Independence Day

I read. I suspect you know that about me already. Recently I have read “Get Out of Your Head” by Jennie Allen, “Talking to Strangers” by Malcolm Gladwell and I’m currently reading “Raising a Strong Daughter in a Toxic Culture” by Meg Meeker, M.D.

This past year has been extremely challenging as I watched my Dad’s health deteriorate and then watched him pass away, handling all of his affairs along with my grief, and not being able to draw comfort from my Mom, who has no idea he has passed, and probably doesn’t remember him at this point anyway. When I go see my Mom I keep a happy face, a smile and encouraging words. I wonder if she knows how fake I’m being. How anxiety grips me before and after each visit, how guilt and sadness can bring me down for the rest of the day. She searches my face sometimes as if she’s looking for the me she used to know. As if this person in front of her, while very welcome, is a stranger she can’t quite get used to.

And yet I do draw some comfort from her. Just to be able to still touch her face, hold her hands, and breathe her in. She’s still here and that is everything. I know the day is coming when even this will be gone from me. I realize what an important role she has always played in my life – my parent, my cheerleader, my coach, my counselor, my rock and my friend. She always had my back, no matter what. Deep conversations and deep emotions never put her off. We laughed and we cried and we loved and I already miss that part of my life more than I can communicate.

However, in reading these books and doing a lot of soul searching, I have come to realize that now I must be all of this to my Baby Girl. It’s her turn. Mine and her’s turn. Of course there is still a good dozen years before we can naturally morph into “friends” but my job right now is to set the stage for that eventuality. I need to set aside my fear, my grief and my anger and focus on what she needs from me. I’m afraid I haven’t done a very good job of it as all these huge emotions took their toll on my mental and physical health.

I’m ready now. Ready to teach her that I love her no matter what, that she’s important, not just to me and her Daddy, but to God. I’m ready to show her that God created her through love and that He intended for her to be my daughter. I believe that He sent my Baby Girl to comfort me through these times and to let me know that it doesn’t end with my parents’ deaths. They set the stage and it’s my time to act. Everything that they taught me, everything that they were – it’s time to pass all of it along to her.

I have to start with my own health. Just last night I caught myself saying “I just feel fat.” And Baby Girl not only heard me but commented “you always say you feel fat but you’re perfect just the way you are.” She loves me as I am, and so does Tony and so does God. That’s pretty powerful. Instead of feeling fat and discouraged I will feel grateful and blessed. God put these people in my life, along with some great women friends, to continuously remind me that I am loved, and in turn, I will love as well. BUT I will also treat my body better – like the temple that it is, and I hope that I will be able to teach Baby Girl to love herself exactly as she is.

She’s 8 years old now, and I realize also that I will, in fact, miss these days. If I don’t get out of my head and into her life, I will miss it entirely. And I will regret it. She’s an amazing person, full of love and laughter and sensitivity and emotion and imagination. She’s a lot like my Mom. And a lot like me. Last night I sat and watched the complete rapture and joy on her face as we watched the fireworks at Lone Star Park. She has never seen real fireworks before and she was super excited and enthralled with it. The last song they played was “God Bless the USA” and I teared up as I watched, and my husband put his arm around me (this was the song my Dad and I danced to at my wedding). I looked up into those fireworks and at the joy on my daughter’s face and I knew that I had to let her live in a world of happiness and peace and total love. Not grief or sorrow or anger. My Dad would want us to be happy. Everything he ever did was for my Mom, my brother, me or his grandkids.

Today’s the day. Independence Day. I will live for you, Baby Girl, and for me, and for God. We will take this life by storm and we will not back down. I’ll be here for you, until God calls me home. I pray that you will be strong enough to face whatever life throws at you, including having to put me in a home if I succumb to dementia. I pray that I am strong enough for you. I promise I’ll do my best. And I promise that my heart will never, ever forget you. I know my Mom’s hasn’t.

Happy Independence Day everyone. I hope you find peace in your heart and love and laughter in your home.

Pray for Rainbows

As the months go on since my Dad’s death, my grief gets deeper and more insistent. Grief for my Mom has overwhelmed me for years, and with my Dad’s death I feel like I have no one left to talk to. There’s something about the way you can talk to your parents that just doesn’t transfer over to anyone else. It’s a selfish type of talking – knowing that your parents will listen and support you in whatever you say, knowing that they will have your back and will be there for you no matter what. At least, that is what I had with my parents, and when it was ripped away so suddenly with my Dad, and so slowly with my Mom, I found myself floundering and drowning in anger and sadness. I was in no way ready to lose them, at their age it just seems cruel. They are only both 75, though Dad would have been 76 now. I prayed for years that they would be around a long, long time. I know that my plan is not always God’s plan but still I find myself angry all the time.

