Death Is Nothing At All

Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away to the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
That, we still are.

Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect.
Without the trace of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolute unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?

I am but waiting for you.
For an interval.
Somewhere. Very near.
Just around the corner.

All is well.

Henry Scott Holland ~ 1847-1918
Canon of St. Paul's Cathedral ~ London. UK

Holding On

I've always wanted to be remembered by my children as someone who was strong, classy; someone who endured her troubles with grace. But I don't think that will be the case. I'm not strong, and grace and class would not be adjectives used to describe how I've dealt with loss. I'm drowning in misery, and don't even have the strength to pretend otherwise. And that's a darn shame.

I know I have to crawl out from under this. I know I do. Today I met Lisa for lunch in Seattle, and it took every ounce of energy I had to leave the comfort of my place and walk out the door. These days, I fight the urge every day to not just keep my head in the sand. To just sit on the couch and watch the Hallmark channel, one Christmas movie after the other. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday I have to add, and I should know, I've spent a lot of Saturdays on my couch barely moving except to eat, pee, and eat some more. But honestly, if I didn't have to go to work, or communicate with family, and friends, I think I'd spend the rest of my life with my butt attached to the couch, until all of my tears dried up, if ever. But today was nice. We went to KP Kuka Pradel after lunch, my favorite silver jewelry store, owned by a young woman and her drop dead gorgeous husband from Bulgaria. Really nice people, with really unique and beautifully customized jewelry. I saw a ring I really, really like but can't afford. It's a pretty bauble that'll distract me for a moment, and I think I need it, which means I'll probably buy it, and then spend the next couple of paydays starving because of it. Oh well, been there, done that, and didn't even have anything worthwhile to show for it.

In January, I'm planning a trip to Hawaii to spend time with Michael, Melissa and my beautiful Diamond. Sometimes when you know you're drowning, you've got to reach out and find something or someone to hold on to -- not literally of course, unless it's a nice piece of jewelry you're tight fisting for dear life. As a rule, people tend not to like things hanging on them, especially a piece of emotional and grieving bit of baggage like myself.

Oh my God though…sometimes my chest gets so tight and I feel overwhelmed and sad and...like, I'm stuck in infinity and even if it’s only a day, it’s too long living in a space that was previously filled with the life of someone I've loved all my life. It's frickin' hard.

But, I'll keep my mind and thoughts busy with nonsense when I can, like winning the lotto, buying pretty stuff I can't afford, and planning trips to see my kids and their kids, oh and I've got Vegas to look forward to in May with Mary, my best friend in the whole wide world, and her siblings. I’ve got all of that to look forward to.

So, I need to call the travel agent on Tuesday to get my trip booked and juggle my bills so I can buy myself something pretty. Okay, it'll be alright.

One More Day

I can't seem to go back and read the old posts. I've tried, but don't make it very far. So painful. I feel like I'm trapped in limbo, can't move forward, can't go back. I want to see Dad sitting in his chair, in his blue checkered robe, eating something he enjoys alot, but probably shouldn't be eating. I want to walk through the door at the house and hear him call out from the living room, "Angie is that you?" And I'll respond. "No Dad, it's not me." I can hear him in my head. "Okay 'not you', what're we having for dinner tonight?"

I complained about not always being able to go home on weekends, and Dad's constant chatter about stuff...and going on and on about somebody or something. And now I can't stand the silence.

I miss the sound of your voice. I miss you, Dad, and I'm so sorry for my complaining. I'd give back all of this time on my hands and all of the empty weekends since you passed to be taking care of you again, to have you back in life. I'd give anything for just one more day.

For the rest of my life there won't be one day I don't think of you. I know this is true because there hasn't been one day since you've passed where you haven't been on my mind. Same with mom and Kenny. I don't know what to do with this contant feeling of sadness...this feeling of being so lost in a place where you aren't here anymore.

I love you!

Headcheese

I was shopping at the Marketplace at the Lakewood Mall the other day and came across some headcheese. I found myself reaching for my cell phone to call Dad. Only a heartbeat, then I remembered...oh...right. I started to put it in my cart, then held it in my hand for a second...sighed, and laid it back down. Dad loved headcheese, the cheese that isn't. It's actually a meat jelly made with the flesh from the head of a calf or pig and set in aspic. It's a European cold cut. One of those acquired taste kind of things, like chitterlings (a.k.a. chitlins') and pickled pigsfeet. Dad talked about it so much that one day I was reaching in the fridge for something, and grabbed a slice, just because. After that I found myself picking it up at the Safeway, until they stopped selling it, and bringing it home for Dad. It's funny the things, or people, or moments that cause an ache. I'm hoping the day will come when the ache will be less, and replaced by a warm smile instead.

