I am watching the movie, “My Sister’s Keeper” and experiencing the struggle of a mom fighting for her cancer stricken daughter. I hope I never have to have that fight. It is all about trying to make the right choices and decisions, pursuing the best interests of the patient, being the decider.
I came close with my dad. He was cancer stricken. He died. But I never had to be the decider. I did not even have a chance to fight for him.
He said how it went, what he wanted, what he did not want. He chose when to start the process of dying. Yes, the cancer would have taken him, but he got a head start and kept the lead ‘til nearly the end.
I never had to tell the doctors to turn off a machine, to stop treating him, to not resuscitate him. I did not have to spend weeks or months feeding him, changing him, cleaning him, and giving him his medicine. I did not have to make any decision that led to his death. He made them all, I supported him. He chose when to stop eating and drinking. He chose when he was not going to take his medicine. He chose not to pursue chemo. He decided three-score and ten was enough for him.
On the one hand, I think if I had to make those decisions, I may have been broken spiritually. On the other hand, in an odd sort of way, I feel robbed… and deficient. Somehow, I did not do enough. Yet, I know it is a feeling, not a truth.
Nonetheless, I cannot help but feel moved by the heroic nature of this character, Cameron Diaz playing Sara Fitzgerald, who has devoted more than a decade of her life to her daughter, Kate. She had to be the decider, make the choices, and suffer the consequences. In her case, she switched into fighting mode and fighting mode became her. The time, the resources, the stamina all make her look admirable and valiant. The family, strong and united (sort of) looks the better for the suffering and struggle.
But then I remember, I am watching a movie. The reality is not this. I am not sure what the reality would look like but I know it is not what I am seeing on the television screen. The reality would likely contain way more mess, trauma, strife, depression, grief, fecal matter, vomit, and irate patients (patience too).
I heard a line in a song during the movie…. "you'll feel better when you feel anything at all." I guess I am glad I am feeling something. Lord, knows for most of 2010 that has not been the case. My dad grew ill in 2009 but the official battles leading to the end of life accelerated in December of 2009 and ended on February 28, 2010.
Caught between feeling guilty for not doing enough, feeling robbed of an opportunity to serve, and feeling sorrow because I miss my dad, I guess I am feeling better because, at least, I am feeling something.
Mostly, I am just feeling glad not to have been the decider.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
How Much I am Loved
Originally published on Sunday, February 28, 2010 at 8:58pm
Mandisa sings, "Do you really know how much you are loved.... Take the depths of the deepest ocean and go deeper, take the top of the tallest tower and go higher... take the best day that you ever had and try to imagine better than that. Still don't come close to how much you are loved."
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K9IbUYRpQSA)
Saturday, February 27th, 2010 was the best day I ever had and I cannot imagine any better than that. It was my father's homegoing and lucky for us he scheduled it and we hosted it before he died as opposed to after. The entire day was filled with beauty and light. I am so absolutely grateful and joyful for the day, for the people, for the sunny skies, the brisk, wind, the tantalizing food, the laughter, the card playing, the music, the hugs....
I had no idea the amount of joy that could come from the warmth of loving people coming to tell Phil Jackson and his family how extraordinary he was. Though he was no longer conscious, I never doubted for a moment his ability to hear, absorb, and appreciate the generous words, gestures, and gifts. ..
I give thanks to family and friends who celebrated a day, all day, in such a wonderful way. We were so loud, we laughed so hard, we hugged so much... I am a bit surprised that the man did not wake up!
Mandisa sings that God's love goes out to everyone....that includes me and you. I am so comforted by and confident in the universe's ability to care for us, to gift us with loved ones, and take them away from us in a way that does not break us but , rather, makes us stronger and better.
I was loved. Deeply, profoundly, powerfully, persistently. I was cared for, valued, appreciated, nurtured and so much more. And I let that love wrap its arms around me very hard. My dad loved me and though he is now gone from this worl, I can still feel the strength of his grip on me. He held me with his care and concern for me for decades, even as an adult and a new mom, he gave to me and cared for me like a mother would a baby. It was figurative, not literal, and felt just as good. He taught me how to parent my son, he created the space for me to grow and prosper, to rise and shine, to live and love as deeply and powerfully as he. Most of all, he granted me peace by helping me to grow confident and trusting in my own voice, my own way, my own abilities. And all of that was in the last seven years, never mind the thirty-some odd years before that.