I did not plan to raise this child, my Baby Girl, without them. I did not anticipate that I would have to. I assumed they would be there, rejoicing with me, and groaning with me, and celebrating each milestone and achievement. I imagined stories told of when I was young, comparing her attitudes and personality to mine. I imagined Mom just laughing and saying “let me have her for awhile, you need a break.” I imagined Dad with his Fu Fu wrapped around his little finger, letting her get away with murder and yet demanding his respect at the same time. I imagined her growing up with them so close, so much a part of her life. I can still see all that, in my mind’s eye. I am wild with anger that it won’t be so.

I am angry that I have to face this world alone. I cried tonight over Uvalde. How can I raise my Baby Girl, how can I be happy in a world where such evil exists? I am grateful that they don’t know what happened today. I am gutted with grief for the parents that have learned today that their child isn’t coming home. And then I think to myself, how do I deserve to be unhappy? I should not feel this anger and pain – these parents today have it so much worse than I do. I was loved. I was cherished. My parents were loved and cherished. They did not die when I was a child, I did not die when I was a child. I don’t deserve to be this upset. There are so many in the world that have it worse than I do.

Even before today, before Uvalde, I have thought that I am not worthy of the pain I feel. I try to hide it. I talk to people every day with a smile on my face, with my feelings deeply buried. I am tired, I’ll admit that. I take naps – I try to hide from the grief. In sleep I can escape the pain. In my dreams I see my Mom, sometimes without dementia but 99% of the time she is somewhere along the path of Alzheimer’s. I never dream of my Dad. Not once. I wish I would. When I’m awake I eat to fill the empty space – I try to make myself be healthy but I am fighting a losing battle right now. My grief is so overwhelming that I feel like I can’t control what I eat. I am too busy trying to make it through the day without taking my anger out on my husband or my daughter. Wine numbs the pain, both physical and emotional. I never get drunk but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t help, and offer comfort in a time when I will take any type of comfort I can get.

The other night I was sitting in Baby Girl’s room while she was trying to fall asleep. I was sitting and singing to her, after she had had a hard day. I have to resort to the only songs I know all the words to – Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Rock A Bye Baby, Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer, Jingle Bells, and finally, Amazing Grace. As I sing I think about her pain, and I wonder how I can ever help her if I can’t even help myself. But then I think, maybe this is what she’ll remember. Maybe she’ll remember how hard I tried. That I was willing to sit with her in the dark until she softly whispers “I’m ok now.” Maybe she will remember how much I love her, so much so that I kill myself trying not to show her how sad I am. I know sometimes I fail. She sees me cry. She wrote me a note once that said “You are the best Mom I ever know. When you cry my heart breaks.” And I want to tell her ditto, Baby Girl, ditto. She exudes love and empathy and caring and self-resilience. I think she’ll be ok in spite of me.

With God’s help maybe I’ll be ok in spite of me, too. In time maybe there will be true happiness again. With wine, good friends, good clients, a loving husband and a child that needs me, maybe one day I’ll look back on this time and think “Wow, I am sure grateful I made it through.” I pray for this. I pray for peace in my heart. I pray for joy. I pray for a life that I think is worth living. I am not worried about Heaven, I am worried about here, now, my earthly time. For all of you who are struggling with something – with grief and pain and unbearable sadness – I pray for you, too. I pray for rainbows.

Thoughts about Heaven


Do you ever think about Heaven? What it is really like? I think most of us do, from time to time. The concept of Heaven has been on my mind most days lately, as I struggle to make sense of where my Dad is, where my Mom will be. What does Heaven look like in your mind’s eye? I’m curious. Do we all have the same thoughts of beautiful clouds, angels with wings, golden roads and supreme peace? But here are some more thoughts…

When Dad died I expected to feel something. Something serene and holy. I did not. I saw no light surround him, saw absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. I’m not even sure we were truly there when he passed. I think he might have already gone while we were all looking the other direction. It was only when the nurse said something that we gathered around and held his hand and talked to him. But I honestly think he was already gone.

Did he look back? Did he see us with his body? Did he have any regrets? Any time for regret? Did he see a light? Was there an angel there? Did he meet God right away? Or Jesus? When he’s in Heaven does he still have a body? What does he look like? Young? Or is it just a presence that changes depending on what other souls he encounters? Maybe with his parents he’s a child again. Maybe with his friends that have passed he’s in his 20’s. Maybe he has met the child I miscarried. Maybe he held that baby in his arms as the old man he was. When Mom joins him, will they be young together again?

After he died a friend of mine sent me a book entitled “Many Lives, Many Masters” by Brian Weiss. She hoped that it would bring me some peace. In this book the author insists that, through hypnotherapy, he brought a woman back into other lives she had had throughout history. Reincarnation. Many, many times. The woman found peace through hypnotherapy and by visiting these other lives she was able to ease all her anxieties. Each time she was “between lives” she was just basically floating in peace. Not in a Heaven as we know it. But just floating. The “Masters” came to talk through her, and explained to Dr. Weiss that there are many things we must learn on earth and until we do, we will not be in the presence of God. We will just keep repeating lives on earth until we learn all our lessons.