But not today; today my heart hurts.

I miss you Dad. :)

Reflecting

I was going over and over in my mind last night a consultation I had with the psyche nurse that contracted with the facility where Dad was staying -- my heart aches revisiting this stuff -- but she was trying to convince me that upping Dad's antipsychotic meds was in his best interest. Bullshit! In my discussions with the facility's doctor we had agreed his meds would be reduced so that he could be weaned off of them all together. "I think those meds are toxic to his system," I told her. "I'm not comfortable with the drugs and I'm afraid they may not interact well with the other 20-30 other medications he's on." She looked at me with the kind of sympathy dripping from her eyes that she probably reserved for family caregivers who think they know more than medical professionals when, her attitude suggested, they do not.

"Look she said," lowering her voice the way you would with an excitable child. "Your Dad was taking his shirt off in front of the other residents the other day. That's no way for anyone to live." I think I recall her patting my hand. "If you care about your Dad you'll consider this so that he can have quality to his life. I had to do the same thing with my own grandfather.“ I remember thinking she must not have liked her grandfather much. “And I've looked into his other medications and these drugs will not interact negatively." A balled face lie.

I told her I needed to think about it and possibly do a bit of research on the drugs in question. She was quick to add that the information found on the net may be daunting but that I needed to look more at the benefits this could make in Dad's day to day life.

The information I found on such drugs indicated increased risk of death and that the incident of death was typically caused by infection and heart problems in elderly patients. I remember feeling so torn. There was no one willing to stay home with Dad during the day anymore, especially now that his health had further declined. He was no longer mobile and moving him around would probably take at least two people. I didn't want to keep Dad on the stuff, but the next day he tried to get up from his bed and fell. When the nurse from the facility called me she said that I needed to reconsider putting him on the recommended dosage as (strong insinuation) they would not be able to keep him safe at the facility because he would continue to try and get up when unsupervised, and hurt himself again. Hating myself, I authorized the use of the medications as suggested by the psyche nurse however made it clear I would be making every effort to bring him home and at that time would withdraw him from all antipsychotic medications.

By the time Dad came home it was too late. He was coming home to die.

I hate -- really detest -- that elderly people are being over medicated, regardless to the danger to them, so that they can be better "managed" while in rehab or hospital environments. Dad was to the point where he was zombie like and I will never forget my conversation with the doctor about reducing the medication, "But he's doing so much better now. He doesn't try and get out of bed." No, he didn't try to do anything, except lay there, his eyes bleak and so sad. To my absolute breaking heart, I truly understand and believe with every ounce of my soul it was not the best thing for him. I wish I'd trusted my instincts, taken him off the medications they'd prescribed, and brought him home sooner. The replay of past events leading to Dad's passing -- rewinds over and over again in my mind -- torments me.

I have developed what I now understand to be a very deep distrust of the medical community. Simply put, they lie. With respect to elderly people, there is not enough respect for the adults that they were and are, for the contributions they've made over the years to the communities in which they've lived, or effort given to preserve the dignity they own and rightly deserve.

Dad's worst fears became his reality the last few months of his life, being bed or wheelchair bound, sitting in wet undergarments until an attendant could assist him, wheeled into a room and left to sit aimlessly in front of a television set until being wheeled back to his room. And as his family, we should have worked harder, together, to bring him home sooner, so that the time he had left could be spent where he was the most comfortable; in dignity and love.

And whether we realize it or not, Dad's last days were also our worst nightmares come true; a vivid and detailed look into our own futures.

Making a Shift

I have a lot of anger to muck through. I know that. A lot of guilt over decisions I made pertaining to dad's treatment -- I was all over the place in my ignorance, not knowing or understanding some of the things being done to him by doctors, feeling deep down the medications they were giving him were toxic to his body but not having enough confidence to go up against the medical professionals -- who were telling me it was the best thing for him -- to put a stop to it. Angry at myself for being so stupid and ignorant when Dad trusted me to make decisions concerning his life. I've got to find a way through this or it's going to eat me up.

