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.

Yesterday

Yesterday was busy. There was a beautiful funeral for my dear Aunt Sandra who passed away last week and then the impromptu family reunion that always takes place after such events. All in all, it was a wonderful day and I was once again reminded of how amazingly blessed I am to have married into such an awesome family.

I also posted at 4P yesterday, but I was too busy to remind you to click over there to read it. But I'm reminding you now, and you know how the saying goes: better late than never! It's definitely not my usual blog fodder, but I just couldn't resist...

If you know who this is (I didn't until a few days ago), I hope you think I'm kidding. But I'm not.

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.

Bye Bye Birdie

Wednesday night began with an announcement in the backyard. "Guess what, guys?" I asked as cheerfully as possible. "Tonight, we are going to PAR-TY!"

Everyone was immediately suspicious. "Why?" asked All-a-Boy. "What for?" asked Cowgirl. "Do we get refreshments?" asked Princess.

"YES!" I answered enthusiastically. "We are going to have ICE CREAM! And COOKIES! But first someone has to guess which chore we are taking out of the job jar FOREVER!"

Hopeful guesses were immediately shouted out. Vacuuming? Dishes? Laundry? Bathrooms?
Nope.

Shoe job? Trash job? Toy closet?

Keep guessing.

Dusting? Make beds? Clean Buddy's cage?
"That's it! We don't have to clean Buddy's cage anymore!" I told them. And then All-a-Boy, in true tease-cowgirl-who-loves-the-bird-most fashion, said, "And then Buddy will DIE!"

"Actually," I interrupted, "he already did."

(I told you I wasn't good at this kind of thing.)

Weeping and wailing and questions of unbelief began immediately and I explained how I had found Buddy and then buried him. But tonight were going to celebrate Buddy's life, not be sad about his death. Cowgirl took it the hardest, as was expected. All-a-Boy was quick to make up for his untimely teasing.
"Where did you bury him?" Cowgirl asked. It was the question that I dreaded most. Because honestly, it had taken everything in me to place Buddy's little birdie body in a paper bag. I did not want to deal with a backyard burial. So, I buried him in the only place I was capable of... (please do not think badly of me!) the trash can.

"He is buried somewhere in the yard," I answered (truthfully!) while passing out ice cream bars. And then the Buddy Celebration began.

We all took turns jumping on the trampoline and sharing our favorite memory of our little feathered friend.
Thumbelina recalled the time that our bathroom was flooding and All-a-Boy ran to Buddy's cage, opened it, then yelled, "Fly away, Buddy! Save yourself! Be free!"
All-a-Boy remembered when Buddy became a phantom bird and found his way into the crevice between the kitchen sink and the dishwasher.
Princess laughed as she talked about the time Buddy flew onto the tray of Baby O's highchair and O was excited for the company.
Cowgirl's favorite memory was of the day we got Buddy.
I don't think Hubba had a story, but I think he may have seen Buddy's ghost...

Afterward, we went inside for a movie night and slumber party.
The next morning I asked Cowgirl if she would like to clean the cage and sell it then use the proceeds to purchase a stuffed animal which lives online as well. She liked that idea.
We listed the cage for sale and Cowgirl had cash in hand by this afternoon.

We're going to buy her a Webkinz bird tomorrow.

(For those of you who marveled over my cruelty in burying the bird in the outside trash receptacle, hate me no more. Allen always had a soft spot in his heart for Buddy and wanted to give him a proper burial so I dug the bag out from under a few things and he will find a new resting place in our yard very soon.)

Flown The Coop

I have never been a huge advocate of pets. For all of you who may be pet lovers, I apologize. But let's be honest - would I be a responsible pet owner with nine children to care for? (Hint: the answer is an enthusiastic NO.)

But, Gerb, you are thinking, I remember reading about your bird. You do have a pet.

Actually, did.

But the kids don't know yet.

Yesterday Allen and Coolister flew the coop to go on a rafting trip. Not more than 2 hours after their departure I noticed that our bird was not in his cage. This is normal - he sometimes flies around the kitchen and sleeps on the stove. (I know!) But not today. So, as I stood on a chair and peeked into the bottom of his cage, there he was.

Dead.

This is not the way this is supposed to have worked out. I mean, we've had the dang bird for almost 3 years now, and his previous owner had him for at least a year before that. So as far as parakeets go, he lived a pretty long life. He was loved plenty, ate lots of enriched birdseed, he even had his own grape-shaped chunk of chalk. Does it get any better? (Hint: The correct answer is NO, it does not.)

I am not sure what led to my finding him laying there with his little birdie feet in the air, but find him I did. And Allen is gone. So as soon as the kids realize he's not happily chirping about in his cage it will fall to ME to have to somehow tell them he is now flying around happily in Birdie Heaven where the streets are paved with gourmet birdseed and the trees are all made of spinach leaves.

I did not sign up for this.

Allen agreed to take the bird in.

Allen thought it would be good for the kids to have a pet.

Allen loved the bird.

Allen is on a river trip with the scouts!

So, quickly, before my kids figure out what happened (so far no one is suspicious...), I need some advice. How should I tell my kids that Buddy is no longer with us?

Do I say that he flew the coop (lie) or just tell them he died (which is sure to bring on more questions)?

When the wee ones begin to cry, do I feign sadness along with them (lie) or ask for help in cleaning out the cage so we can sell it and take everyone for ice cream with the proceeds (bribe)?

What would YOU do?

The Old Barn

It doesn't look like much from far away. The aging, dilapidated barn sits nestled among green fields and small creeks and ponds with only horses and mosquitoes for company. At first glance it appears to be a ramshackle sort of place with broken windows and cobwebbed beams.


Yet, for my mother-in-law, it stores a wealth of memories and stories from her childhood years. This place is all that is left of the dairy farm where she grew up in Afton, Wyoming.


As we wandered through the old barn, listening to mom's recollections of years past, I felt a melancholy kind of sadness come over me. I could picture the barn as it had been back in its prime and wondered how it had come to be the way it was now, broken and in disrepair. It got me thinking about people.


Like the barn, we all start off sturdy and clean with a new coat of paint. As we face life's storms the paint slowly peels and cracks. Windows break. Grime accumulates. Beams and boards warp. And before we know it we are only a shell of our former selves, something that no sandpaper or even a fresh coat of paint can repair.

When others look at us, do they see what's really still there?


Do they look for the story behind each bent nail and loose floorboard or do they only notice the wear and tear, not realizing that it is simply evidence of something more?

Do others notice the beauty of the places where the cracks in the walls and shattered windows have allowed light to shine through?


If we could, what would we choose? To look as striking and solid as we did in our prime, never having to endure any of the pounding hail or lightning strikes that life throws at us - or to tolerate various storms and allow some of life's experience to show through in these bodies that house the person who we truly have become through it all?


At the end of my life I hope I'm like the run-down old barn. Perhaps weather beaten and warped, but well loved because of the experiences and interactions that have made me that way.


And every last measure of who I am bursting with stories of a life lived to the fullest.

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.