This book brought me MANY more questions than answers. My friend meant well but honestly the book unnerved me. I had never thought about reincarnation before. Never considered it as a possibility. However, now that I have read about it, I MUST consider it. Just recently I read a story about a little boy that ran into a man’s arms in a restaurant and the man held him and rocked him until the little boy fell asleep. A complete stranger. But the little boy seemed to “know” him. When my Mom met Tina, there was a definite kinetic energy there. It was almost as if Tina was my Mom’s mom in another life. Like she recognized her and had been waiting for her all her life. I’ve never seen her respond to anyone like that before. And maybe it’s just the Alzheimer’s, but whatever it is I’ll take it. It almost hurt my heart the love was so strong.

There are many, many stories like this. If you read and look closely you’ll find them. What does it mean? Is reincarnation real? Do you really just float in space between lives? Part of me does not want that to be true at all. I want to think of my Dad in an actual Heaven, rejoicing at the feet of God. I want him there waiting for me, and for my Mom. I want to know he is at peace. I don’t want him, or my mom, to suffer through any more lives. Because life IS suffering, even if you have a fabulous life, it is never going to be like living in the Glory of God.

The other day I was out mowing the big paddocks and I thought to myself, can me Dad smell freshly cut grass in Heaven? A completely random thought, but not unusual for me these days. So, can you? Can you smell and think and feel? I don’t mean feel emotionally, but feel tactically. Maybe not on that one. Eternity and Heaven are very difficult concepts to grasp. I don’t think any of us are actually capable of it. Even with these stories you read, like “Heaven is For Real” and all these other tales of people coming back from Heaven to tell us about it … I’m skeptical. Not of Heaven existing, but in what form? Maybe it is different for each of us. But the most important thing there is, is to be reunited with the souls you connect with. And if that doesn’t happen… because you have been reincarnated …. well when will I get to see my Dad again? What if he’s not there waiting for my Mom? What if he’s already “gone on” to another life?

I did not want to think about all these things. I love my friend, but sometimes, you just want to think about things the way you think about them and leave it all well enough alone. The book was enlightening. And frightening. However, I still can see my Mom’s face when she sees Tina’s face and I wonder ….

Changes in Latitudes


Nothing remains quite the same. Mom’s condition worsens with each passing week. These days it’s a toss up whether she’ll know me or not. In the afternoons, after lunch, they lay her down to take pressure off her behind – they’ve had to adapt their care to her changing needs. She cannot move her body anymore, can’t voluntarily move her legs or her feet – though they tend to twitch a lot.

I arrive today after lunch and she’s resting, her eyes are closed. I lean over and say Hi Mom, how are you? She opens her eyes but there is no recognition there. She is always now looking to the left, as if she sees something no one else can see. She meets my eyes briefly then looks off. Nothing in her face changes, no crinkling of her eyes, not a glimmer of her mouth turning up in a smile. I know that she doesn’t know who I am. But I say “I’m so glad to see you” and I smile and reach for her hand. I ask her if she wants to go outside for awhile and she manages a yes. The ladies come in to dress her and put her in the wheelchair while I wait outside in the hall. I can’t bear to see her inaction in action – I can’t bear to see her so terribly helpless that she has no say in what anyone does to her now.

Once she’s ready we head outside for the sunshine and the wind of a 80 degree North Texas afternoon. We walk and I talk to her, of things she may or may not understand. I have no way of knowing if she comprehends what I say. We go around the building and I remark on the snowy white buds on the trees and how beautiful they are. They’re gorgeous, aren’t they Mom? I say. She doesn’t respond. We stop by my new car and I say “look Mom, look at my car – isn’t is beautiful?” She makes a sound I can’t comprehend but I’ll pretend she’s saying yes, yes it is beautiful. I kneel down next to her and stroke her hair and say “are you glad to see me?” She says yes, I think. I say do you know me? Am I Julie, your daughter? She looks at me but there isn’t anything there. I wish I knew what she is thinking, does she think at all? How would anyone know?

I choose to believe she understands me at least. I choose to believe she’s there somewhere, but I do wonder if I she knows when I am NOT there. Like last Friday, when she recognized me and smiled hugely and listened to me talk – when I said I’d be back soon – did she know that I meant it? And now, when I come back and she doesn’t remember me – will she know later that I was there? Will she wish I was there? Will she miss me? Or does she truly live only in the moment?

I stay about an hour, first trying Willie Nelson songs, then switching to Jimmy Buffett. Today nothing captures her memory, nothing makes her react. I sing anyway and hope she’s not completely put off by my voice. Max is out there with us, and I worry about him. I see my Dad in him – old and weak, but mentally still sound. I hope he has plenty of visitors. We chat for a minute, but then I let him enjoy the sunshine while I sing, badly, first Good Hearted Woman, then Highwaymen, then moving on to Cheeseburger in Paradise and Boat Drinks. I ask Mom if she remembers us going to New Orleans. There is a tiny spark there and I notice. I hope it means she does.