Through the late hours of the night on Saturday and as the early Sunday morning hours began, the laughter and friends and family faded, but his grip remained on my hand and in my heart. I felt such joy at being able to be the one to hold his hand through the night, to wipe his brow, to administer the morphine, to feel his heartbeating, barely, to hear his raspy breathing, barely there. I felt such gratitude and pride in waking up before the alarm clock to make sure the drugs never wore off so that he never felt pain or suffering.
His homegoing was his way and on his terms. I respected him and his choices and am grateful beyond measure to have been trusted by him to help his life end graciously, sweetly, peacefully. I am also grateful for my sister, my beloved, beautiful, brilliant sister who partnered with me in this journey these last few weeks. Our experience is forever and always a treasure, a collaborative union filled with the pain of losing a dad, the joy of serving him lovingly, and the comfort of being together struggling to make the right choices, not wanting to mess it up for dad!
Saying God is good all of the time sounds trite... though it is true. What is more appropriate is that we, only on special occasions, acknowledge that God is good all of the time.
What I really feel is that God is gracious and merciful all of the time and we take it for granted, do not always notice it, and would benefit tremendously if we were to wake up! Unlike my dad, I still can.
Mandisa sings, "Do you really know how much you are loved.... Take the depths of the deepest ocean and go deeper, take the top of the tallest tower and go higher... take the best day that you ever had and try to imagine better than that. Still don't come close to how much you are loved."
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K9IbUYRpQSA)
Saturday, February 27th, 2010 was the best day I ever had and I cannot imagine any better than that. It was my father's homegoing and lucky for us he scheduled it and we hosted it before he died as opposed to after. The entire day was filled with beauty and light. I am so absolutely grateful and joyful for the day, for the people, for the sunny skies, the brisk, wind, the tantalizing food, the laughter, the card playing, the music, the hugs....
I had no idea the amount of joy that could come from the warmth of loving people coming to tell Phil Jackson and his family how extraordinary he was. Though he was no longer conscious, I never doubted for a moment his ability to hear, absorb, and appreciate the generous words, gestures, and gifts. ..
I give thanks to family and friends who celebrated a day, all day, in such a wonderful way. We were so loud, we laughed so hard, we hugged so much... I am a bit surprised that the man did not wake up!
Mandisa sings that God's love goes out to everyone....that includes me and you. I am so comforted by and confident in the universe's ability to care for us, to gift us with loved ones, and take them away from us in a way that does not break us but , rather, makes us stronger and better.
I was loved. Deeply, profoundly, powerfully, persistently. I was cared for, valued, appreciated, nurtured and so much more. And I let that love wrap its arms around me very hard. My dad loved me and though he is now gone from this worl, I can still feel the strength of his grip on me. He held me with his care and concern for me for decades, even as an adult and a new mom, he gave to me and cared for me like a mother would a baby. It was figurative, not literal, and felt just as good. He taught me how to parent my son, he created the space for me to grow and prosper, to rise and shine, to live and love as deeply and powerfully as he. Most of all, he granted me peace by helping me to grow confident and trusting in my own voice, my own way, my own abilities. And all of that was in the last seven years, never mind the thirty-some odd years before that.
Through the late hours of the night on Saturday and as the early Sunday morning hours began, the laughter and friends and family faded, but his grip remained on my hand and in my heart. I felt such joy at being able to be the one to hold his hand through the night, to wipe his brow, to administer the morphine, to feel his heartbeating, barely, to hear his raspy breathing, barely there. I felt such gratitude and pride in waking up before the alarm clock to make sure the drugs never wore off so that he never felt pain or suffering.
His homegoing was his way and on his terms. I respected him and his choices and am grateful beyond measure to have been trusted by him to help his life end graciously, sweetly, peacefully. I am also grateful for my sister, my beloved, beautiful, brilliant sister who partnered with me in this journey these last few weeks. Our experience is forever and always a treasure, a collaborative union filled with the pain of losing a dad, the joy of serving him lovingly, and the comfort of being together struggling to make the right choices, not wanting to mess it up for dad!
Saying God is good all of the time sounds trite... though it is true. What is more appropriate is that we, only on special occasions, acknowledge that God is good all of the time.
What I really feel is that God is gracious and merciful all of the time and we take it for granted, do not always notice it, and would benefit tremendously if we were to wake up! Unlike my dad, I still can.
