could be a sentimental man, that part of him rarely seemed to manifest itself unless he was crying in the brandy.
I learned that he didn't really know how to discipline well, having grown up in the 20's and 30's in the South. Most times he was punished, it was with a switch of his selection. He was raised largely by his Aunt B. and a very kind woman he referred to as Mamie, but he didn't have a good male role model in the home until his Aunt B. married his Uncle A. Sadly, this was after a disastrously abusive marriage to a man who beat his Aunt B. when she was heavily pregnant, causing the loss of the baby's life, and ending the possibility for Aunt B. to ever have another baby. That baby was her first and only.
And though the politically correct TV psychobabble trend is to say, "That excuses all the bad choices he made when parenting his own children," I don't believe that. Because I was raised in a violent, loud, unloving home, where the thing that mattered most was what other people thought about our family--especially about our mother--and I flatly refuse to raise my children that way.
But it did help me to understand why he did some of the things he did.
And the reason for J. not being treated the same way? To his credit, my dad knew that he had messed things up terribly with me and C. and K., and he wanted to change...but at that late date, he simply didn't know how. Rather than beat J. and have him afraid of his dad, like the rest of us were, he just did....nothing. And by that time (J. was 15 by the time my dad and I came to this point), he also knew that he had been terribly wrong with J., and again, didn't know how to fix it. So he continued to do....nothing. I don't believe he ever forgave himself for that.
Oh, the dysfunction of it all.
There was so much more, so many conversations over lots of salty brandy, and it was then that I finally found the love of my father that I had scavenged for and craved for most of my life.
After years of anger and vile hatred of my dad, I was beginning to feel sorry for him, if not starting to have some idea of who he was as a man. And there I was, on the cusp of parenthood, terrified of what was to come...and needing my dad.
And finally, he was there.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Long time coming...
......sorry about that.
In the past two weeks:
Many areas around us have completely flooded, leaving roads closed, homes destroyed, families displaced, businesses forced to close, and spirits drooping. Thankfully, our home and family have been spared. The only flooding we had was in the yard, and was thoroughly enjoyed by the kids, who practically swam in the gigantic puddles.
My Darling's uncle was found, uh, "expired" in his apartment. Now, without going into too much detail, this dear man was one of 14 siblings, with 12 still living...and things are contentious between some of them at this point. Please keep this family deeply in your prayers, as they are certainly in need and will remain so for some time. I will have to put off writing too much though, because my temper's a little hot about all the hullabaloo in the family and I don't want to say something regrettable.
I have been reminded, thanks to another stellar post by Jenni over at One Thing to think about my dad. I've not written about him yet, and I need to. There are so many things that whir through my heart and mind when I think of my dad, and it's often confusing. Our relationship was something I still don't fully understand, and he's been gone nearly 8 years now (come July). I miss him. I'll always miss him. My memories are so mixed though that sometimes missing him is really painful and sometimes it's just a dull ache.
When I was a very small girl, I remember loving my dad so fiercely that it encompassed me. He was gone for days at a time because of his line of work, and I would miss him until my heart practically broke. When he would return home again, I would spend every minute I could near him, singing goofy songs with him, watching him work, listening to him make plays on words--my dad loved language, and often played with words in ways that confused and delighted me--listening to him tell stories, and listening to music with him. He loved classical (general term--all styles: classical, baroque, etc.) music and had a huge collection of records (remember vinyl?).
When it was time for him to leave again, I would hug his leg and beg him not to go until he'd have to ask my mother to kindly remove me. Sometimes he would drive off, sometimes we would take him to the train station or the airport, but always I cried. He would bring tokens of his trips for all of us kids. At that time, my oldest brother was in the Navy, and I was the youngest of three still at home. The three of us are close in age, but my oldest brother is quite a bit older--15 years older than I, to be exact. When my dad would come home, we would help him unpack, waiting patiently to see what he had brought for us. Sometimes it was a doll or a coin. Perhaps a shirt or postcard. Once he brought us each a work of art made from bark. (I have no idea what happened to those.) We looked forward to seeing him again, but I think we all really looked closely to see what he had brought, too.
Things changed in our home when I was about 8 or 9; I don't remember exactly when. All I know is that at some point I had to watch what I said and did very carefully. If the wrong thing was said, a backhand would be forthcoming. If something wasn't done right, there was hell to pay.
That phrase. "Hell to pay." Christians view hell as the eternal separation from God, and the teaching is that damnation is forever, period. Even from hell, if you were to want God, there is no chance of salvation anymore. When I was a kid, that hell for me was being constantly afraid.
If the dishes were done "wrong," you could very well be removed from bed in the middle of the night. By your hair. Dragged down the stairs. Made to stand in the kitchen and rewash the entire load in hot, hot, hot water. "Spanked" with the belt while you did it, especially if you cried.
I was afraid of being chased; it felt like I was always being chased. Up the stairs had to be my least favorite. It was instinctual to run that way, but not very smart. I mean, where can you go once you're up there? Also, ankles are easy to grab. To this day, I can't be touched on my ankles, especially on a stairway...I completely freak.
I remember running so many times...running to my Grandma's house or to a friend's house...anywhere but home. And once I was old enough to be at school as long as I wanted, I joined whatever I could just to stay anywhere but home. Tennis, marching band, yearbook club, Spanish club, musicals, whatever. Just not at home. There were a bunch of us who would "stay through" from the end of school until evening practices. And fall was heaven--tennis and then marching band. I was gone from 7:45 in the morning until 10:00 at night. I lived for the times he was gone on business and dreaded his return. He still brought things home with him, but I don't remember what they were. I don't think I cared.