I can’t stay too long – it hurts my neck and back to lean forward so I’m close enough for her to see me and hold my hand. I am unsure if she’s actually holding my hand – it’s quite a grip – or if it’s just that her hands are turning inwards so forcefully that when I slip my hand in hers she simply can’t let go. It hurts my heart to watch this agonizing decline, but I can’t abandon her. I absolutely won’t. Even if I only stay an hour at a time, I’m going to keep coming as often as I can. I don’t want to regret anything when the time comes. I want to know that I did everything I could, everything I could do so she knew I loved her more than anything. Even if the time I’m there I could absolutely be getting a million other things done – there’s time for that later. There’s going to be time for me that she won’t have. So I sit and I stay as long as I can stand it. She can’t talk to me, and today she isn’t even looking at me, but I stay nonetheless.

Maybe next time she’ll know me. Maybe she won’t. But I’ll be there anyway.

Mom and I used to adore Jimmy Buffett. I might be terrible, but I’ll keep singing and remembering her there with me. Changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes, nothing remains quite the same. With all of our running and all of our cunning, if we couldn’t laugh we’d all go insane.

Smoking


Sometimes I wish I smoked. A terrible habit, to be sure, but it just looks so peaceful, relaxing. God knows I could use some of that. Seems like it’s just the thing to take a bit of pressure off. A physical time-out. I often imagine that I could do it. A big inhale and a looonnnggg exhale, letting out all the worries of my mind.

I’ll never do it of course. You don’t grow up with two parents who smoked – in the house, in the car, everywhere, and think smoking is cool. At least I didn’t. I hated it. I would wave my hands dramatically in front of my face and act like I was dying of secondhand smoke inhalation. Every time one of my parents lit up I would move a bit further away. I couldn’t stand the smoke, the smell – the way it lingered on clothes and breath. My eyes watered, my throat closed up.

No matter how I tried I could never convince them to give it up. Mom tried – she tried a LOT. But it never took long for her to pick up one, then two, then multiple cigarettes a day. Alzheimer’s is the only thing that worked, ironic as that is – she forgot she was addicted. She forgot the pleasure, the sensation of holding something in her hand, the nicotine rush. She forgot the relief it gave her.

Dad told me how Mom used to drive around Austin, a lost soul, huge sunglasses hiding her pain, smoking in her yellow mustang. Her own Dad had died and she didn’t get on with her Mom. She was aimless and heartbroken. I can see her now… I identify with the person she was then. I can see how smoking would take some of the pain away. Austin was, of course, a different city back then. Women smoked and wore things on their heads while driving. Bizarre, but true. Part of me wonders what it would have been like to live back then. Getting lost in your car, instead of on your smartphone.

Almost 15 years ago they finally decided they would no longer smoke in the house. Due to the birth of their first grandchild they vowed to make the house smoke free. They kept their word, and only smoked out on the porch or in the garage. They painted the entire house, ceilings as well, and the hazy, yellowed ceilings and walls came to life again. The garage was always fuggy with smoke and I could never understand how they stood it. My brother would go out there to ruminate with Dad, but I never could. I’d open the door a half inch just for them to be able to hear me, then wait for them to come in.

We’d be playing dominoes and there would be smoke breaks. Get a beer breaks. Bathroom breaks. Get dessert breaks. I always leaned more towards the dessert breaks than anything else. Mom was famous for providing whatever food my brother and I desired on these visits. Chocolate pie, cheese balls and fritos, cheesecake, chocolate cake, peach cobbler, you name it she had it. Anyway, I digress into memories….

Anytime I am stressed – which is the majority of each day – I think about how they smoked. I think about my Dad’s last years. The last of which he did not smoke again. He was forced to give it up due to his failing health. But he never stopped hankering for one. He never got over the mentality of it. I donated his last box of cigarettes to the homeless shelter at the Episcopal church in Denton. I still wonder what they thought when they saw that box of ciggies in with all the clothes. I wonder if they actually handed them out. I wouldn’t normally be the person to perpetuate a terrible habit but I couldn’t help but think how grateful they’d be….

Stress is a terrible condition. When Baby Girl gets to me and pushes all my buttons I just want to take a smoke break. I want to say HEY GIVE ME A MINUTE. Smoking isn’t the answer of course, neither is wine – I’ve tried. But I completely understand the concept. A few of Mom’s caregivers smoke and I often wonder if she enjoys the smell lingering on their clothes, if it makes her feel comfortable and takes her to “back when.” She doesn’t seem to mind it, certainly. I told one the other day they should let her have a drag – I wondered if she’d remember how. Of course we didn’t do it, but I knew Mom was thinking about it too.

I’ll never smoke, of course. But couldn’t I just have a little smoke break every now and again?

Saying Goodbye


Today was a hard day. My Dad’s 76th birthday. A day full of too many silences. Too many wishes. Too many empty spaces. In truth he’s not 76 at all. He’s forever 75. I’m sure in heaven he’s young again, young and carefree and full of piss and vinegar. Maybe the age he was when he started dating my mom. Maybe the age he was when he went to Vietnam. When he went to Europe for the first time – a young buck in a brand new, sophisticated world. Maybe the age he was when he flew his first helicopter, or maybe he’s in his 30’s – secure and happy with his life and chomping at the bit for whatever is coming next.