Friday Night Dinner
Originally published Thursday, March 11, 2010 at 10:42pm
Today it was a commercial for Outback Steakhouse. I saw the commercial, reflected a moment, my memory was jogged, and the tears began to trickle. My eyes sting. They dry up. The moment passes. My head hurts.
I never know what it will be that makes me think of my dad and cry. Sometimes I think of him, and I don't cry. Sometimes I just cry.
The Outback Steakhouse was where we were heading for dinner a few Fridays ago. It seems like a lifetime. Yet, it was one month ago, Friday, February 12, 2010. The snow storms, the biggest to hit the DC area in seven years had just finished and he had been discharged from the hospital in the midst of them. Snowbanks two feet high covered much of the region and that Friday was the first day back to work for most people after four days off.
Traffic was horrible. My twenty minute commute picking up my son at school to travel to my father's house took three times as long. Dad was patient. Then, it took a major effort to help him out of the house and make it to the car which I could not park in front of his house. I had to park four houses down in the middle of the road (I use the term park rather loosely; stop the car is more accurate).
Our fifteen minute ride to the restaurant took over an hour. Traffic lights were out, travel lanes were not plowed. Congestion abounded. Amazingly Quinton was sane in the backseat enjoying his Ipod and Dad and I just talked. We talked the whole time. It was probably the longest uninterrupted, adult conversation he and I had had in years.
But we never made it to the Outback Steakhouse. He would have ordered the Prime rib, Quinton would have had the mac and cheese, and I would have had the grilled shrimp. I know this. That is what we always ordered. We always tried to get there early on the Fridays we went, like by 6:30 or so to beat the night time, date time crowd.
Up until that night, Friday night dinner had been our family tradition for years, four to be exact. We started in January 2006. I had started training to run a marathon and needed to get up early on Saturdays so Dad started staying over on Friday nights to watch Quinton. We started doing Friday dinner and then we would come home to my house together instead of him going home to his house. I would be up and out at 6am, or 5am when summer came, and Dad would be there when Q woke up. They would hang out cook breakfast or go out to eat. I would make it home by 10 or 11am. We did that routine for ten months until the October date for the Marine Corps Marathon. I ran it. Finished in just over five hours. It was one of the most life changing experiences I will ever have. I grew so much in my abilities to persevere and to ask for help. I fell down… a lot. And I got back up. I relied on a community of people to help me achieve my personal goal. I accomplished success for others as well. I raised money for AIDS while I trained. And I taught myself, my dad, and my son what the power of the words “I can do it” meant coming out of my mouth.
When the race was won, we kept up with the Friday dinners. But Dad no longer slept over. He went home afterwards. I don’t blame him. I did not have a guest room. All those months, he slept on the sofa. Never complained, never commented, never showed any signs of anything other than duty. He taught me in that way. Put your head down and do the thing you committed to do. No costs assigned to the requestor. Just do the thing.
That last Friday dinner did not happen at the Outback because they had lost power and had no electricity. The Home Depot and the Giant grocery store across the way, the traffic lights, and the entire Prince Georges Plaza mall area on the south side of East West Highway was out. We went to the Olive Garden across the parking lot instead.
Everything worked out really weel. We found parking, got a table quickly, Dad ate pretty well. It was there, for the first time in our 200 plus Friday night dinners, that I learned for the first time that Friday night dinners out with his folks is what he did when he was younger. I had never known. I do not even remember how it came up. I asked some question about when he was younger, the age Quinton is now. He described the restaurant and the building. The name escapes me now. He said that his family, his mother, father, sister, and himself, went out most Fridays for years. Interesting.
I loved my dad. I enjoyed his company. And long ago he taught me the ability to enjoy being in someone’s company without having to fill up the space with words or television or other entertainment. He allowed me to experience unconditional friendship and companionship. I learned to respect him and his space and to let him be. I learned to accept him as he was and let go of any wishes for him to be different…. For our time to be different.
We did not laugh and talk and fill up Friday nights with good cheer and happiness. We just went to dinner on Friday nights. Sometimes it was fun, sometimes it was quite, sometimes it was long, sometimes it was not. We went all over town... College Park, downtown, Chinatown, Silver Spring, Hyattsville, Baltimore, Capitol Hill, Union Station, Wisconsin Ave., and, more. When the recession hit heavy, we started eating in at home, cooking or ordering Chinese food.
I have not figured out what to do about dinner on Fridays yet. In time I know I will. For now, I can look at the Outback Steakhouse commercials, but the Olive Garden ones tear me to pieces.