All my friends knew what happened at my house. There were a few who knew that if I showed up past 8 or 9 at night with no ride from all the way across town, I needed to feel safe. They were my lifelines. None of them visited me at home. They were all scared of my dad.
I don't know what happened. I don't know why he became so angry, and why he was angry in my direction. My brother and sister were on the receiving end of it, too. The frustrating thing for us was that our younger brother (7 years my junior) was never "disciplined" the way we were. He pretty much did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, from the day he could walk. I try so hard not to be bitter about it, knowing that it wasn't his fault he didn't get the pants kicked off him. It's not easy to keep that in perspective though.
Our relationship continued to be in the toilet for years, until I came home one day.
I never thought I'd see the day, but my dad softened, and it seemed like it was literally overnight.
In the past two weeks:
Many areas around us have completely flooded, leaving roads closed, homes destroyed, families displaced, businesses forced to close, and spirits drooping. Thankfully, our home and family have been spared. The only flooding we had was in the yard, and was thoroughly enjoyed by the kids, who practically swam in the gigantic puddles.
My Darling's uncle was found, uh, "expired" in his apartment. Now, without going into too much detail, this dear man was one of 14 siblings, with 12 still living...and things are contentious between some of them at this point. Please keep this family deeply in your prayers, as they are certainly in need and will remain so for some time. I will have to put off writing too much though, because my temper's a little hot about all the hullabaloo in the family and I don't want to say something regrettable.
I have been reminded, thanks to another stellar post by Jenni over at One Thing to think about my dad. I've not written about him yet, and I need to. There are so many things that whir through my heart and mind when I think of my dad, and it's often confusing. Our relationship was something I still don't fully understand, and he's been gone nearly 8 years now (come July). I miss him. I'll always miss him. My memories are so mixed though that sometimes missing him is really painful and sometimes it's just a dull ache.
When I was a very small girl, I remember loving my dad so fiercely that it encompassed me. He was gone for days at a time because of his line of work, and I would miss him until my heart practically broke. When he would return home again, I would spend every minute I could near him, singing goofy songs with him, watching him work, listening to him make plays on words--my dad loved language, and often played with words in ways that confused and delighted me--listening to him tell stories, and listening to music with him. He loved classical (general term--all styles: classical, baroque, etc.) music and had a huge collection of records (remember vinyl?).
When it was time for him to leave again, I would hug his leg and beg him not to go until he'd have to ask my mother to kindly remove me. Sometimes he would drive off, sometimes we would take him to the train station or the airport, but always I cried. He would bring tokens of his trips for all of us kids. At that time, my oldest brother was in the Navy, and I was the youngest of three still at home. The three of us are close in age, but my oldest brother is quite a bit older--15 years older than I, to be exact. When my dad would come home, we would help him unpack, waiting patiently to see what he had brought for us. Sometimes it was a doll or a coin. Perhaps a shirt or postcard. Once he brought us each a work of art made from bark. (I have no idea what happened to those.) We looked forward to seeing him again, but I think we all really looked closely to see what he had brought, too.
Things changed in our home when I was about 8 or 9; I don't remember exactly when. All I know is that at some point I had to watch what I said and did very carefully. If the wrong thing was said, a backhand would be forthcoming. If something wasn't done right, there was hell to pay.
That phrase. "Hell to pay." Christians view hell as the eternal separation from God, and the teaching is that damnation is forever, period. Even from hell, if you were to want God, there is no chance of salvation anymore. When I was a kid, that hell for me was being constantly afraid.
If the dishes were done "wrong," you could very well be removed from bed in the middle of the night. By your hair. Dragged down the stairs. Made to stand in the kitchen and rewash the entire load in hot, hot, hot water. "Spanked" with the belt while you did it, especially if you cried.
I was afraid of being chased; it felt like I was always being chased. Up the stairs had to be my least favorite. It was instinctual to run that way, but not very smart. I mean, where can you go once you're up there? Also, ankles are easy to grab. To this day, I can't be touched on my ankles, especially on a stairway...I completely freak.
I remember running so many times...running to my Grandma's house or to a friend's house...anywhere but home. And once I was old enough to be at school as long as I wanted, I joined whatever I could just to stay anywhere but home. Tennis, marching band, yearbook club, Spanish club, musicals, whatever. Just not at home. There were a bunch of us who would "stay through" from the end of school until evening practices. And fall was heaven--tennis and then marching band. I was gone from 7:45 in the morning until 10:00 at night. I lived for the times he was gone on business and dreaded his return. He still brought things home with him, but I don't remember what they were. I don't think I cared.
All my friends knew what happened at my house. There were a few who knew that if I showed up past 8 or 9 at night with no ride from all the way across town, I needed to feel safe. They were my lifelines. None of them visited me at home. They were all scared of my dad.
I don't know what happened. I don't know why he became so angry, and why he was angry in my direction. My brother and sister were on the receiving end of it, too. The frustrating thing for us was that our younger brother (7 years my junior) was never "disciplined" the way we were. He pretty much did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, from the day he could walk. I try so hard not to be bitter about it, knowing that it wasn't his fault he didn't get the pants kicked off him. It's not easy to keep that in perspective though.
Our relationship continued to be in the toilet for years, until I came home one day.
I never thought I'd see the day, but my dad softened, and it seemed like it was literally overnight.
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