Today my Baby Girl and I went to his house. The house he lived in for the final three years of his life. Three years that he was miserable, I know. Three years that I’m sure he wished he could’ve just skipped altogether. He was happy in Winona, he didn’t want to leave. He had to leave, for Mom, but he wasn’t happy about it. So I never really feel his presence here, in Pilot Point. I think I’d have to go to Winona for that. But still, I felt it important to have some sort of closure, some Goodbye, for Baby Girl. The closest I can get to his presence is sitting on the back porch, watching her play. He loved to watch her play. But if I look to the left he’s not there. It’s just an empty space, where he should be.

And as it turns out, as I am getting a High School in my backyard, he would have been getting a Middle School in his. And how amazing it would have been for Fu Fu to be able to go to his house after school each day. We talked about that, her and I. We wished it had been so. We played some on the playscape and then collected rocks to take home for the roses. We went through the house room by room and imagined how it was, and I thought about how it will never be again.

After that we went to see Mom, and we brought her outside to enjoy the weather. Mom watched Baby Girl – her eyes followed her around – but other than that she was very unresponsive. I held her hand and played Willie Nelson songs for her, in honor of Dad. I told her it was Saturday, March 5th. No response. We listened to Seven Spanish Angels, A Good Hearted Woman and Whiskey River with no response. I kept hoping for a spark, but there was nothing today. Pancho and Lefty and the Highwaymen fared no better. She said she was happy I was there but other than that I got no words from her today. She often looks at me now like she’s wondering who I am. It doesn’t sadden me, I know she would know me if she could.

On the way home we stopped at Brookshires – I wanted to buy a piece of chocolate cake to put a candle in. Baby Girl argued for the bright blue frosted cupcakes and finally I gave in and let her make the call. Call me sentimental I guess. I think I was hoping to feel something more akin to peace than to sadness. But it didn’t work. It just made his absence even more painful to bear.

Saying Goodbye isn’t something you can just do. You can call it goodbye, you can call it closure, you can call it whatever the hell you want but in the end it’s just another way to remember the reason you’re sad. Maybe in the long run I’ll be glad I did it this way. It’s hard to lose his house. The last place I saw him alive. The place where he died. The place where he tried so hard to be everything we all needed him to be. Until he just couldn’t anymore. Even though Dad isn’t there in any way, I will miss that house. Not as much as I miss the one in Winona, but I’ll miss knowing he was there. Knowing your Dad was THERE is the hardest thing to lose.

I might’ve said goodbye to your house today, Dad, but you’ll never be gone from me. It’s my mission in life to make sure that Baby Girl remembers you and Mom. That she treasures who you were and how much you loved her. As long as she has me, she’ll also have you.

Enjoying the Sunshine

Mom and I have always been sunbirds. We love to be outside, in the sun, enjoying nature. For her it was gardening, for me it’s horses of course. With the weather coming up about to be dreadful, today was a good day to go take mom outside for a while. It’s about 68° and mom is in her high-back wheelchair. As I push her around and talk to her about everything from the weather to Baby Girl to horses she just soaks it all in, but without making a sound and without giving any indication at all that she is listening. But I know that she is.

Two weeks ago mom was very very sick with Covid. I was very afraid that she wasn’t going to make it. But with two IV infusions of vitamins, minerals, and whatever else they could throw in there she brightened up considerably. She made it through. She was smiling and talking again and her eyes were bright. She was very aware of her surroundings.

Today mom is not so bright. Her head lists to the left and they have given her a neck pillow so that she won’t strain her neck muscles. Her whole body kind of slumps to the left, and her legs stay straight even when they should bend. The two ladies that help her move from the recliner to the wheelchair do a great job, considering they get absolutely no muscle movement from mom at all. I’ve been down low so that she can see my face, and I take my mask off so that she’ll know who I am. I say hi mom and give her my best smile. She gives me a little half smile back and her eyes tell me she remembers me.But there’s no more reaching up to my face and patting my cheeks with her hands.

I tell Mom I love her, as I always do multiple times each time I visit. She mumbles back I love you too, but I’m not sure if it’s a response simply because she’s expected to make one or if she actually knows what she’s saying. It’s hard to tell now. She’ll tell the girls she loves them too, if they say it first. They do love her, and I am so grateful. I talk to Mom as we walk. We stop and fill up her bird feeder with the bird seed I bought. I fill up another feeder that’s empty as well, because I’ve got some left in the bag. I don’t know if Mom can even enjoy the birds anymore but that doesn’t stop me from trying.

Mom’s chest sounds awful. I’ve brought her a Coke from McDonald’s and she takes a sip with the straw. It takes her a few tries but she can still do this. As she tastes the Coke her eyebrows raise up and I know she still likes the taste. Best thing ever, huh Mom? I say. But then she coughs and the gunk in the back of her throat sounds scary. It reminds me of Dad basically drowning in his own saliva and I am concerned. I understand this is a constant now – she can’t truly cough anything up and there’s only so much the medication can do. COPD has been an important factor in her illness and not for the first time I wish she had never picked up a cigarette.

