Remembering

bumper sticker found at ihatecancer.net

Ten years ago this month my father was diagnosed with Glioblastoma Multiforme, the most aggressive kind of brain tumor.

You may recognize this post at 4 Perspectives from a couple of years ago on my blog, but it's what has been on my mind for the past couple of days so I decided to re-post it.

I just miss him.

Memorial Day

I went to the cemetery with my mom yesterday to go visit my dad's little spot of ground. We brought along some of the younger kids and enjoyed just watching the other visitors as they came and went while we sat there at dad's grave.

Hubba was with us and he quickly recognized the name on the gravestone as his own (he is named after my dad and has been learning to write his name). "Hey, that's MY name!" he pointed out. "Yes, Hubba," I told him, "remember how I told you that you are named after my dad? This is his grave."

Hubba has heard stories about my dad many times. He knows that he died. We have brought him to the cemetery before. But apparently this time he was old enough for it to all sink in. "Grandpa Hubba died? That makes me so sad," he remarked. And then as he looked around at the cemetery, he started to cry. "All of these people died? All of the graves are for people who died? Why did so many people have to die?"

So there I sat, amidst the coming and going of so many other people who were there to visit the final resting place of their loved ones, trying to explain the inevitability, pain, unexpectedness... but also hope in death to my tender-hearted 5-year-old boy. I told him how it was amazing that he even took on the characteristics of my dad as a little boy - the white-blonde hair and spunky personality. I ended by telling him that I named him after my dad because I loved my dad so much and I wanted to be able to remember him every day. How every time I say Hubba's name or look at him it makes me happy.

Hubba wiped his eyes on his sleeve and gave me a hug. "Does it make Grandma happy, too, to see me when she misses Grandpa?" I assured him that it did.

As we stood to leave, Hubba grabbed my mom's hand to walk to the car. He looked up at her and said, "I love you, Grandma." She smiled and squeezed his hand, a way she and my dad used to communicate their love for each other. I couldn't help but be filled with emotion when I saw the two of them walking hand-in-hand.

I like to think that Dad was pleased, too.

Spreading Sunshine

Friday was the 9th anniversary of the day my dad died. Rather than mourning this profound loss, I chose to celebrate his life by spreading sunshine all week long. You can read more about that here.

Friday was the big finale. Dad loved ice cream so I arranged to have our local grocery store print off some coupons for free soft-serve ice cream that I could purchase and then share with others. I must admit, I was a bit disappointed in the look of these. I guess I had pictured something with a bit more pizazz than this:


So I decided to spice them up a bit.


I found a template for some pockets and got to work cutting out & gluing together little pouches to deliver my coupons in.


I added messages to the front of each one and then plastered them in unexpected places all over our city.












I have no idea who got any of these coupons or if any of them will even be used, but the simple hope that it would make someone smile to enjoy one of my dad's favorite treats was worth every effort.

Forever Is A Mighty Long Time

Some days I miss my dad a lot.

Some days, for no particular reason, I will have him on my mind all day long.

Other days something will trigger that place in my brain where all of my 'dad-memories' are stored.

In either case there is nothing much to do about it... except to remember.

When you lose someone you love to death, there is no describing the range of emotions experienced. I'm not sure I can speak for anyone else, but for me it has not gotten any easier as the years have passed. There will always be that void that only a father can fill. I will always love him and miss his physical presence in my life.

On days where I am particularly besieged with these thoughts and memories, I like to go visit his grave. There is some solace in being able to just sit there and sign to him, tell him my thoughts and feelings, disappointments and dreams. I am sure I appear to be something of a mad-woman, hands waving about in rushed thought and frenzied words as I sit at his graveside there in the cemetery, but it is my way of working through things.

When I have these days, I talk and cry and laugh and even scream until I have said my piece. And when I am done, I look down at his grave and see this:
And I am comforted. I find peace. I am so thankful to know that I will see him again someday.

I am thankful for the knowledge that death is only a temporary situation.

I am thankful that my family is a forever family.

Happy Memorial Day

We bought some of the brightest of these
And did some of this on them
Then we drove over here
And sent our messages of love to the heavens
Then watched as the sky swallowed them up.
We shared some great memories

And visited some friends.
We marveled over the beautiful landscape
Then headed back home.
It was a happy Memorial Day.

If I Should Wake Before I Die

Photo from cdowk.org

Have you ever watched Little House on the Prairie?

One of my favorite episodes shares the title of this post (yes, I totally plagiarized it, but look, now I'm giving credit where it's due). The premise is that Miss Amy, one of the elderly residents of Walnut Grove, decides to stage her own funeral (with the reluctant help of the Ingalls family and Doc Baker) in order to get her family to pay her a visit. And it works. Not only is she able to attend her own wake, she is able to overhear many fond memories and thoughts in her behalf. When Miss Amy finally reveals to her children that she is, in fact, alive and well - they are upset with her. What happens next is the part that really gets me thinking.