This morning I was listening to Tyler Perry talking about his new show airing this Sunday called, Visionaries, a show about his life. Something he said really resonated with me. He said that after losing his mom he threw himself into his work which helped him through the grieving process, helped him to shift from the sadness and get back to who he was or rather a new version of who he was. He further stated that once you enter into something tragic you're never the same again. So true.

The shifting is excruciating for some I think. And sometimes, just when you're starting to make the transition to a point of shifting, you're hit again. I think that's where I'm at right now. I’ve been trying since mom and Kenny passed to get back to the person I was before, which just isn’t possible. Nothing can be like it was. I guess I'll just keep trying to find a way around it all though. Make some kind of transition to normalcy.

My own way.

I think

I think life is fragile, incredibly beautiful, complex and heartbreaking. I think loss is a fact of life that comes on its own terms, which sucks. I think moving forward after loss as fast as we can is a fallacy that we buy into, because we have no choice in the matter...or at least we've come to believe we don't. Just the word 'move' insinuates that it's a smooth process, when it's anything but. And that sucks.

Finding a good balance during difficult times is tricky, like climbing a mountain without the proper equipment. Loss is that one slip that leaves you completely undone, and tumbling into an abyss. 'Abyss', the only word I could think of that totally encompasses such a dark place as this place I find myself in. Again. I'm learning and relearning, to live life after death, and still I haven't quite caught on to the 'how' of it. Damn, I mean, I was still trying to find a good grip after mom and then Kenny, and now here I am again, walking around in a funk, trying to function like someone who's moved on, because it's the thing I'm told I should be doing, and I'm doing very badly at it. It's like a game, and I'm playing without really understanding the rules, and society always has rules. We tend to do what's expected don't we? On the outside anyway, where no one can see in. And the stuff that goes on inside, is a completely different animal all together. Isn't it? I don't know if anyone reading this can relate with what I'm saying, sometimes I don't even understand it enough to pull it out of my heart where it can make some kind of sense, and yet, here I am. Time does what it does, but for me, it never does it quite right. I'm left practically vibrating with anger, longing for yesterday, aching for tomorrow; for hope and healing...frustrated beyond belief for something. I no longer even know what.

I went to the cemetery a couple of weekends ago, and I took two bouquets of flowers, one complete with autumn colors for Dad, and a bouquet of roses for mom. I couldn't believe I was staring at Dad's tombstone, and that he was not home, in his beloved recliner watching Two and a Half Men. I literally fell to my knees and allowed a wretchedness to take hold of me. When someone we love dies it should hurt dammit! A soul deep, drop-down-to-your-knees, can't-quite-catch-your-breath, can't-focus-can't eat...can't-stop-emotionally-bleeding, kind of hurt that should take a lifetime to fully heal. Does that make sense? You know it's not even two full months since Dad's passing and I actually had someone come up to me and say, "All better now?" What does that even mean? Should I be all better now? With our advancements in technology, we are pushed to keep up and to move forward with the rest of the sheep, in every aspect of our lives. Heaven forbid that we should slow down for those no longer able to keep up -- hell no! We've got appointments to keep, work that needs to be done, good friends to visit...life is calling. In today's world, sickness and death is treated like an inconvenience, and grief a damn nuisance, as it keeps people from doing what everyone else thinks they should be doing instead. Grieving takes time, and word on the street is, no body has time to hang in there during the process of it. Speed grieving is the latest phenomena. And this kind of world makes me sick.

I believe dad is in a better place, but knowing that does not soothe me. He's not here talking about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie or healthcare...so dammit this shit hurts and we are supposed to feel it and not override our feelings with the ridiculousness of speed grieving, which everyone seems to be into these days. And for those of us who can't keep up...well, we just emotionally fold into ourselves. Kind of like being packed away in a box and forgotten about...or tossed in a mental institution somewhere. Sometimes I see people on the streets of Seattle...not necessarily homeless, but definitely lost. Sorrow is etched in the lines on their faces. Are they the ones left behind to deal? Was life too much for them? Will I become them?

The house wasn't paid for and we had to let it go. That hurts. We kept some of Dad and mom's things of sentimental value, and with a lot of difficulty sold items via Craig's list. That hurts. We packed some stuff away in little boxes and some family members nearly tripped over them in their hurry to get back to their own lives and their own way; to start this insane process of moving on. I'm not saying it's either wrong or right. I'm just left thinking...how sad.

I can't stand this because for me, helping Dad became a part of my life. So now what?