We sit in the sun and I take her hand in mine. I rub her fingers while she dozes. I can’t stay long – there’s always somewhere else I have to be or something else I have to do. Time is not my friend. Nor hers. I rewind the tape in my head and put us both on the back porch of their house in Tyler. Chilling out. Chatting while Mom smokes. Me in the swing drinking wine. Watching the birds and the squirrels. Talking about what to cook for dinner and where we want to go shopping tomorrow. Me telling her all about my life and her listening and trying to solve all my problems.

I would give anything to go back. Watching Baby Girl play in the little pool, or on the playscape Grandpa bought. Hearing my Dad pontificate on some topic, or tell a story I’ve heard a hundred times. Laughing and enjoying life, de-stressing and knowing that my Mom and Dad still have my back. Not aware yet that there will be a time when they don’t. When I’m on my own and have to be the Strong One At All Times.

The past is gone, evaporated like smoke. So, right now Mom, I’ll hold your hand and dream with you in this beautiful sunshine.

Merry Christmas in Heaven

Well, Dad, I think I pulled it off. While everyone else is gearing up to have their big Christmas Day dinners and exchange gifts with family members tomorrow after waking up early, eating chocolate, and watching the littles dive into their presents, I have managed to get mostly everything out of the way today. So tomorrow will be all about Baby Girl and HER presents from Santa, and visiting Mom. And relaxing. And I’m all about that.

I start planning for Christmas in September. I love the whole Christmas season. The lights, the music, the gifts, the wrapping, the magic and the joy. Making fudge. Making cookies. Making memories. But these last three Christmases have been anything but easy. I start planning in September because I know that come December, all hell has usually broken loose and I had better be prepared.

Three years ago my parents had first moved to Pilot Point and it was a month full of the flurry of unpacking, and helping Mom to understand what was happening. Christmas Day with Mom was difficult. She was overwhelmed and couldn’t even open, much less appreciate, her gifts. Though she tried mightily it was obvious to all of us that Christmas as we had always known it was gone.

Two years ago my Dad lay in a hospital bed in Ft. Worth fighting for his life. It was me that bought, wrapped, gave, cooked and otherwise “made Christmas happen” for Baby Girl, my brother and his kids. My Dad remembered none of it. Had no idea that we all trooped to Ft. Worth on Christmas Day to visit. Mom cried when we visited her on Christmas Eve, having moved into a memory care facility just at the beginning of the month. Overwhelmed and emotional, it was hard on everyone, especially her and Dad, who didn’t even get to see each other.

Then last Christmas Dad actually was here, in my home, celebrating with us. He spent the night and was present for the presents Santa brought. He helped Baby Girl un-do and un-box and set up and it was all just so bittersweet. He was here, but Mom wasn’t. Mom wasn’t forgotten, of course, but bringing her home for even just the day wasn’t an option. Mom relies on security and being able to make sense of things. Routine is all important. For any of you that may wonder, “sun-downing” in Alzheimer’s patients is a very real, and very scary thing. Tony made a brisket and we ate that with a few other sides. Nothing crazy. Nothing that would make me break down and cry like I did on Thanksgiving when I couldn’t figure out how to make Mom’s famous gravy.

Fast forward to this year.

Dad – last night I cried. Huge grief filled balloon tears. I felt no Christmas joy, not an ounce of Christmas spirit. This month has gone so quickly. We did all the Christmas things – I bought gifts (online except for the Wine Store – my favorite place to shop), I took Baby Girl and Sissy to Frisco Radiance! A lights spectacular – or so it said. It was really less than impressive but then I’m fairly difficult to please these days. We made fudge. We made Christmas ornaments for teachers and friends. We went to a Christmas party. Baby Girl did a gingerbread house. We took a lot of pictures. But somehow, Dad, it all just seemed so…. quiet.

I just can’t get used to the silence. To the emptiness that surrounds me. Last night it erupted within me. It was all I could think about, all I could focus on. You aren’t here, you aren’t here, you aren’t here – like a broken record. I went to bed full of sorrow and tears.

I woke up this morning with a new purpose. I wrote my list out and started in cleaning the house. I made banana bread. I vacuumed. I sorted and put away the laundry. I windexed. I made corn casserole per the Princess’s request. I did all the things. At noon I put in the frozen turkey I had bought at Kroger. Two hours and forty five minutes later I had a turkey that was actually edible! At 2:00 the in-laws showed up, and just before them was Sissy. Everyone was assembled and as we sat down to eat I smiled to myself. Hello Dad I said silently. I feel you. I know you would have been amazed at the concept of the frozen turkey. You would have ate the store-bought gravy. And if you were here I would have had cranberries from a jar. I smiled because I could hear you. I could feel you. You were here, even if I was the only one who knew it.