Miss Amy's daughter asks her, How could you do it? How could you let them tell us you were dead? And then her son adds, You had no right, Mother!

Here is Miss Amy's reply:
Rights? You're talking about rights? Whose rights? I've got a right to see my own children and grandchildren. It comes before anything else! And you ask how I could do it. Well, it isn't hard when you've tried everything else, when you're so hungry for the sight and feel of your family. You can't sleep at night thinking of them, and when it comes to you, the one thing that will bring them to you is your own wake...well, it isn't hard to do at all. Sean, I heard you say it. "Why is it," you said, "you have to wait until they're gone before you know what they mean to you"? Well, you mean everything to me, you three. 80 years old, and I don't have many birthdays left. Maybe...maybe not even one. And when you think of that, you have...you have to be foolish.

Every year when Memorial Day weekend rolls around, I think of this episode.

I think of my Dad's funeral and what a remarkable gathering it was.

I think of how much he would have loved being there, reminiscing with old friends, laughing over memories of days past, hearing about how much his friendship and kindness had influenced others.

And, like Miss Amy, I wonder - why do we wait? Why do we hold back and not let others know how great we think they are or how much we love them and treasure the times we've shared? Why don't we make time to enjoy these relationships while those we care for are still around to enjoy them with us? Why should we wait until a funeral to really come to understand and express how much someone means to us?

We shouldn't.

I think Miss Amy was on to something.

Dad

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8 years ago today you silently slipped away

in the quiet morning hours

an escape from your pain, a beginning for mine

leaving behind only memories

in mental and tangible photographs.

It unsettled me

that the world could go on turning

without you here.

Time does not make the loss easier
does not fill the empty part of me
which still longs for one final dance;
the way we used to sway when I was young
and again when your time here was ending.

Yet, hope warms my soul

and your strength embraces me

when I need to face life's storms.

In moments of silence I often reflect
on the life you lived
and the love you left with us

a priceless treasure I hold closely guarded

until the promise of forever is kept.

What Would I Say If You Were Here

Thank you, Dad, for giving me my love for children.

Thank you for teaching me to have a sense of humor.

Thank you for giving me that uncontrollable love for performing.

Thanks for loving me unconditionally.

Thank you for teaching me compassion.

Thank you for my awesome metabolism.

Thanks for all your support in whatever I decided to do.

Thanks for making me laugh.

Happy Birthday, Papa.

Every song I sing is for you.

I Spy Memorial Day Weekend

(The crew visiting the cemetery in 2007)

Every Memorial Day weekend for the past 6 years I like to take my kids to our local cemetery to visit my Dad's grave.

I like to tell them stories about him.

I am afraid they will forget him, and that makes me sad.

One thing I tell them every year is that he loved Spiderman because the web-slinger's hands look like the sign for "I love you" when he's ready to shoot.

(Sign language version)

(Spiderman version)

If you're at my local cemetery this Memorial Day weekend, you can play a large-scale version of "I Spy". See if you can find my dad's grave site - it's got the sign language "I love you" hand on it.

If you need a hint: it's near a paved road.

Theme Week: Flashback Friday

This is my "ugly sweater". You may have seen me wear it before. It is very accommodating - I can wear it all the time, pregnant or not (as seen in above photo, taken this morning by Allen). I wonder if people who see me wearing this ask themselves - "Why?" Here's the deal:

This was my Dad's sweater.

When Dad died, this was the only thing of his that I really wanted to have. I have fond memories of his wearing this sweater from the time I was young until the very end of his life. It brings back thoughts of Thanksgiving dinners at Aunt Jan's (who, legend has it, made the sweater for him), snow storms in Iowa and cold mornings in East Carbon. But it mostly reminds me of dancing with Dad.

As a little girl I would stand on his feet and he would dance around the room with me - music or not. As a teenager we would get crazy dancing to the latest Pet Shop Boys or U2 song as the music video played in the background on MTV. And near the end of his life, as I was helping to care for him, I would take his hands and help him stand from the kitchen table and walk, he forwards and I backwards, face-to-face, to the couch. As we moved towards the couch like this, he would occasionally stop. I would look at him to see what was the matter, and he would get a twinkle in his eyes and start to sway our hands back and forth then slowly move his feet up and down, still wanting to dance. Oh, how I miss dancing with Dad.

Yesterday as I was driving around town getting groceries, this song by Luther Vandross came on the radio. I have heard it before, but as it reached the chorus it was especially difficult to hold back tears:

If I could get another chance, another walk, another dance with him
I'd play a song that would never, ever end
How I'd love, love, love
To dance with my father again.

(Uncle Roy, Dad sporting the sweater, and Aunt Charlotte)

So now if you see me wearing my ugly sweater, you'll understand - there's so much more involved than just warmth and fashion.