Today it was a commercial for Outback Steakhouse. I saw the commercial, reflected a moment, my memory was jogged, and the tears began to trickle. My eyes sting. They dry up. The moment passes. My head hurts.
I never know what it will be that makes me think of my dad and cry. Sometimes I think of him, and I don't cry. Sometimes I just cry.
The Outback Steakhouse was where we were heading for dinner a few Fridays ago. It seems like a lifetime. Yet, it was one month ago, Friday, February 12, 2010. The snow storms, the biggest to hit the DC area in seven years had just finished and he had been discharged from the hospital in the midst of them. Snowbanks two feet high covered much of the region and that Friday was the first day back to work for most people after four days off.
Traffic was horrible. My twenty minute commute picking up my son at school to travel to my father's house took three times as long. Dad was patient. Then, it took a major effort to help him out of the house and make it to the car which I could not park in front of his house. I had to park four houses down in the middle of the road (I use the term park rather loosely; stop the car is more accurate).
Our fifteen minute ride to the restaurant took over an hour. Traffic lights were out, travel lanes were not plowed. Congestion abounded. Amazingly Quinton was sane in the backseat enjoying his Ipod and Dad and I just talked. We talked the whole time. It was probably the longest uninterrupted, adult conversation he and I had had in years.
But we never made it to the Outback Steakhouse. He would have ordered the Prime rib, Quinton would have had the mac and cheese, and I would have had the grilled shrimp. I know this. That is what we always ordered. We always tried to get there early on the Fridays we went, like by 6:30 or so to beat the night time, date time crowd.
Up until that night, Friday night dinner had been our family tradition for years, four to be exact. We started in January 2006. I had started training to run a marathon and needed to get up early on Saturdays so Dad started staying over on Friday nights to watch Quinton. We started doing Friday dinner and then we would come home to my house together instead of him going home to his house. I would be up and out at 6am, or 5am when summer came, and Dad would be there when Q woke up. They would hang out cook breakfast or go out to eat. I would make it home by 10 or 11am. We did that routine for ten months until the October date for the Marine Corps Marathon. I ran it. Finished in just over five hours. It was one of the most life changing experiences I will ever have. I grew so much in my abilities to persevere and to ask for help. I fell down… a lot. And I got back up. I relied on a community of people to help me achieve my personal goal. I accomplished success for others as well. I raised money for AIDS while I trained. And I taught myself, my dad, and my son what the power of the words “I can do it” meant coming out of my mouth.
When the race was won, we kept up with the Friday dinners. But Dad no longer slept over. He went home afterwards. I don’t blame him. I did not have a guest room. All those months, he slept on the sofa. Never complained, never commented, never showed any signs of anything other than duty. He taught me in that way. Put your head down and do the thing you committed to do. No costs assigned to the requestor. Just do the thing.
That last Friday dinner did not happen at the Outback because they had lost power and had no electricity. The Home Depot and the Giant grocery store across the way, the traffic lights, and the entire Prince Georges Plaza mall area on the south side of East West Highway was out. We went to the Olive Garden across the parking lot instead.
Everything worked out really weel. We found parking, got a table quickly, Dad ate pretty well. It was there, for the first time in our 200 plus Friday night dinners, that I learned for the first time that Friday night dinners out with his folks is what he did when he was younger. I had never known. I do not even remember how it came up. I asked some question about when he was younger, the age Quinton is now. He described the restaurant and the building. The name escapes me now. He said that his family, his mother, father, sister, and himself, went out most Fridays for years. Interesting.
I loved my dad. I enjoyed his company. And long ago he taught me the ability to enjoy being in someone’s company without having to fill up the space with words or television or other entertainment. He allowed me to experience unconditional friendship and companionship. I learned to respect him and his space and to let him be. I learned to accept him as he was and let go of any wishes for him to be different…. For our time to be different.
We did not laugh and talk and fill up Friday nights with good cheer and happiness. We just went to dinner on Friday nights. Sometimes it was fun, sometimes it was quite, sometimes it was long, sometimes it was not. We went all over town... College Park, downtown, Chinatown, Silver Spring, Hyattsville, Baltimore, Capitol Hill, Union Station, Wisconsin Ave., and, more. When the recession hit heavy, we started eating in at home, cooking or ordering Chinese food.
I have not figured out what to do about dinner on Fridays yet. In time I know I will. For now, I can look at the Outback Steakhouse commercials, but the Olive Garden ones tear me to pieces.
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