Amazingly, Dad, today I’m ok. Today I put it all together. For you. For the us that we used to be. And I think I did alright. Tonight Baby Girl and I will make cookies for Santa and once she’s asleep I’ll sneak the gifts in and do the stockings. We have stockings for everyone in the house, Dad. All four of us plus the three cats, two dolls and one stuffed Cheetah. And trust me, they ALL will have been filled by Santa. The magic is still alive Dad, still here. Baby Girl is having a wonderful Christmas and tomorrow will be even better. I won’t cry when we visit Mom, I promise. I’ll make sure that I hold it together. I’ll make sure Mom feels you, too. By sharing with her my Christmas Spirit, the Spirit that you somehow gave to me last night while I slept.

Thank you, Dad. I love you. Merry Christmas in Heaven.

Visiting

Yesterday I drove out to the Central Texas State Veteran’s Cemetery to visit my Dad’s grave for the first time. The headstone takes six to eight weeks after the burial to be installed, so I was very interested in finally seeing it. I picked up my best friend, Val, just this side of Ft. Worth and we were on our way.

The drive is about three and a half hours from my house if you factor in stops for restrooms and Diet Cokes. We arrived at the cemetery at about 11:30 in the morning. There was a lady sitting near a freshly installed headstone, just visiting her beloved. Val and I walk to find Dad’s among the rest in his “unit” as we called the collection of graves in that area. I was surprised to find that the marble was ice cold. You know it will be, but just how cold is pretty amazing. I laid my hands on it and instinctively I wanted to rub the side of it the way I rubbed his shoulder when he was dying.

We looked at the inscription. The Christian cross at the top. David Lee Thomas. LTC US ARMY. Vietnam. (Why only Vietnam I wondered) Mar 5 1946 – Aug 21 2021. BSM & 3 OLC. DMSM MSM ARCOM. Bullworker. Loving Husband and Dad. Val texted her Army sister to find out what it all means. BSM – Bronze Star Medal. 3 OLC – Four Oak Leaf Clusters. Defense Meritorious Service Medal. Meritorious Service Medal. Army Commendation Medal. Your Dad was a Badass, Val says. Well obviously.

She keeps the atmosphere light, as I knew she would. We joke about pulling up some lawn chairs and cracking open a few beers with a tribunal whiskey at the headstone, while kicking back and watching an Aggie game on the laptop. I can hear Dad chuckling. Just the kind of humor he appreciated.

Val goes off to pick up all the fallen over Christmas wreaths in Dad’s unit while I stay and talk softly to him. I tell him I miss him, that Fu Fu misses him. That we’re doing alright and that I’m taking good care of Mom. I don’t talk a lot but just absorb where I am. I kneel behind the headstone with my arms draped over it. I feel closer to him that way, as if I’m giving him a hug. I stay that way awhile. It’s very peaceful in this cemetery. I don’t cry – I just try to remember. How we laughed, how he loved, how it was over much too quickly. I feel him there, in my heart, but I do not feel any kind of spiritual presence. I never have, it just feels like he is very far away. There hasn’t been any kind of whisper or chill or anything that tells me he’s right there. I know he isn’t. I feel like he is at peace and in the presence of God. He can see us, and hear us, but he knows there isn’t any need to “be” here. We’ve got this. We’re alright.

I get up and wander around a bit. I notice coins on the tops of some of the headstones. Naturally I have to find out what they are for. I google it. A penny means someone visited. In military terms a nickel means they were in boot camp together, a dime means they served together and a quarter means the person was with him when he was killed. Val and I decide we will leave pennies and start to walk back to the car to get them. I get close and stop dead in my tracks. Val – look! There is a bright red cardinal on my car. Peering and preening in the side mirror. He flies off to a tree as we approach but presently comes back again. Dad, I say, quit showing off. Val takes pictures while I appreciate the moment.

I decide to leave a quarter as well as my penny. The coins will be collected about once a year and used for cemetery upkeep. In civilian terms a quarter means you were with him when he died. So I go with it. We place the coins and tell Dad bye. It was good to see you Sir, Val says. I know he’s answering “I’m glad you got to see me.”

We stop to eat at Cheddar’s and as we sit down at the bar I glance up and there is a bottle of Jameson straight ahead of my face. I smile. Dad, you are still larger than life. Still invincible. I feel something like the “let down” after Christmas – anticipation now satisfied and fulfilled. It was hard seeing that name in stone but I am relieved to know it’s perfect. The inscription, the place, the peace.

Bye Dad. I’ll be back sometime. In the meantime I’m glad I got to see you.

Mountains

On Saturday I convinced Baby Girl to let me take her earrings out and put the cute, newly purchased, reindeer ones in. I showed her how it doesn’t hurt to take earrings out and put them back in. Convinced, she let me do it. I got both stud earrings out which had been put in in the summer when Sissy took her to get her ears pierced. Then I noticed that her ears were bleeding a little. Strange, I thought to myself. They should be fully healed by now. Of course Baby Girl wanted to see the holes in her ears and thus immediately noticed the blood. She also then noticed how pointy the ends of earrings are. I noticed that she had what looked like blood blisters on the backs of her ears. I decided I better not point that out to her as she was already of the verge of backing out completely. We managed to get the reindeer earrings in and go to the barn Christmas party, with minimal fuss. Later that night when I took the reindeer earrings out I again noticed the little bit of blood. Ignoring this and her whining that her ears hurt, I wished Baby Girl a goodnight and left it for the morrow.

Sunday I told Baby Girl that we had to get the stud earrings back in otherwise her holes would close up. I was fairly certain that this would actually happen because it did not seem as if they were as healed as they should be; after six months?! At any rate I went at her ear with one earring and she immediately started crying and backing away from me. She wouldn’t even let me try. Convinced that it was going to hurt, a lot, she kept repeating that she was scared and that it was pointy. I was patient. I told her I knew it would hurt a little bit but not that much. Like pulling a tooth out. It wouldn’t last long. She still resisted. After thirty minutes of me desperately explaining that we only had two choices in this situation (go ahead and do it or let the holes close up) I finally succeeded in getting the earring in through the hole, only to have her scream like I was stabbing her with a fork in the eye. I still had to get the back on. Well, those little stud earrings are teensy tiny and you have to get a good grip on it in order to get that back on. Every time I went anywhere near her ear fresh hell would break loose. Huge tears and snot running down her face and I was all out of patience. I had no idea what to do. I am not a terribly patient mom in the first place and I was damn near the end of my rope. Of course the more irritated I got the worse she behaved, and vice versa. A never ending loop of frustration and tears.

After another twenty minutes I got the back on that one earring. To hell with it. The second earring would have to wait. I tell Baby Girl we will deal with it later. Exhausted, she readily agreed. We spent the next few hours watching movies and painting Christmas ornaments.

Baby Girl is never one for jumping up and getting ready for bed. She likes her bath but she’d rather be playing (on her ipad usually). So every night we struggle at bedtime. I want her to get in the bath; she wants to prance around the house in her underpants. I want her to get out of the bath; she wants to pretend she is in a submarine spouting water all over the bathroom while rising from the deep. I want her to get her PJ’s on; she wants to get her dolls ready for bed. I want her to brush her teeth; she wants another snack. I want her to get IN the bed; she wants to be a puppy rolling around and yelping.

Sunday night was going to be no different, even though every night I tell myself it will be. I tell her it’s time for her bath and I go and start the water. She morphs into a sloth and makes her way to the bedroom to remove her clothes. I tell her if she will *quickly* let me put that other earring in then I will let her have a gummy. She hides in the hallway. I tell her repeatedly to COME HERE and let me do it. I start out patient. I start out explaining why we must. I start out full of empathy and understanding.

It escalated like a house on fire. Pretty soon we are in flames with no hope of rescue. She cries, I cajole. She screams, I tell her come on it’s just temporary. I’m scared she cries, I tell her I know but we have to do it anyway. As she gets more and more worked up I get more and more frustrated. In my head I know that me getting upset isn’t helping, BUT I can not control it. I tell myself stop – you are traumatizing her – she will never get over this. But as she loses her shit I completely lose the plot. If I tell her fine, I’m done, we won’t do this she screams bloody murder and grabs at me to sit back down. She reaches for me, wanting me to hold her, which I do, but at the same time won’t let me touch her ear. I tell her you are making a mountain out of a molehill. A phrase I am sure she doesn’t understand. I tell her again that we either have to do it or we have to let it close up. She just cries harder. I am all out of options, all out of ideas, all out of patience and all of a sudden I just start crying, too.

We are a mess. For forty minutes we have battled. For forty minutes over an earring. I am angry, more at myself than at her, for not knowing how to handle this situation. Baby Girl and I are so alike that we battle constantly. I think – how will I ever handle her at 12? 15? How will I ever be able to control this attitude, this passion, this fire in her? Or more to the point, how will I DIRECT her attitude, her passion, her fire? How will I teach her that sometimes things have to hurt a little bit, in order to move forward? That pain isn’t the end of the world? That there is no choice in this world but to be brave? If I can’t even get through a forty minute battle over an earring without crying myself, how will she learn to control her own emotions? She hates being yelled at. I hate being yelled at. I can’t stand for her to be upset, I can’t handle her tears, and she can’t handle mine. Sometimes I try to ignore her tears and then she accuses me of not caring. Oh Baby Girl, if you only knew how much I care. That I have to walk away sometimes because it hurts to care so much. That you will somehow have to learn to stand on your own two feet, without me. That you will have to somehow learn how to be strong. How to be brave.

Baby Girl I want you to move mountains, not create them. We are on the same side, you and I. I know you are strong, maybe even stronger than me. My own strength I would give to you, but it isn’t what it once was. Life has been cruel these past couple years and my heart isn’t into life like it used to be. I was lucky to have my parents for so long, with their unwavering love and support. It kills me that you won’t have them at all. I hope the love they gave you for your first seven years has been enough. I hope you can look past the emotional grave I find myself in and realize I only ever loved you more than I loved myself. Move mountains, Baby Girl, and know that I’m never going to not be there for you. Battle on, Warrior, for I know the demons you are slaying. We are stronger than we think.