Barnmaven

Lowering the bar

Its been about three and a half years since I wrote this post, which included some of my birthfamily history and my thoughts about finally putting the past behind me and reaching out to speak to my birthmother.

I never got as far as picking up the phone.  I did make contact via Facebook, and we exchanged a few PM's.  It never got beyond that. I decided that I didn't want it to.

I thought about going to visit her.  I thought about introducing her to my kids.  I thought long and hard, considered my feelings, motivations, intuition and, mostly I just asked myself the question "Why?  Why would I do this?"  I felt that if I was considering introducing my children to someone I had previously considered so emotionally toxic that I wanted nothing to do with her, I would have to come up with some sort of logical reason that it made sense to do so.  Know what?  It didn't. Not whatsoever.  Even if I wasn't going to involve my children, I still couldn't manage to fan the flames of any desire to spend the time and money to make the trip. I never went.  I don't regret it.

Thinking about my birthmother and her relatively recent admission regarding her part in the systematic abuse of her children in the context of my very normal human pondering about my existence and purpose, I realized that forgiving was not the same thing as wanting to have a relationship.  There were so very few potential good things that could come from opening that door, and quite a lot of potentially not-good things. 

I started to write "It's not her fault," but then I had to take that back.  It is not entirely her fault. She wasn't the only abuser of the children she kept, but she did abuse them and she sat back and let others abuse them in especially horrific ways while she spent her time getting drunk and high. When my older sister left home at the age of fourteen, she was a child who had experienced things most adults have never experienced. She left to save herself, but in doing so she had to leave behind her four other siblings.  We've had so many long, tortuous conversations about the knife's edge she walked.  She was homeless, she was just a kid, and she could barely take care of herself much less four children between the ages of five and twelve.  But she was, in many respects, the only mother they'd really had.  When their mom was absent or too busy drinking and drugging, my sister fed them and changed their diapers, tried as best she could to protect them, though she couldn't, not really, nor could she protect herself. She left.  She had to.

She ended up as far away as she could have gotten geographically and still be on the same continent.  She spent 24 years on the opposite coastline, trying to heal, trying to both distance herself from the situation and at the same time trying to figure out how to get her family to be normal.

Normal they have never been, and the resulting fractures from so much dysfunction have created a situation so toxic, so filled with narcissistic, passive-agressive, unrealistic drama that I've made the conscious decision to just not be a part of it.  Periodic exposure has done nothing but solidify that resolve.

I think it is normal for most families to experience a fair bit of sturm und drang when a family member passes, even when they have functional, healthy relationships.  Our ties with those we love get interwoven with material things, and unless someone has made a very complete and detailed will (and sometimes even when they have), relationships are strained when two or more people have a strong emotional attachment to a particular item, or when children feel they are competing for their fair share of what is left behind.  When the family is deeply dysfunctional to begin with, these situations quickly begin to make even characters in shows like Dallas look benign. 

I saw a bit of this when my grandmother passed.  I had no attachment nor sense of entitlement to anything; I was beyond grateful when I found out that she had left a little bit of something for me and also for my children in her will.  My birthmother and the rest of her grandchildren most certainly did feel they had a stake in who got what, and there are those who still speak to certain others with barely repressed rage over certain prized items that ended up in one or the other's possession.

Now, sadly, my birthmother is dying.  She has been given a very short window of time and will be entering hospice care.  I feel bad for her, of course.  No matter how awful a person has been, no matter what they've done, I would never want them to have to suffer through what will most likely be a pretty horrific end-of-life experience.  I even thought, for a brief moment, that it would probably be a good thing to make a short visit to make peace with her.  It felt like it might be the right thing to do, for her, for me.  Almost before that impulse could begin to take shape, however, the infighting and absolute dumbfuckery of this extraordinarily damaged family made it completely out of the question.

I'm not angry, I'm not hurt.  But my sister surely is, and although I'm here for her and she has my shoulder and my ears and my heart, nothing can take away the sting of being unable to go say her last goodbyes to the woman who, while not a mother, was certainly the crucible that shaped the woman she eventually became.  If I didn't love my sister I'd be content to just wish them all well from a distance and let them tear one another apart, piece by piece.  You'd think a dying parent wouldn't be the source of so much angst, but somehow they manage to make this an opportunity to draw lines in the sand, to knock each others' chess pieces off the board, to try and get something, though I'm not sure they even know what it is they want.  I believe, watching them, that  the prospect of watching a pit full of hyenas tearing apart a screaming antelope would be more peaceful.

Distance is a thing of beauty, no doubt about it.

If you need me, I'll be with my mom, hugging her so tightly she can't breathe, thanking her repeatedly for just being my mom.  I'm only sorry Dad's not here so I can thank him too.  There's no substitute for them.  As mildly dysfunctional as we might have been, they were in all the ways that count exactly the kind of parents a person should have. 

Without them? I'd just be another hyena picking antelope carcass out of my teeth.

 

 

 

End of the line

 

My dad passed away last month.

Everyone’s been so kind, asking how Mom is doing. She is doing as well as you might expect. Spend 57 years married to someone, even though caring for him the last few years took up nearly all of her time and energy, even though at the end his dementia made him agitated and angry and often hard to be around, even though all of those things, when that person is no longer there, they leave an enormous void. It takes a fair bit of time to figure out how to fill that void.

It takes some time to figure out who you are when you were someone’s wife and now you are someone’s widow.

I look at all of the things Mom did for Dad, especially in the last months of his life, and then I look at SG, and I hope like hell he will be happy in a care facility.

I’m kidding. I’m sure he will like the candy striper I hire to change his pants and help him with the shower.

I don’t know, maybe it is inappropriate to joke about these things, but you know Dad always injected humor into even the most awful of situations, and so it is something of a reflex. I get in trouble a lot for injecting humor at inappropriate times, so I suppose you could say I got my inheritance early.

It is not a light thing, even though it was expected, to lose a father like mine. He was bigger than life, bigger than mountains to me. He was often very difficult to absorb, he could be extremely difficult and temperamental and he had little tolerance for your feelings. He was also wickedly funny and had the biggest, best laugh. He loved his family more than anything and I have so many wonderful memories from my growing years. Dad gave me the gift of his time and attention, over and over again. He wasn’t just teaching me how to change the oil, steer out of a spin on ice, hitch up the horse trailer and back up my rig. He was giving me the best of himself. We bonded over horses and sports. He never missed a basketball game, not once that I can remember, though I would have appreciated him not telling me to jump higher so often. (I'm TALL, Dad, I don't HAVE to.)

He was in hospice for the last month, first with a home care team and then, at the end, at Hospice House.  They were wonderful.  His propensity to drop the F bomb on a regular basis (also my inheritance, apparently) didn't faze them one bit. 

He lived a good, long life. He loved and he was loved. He was boundless. We will miss him, and come spring we will take his ashes to the salt water and we will raise a glass (or three) in his honor and we will tell stories. Some of them will even be true.

 

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Larger than Life

Larger than Life

I've not written much about my dad here.  Our relationship has been, for as long as I can remember, complicated by our similar natures - emotional, prickly, invested.   Most of my memories of my dad from my late teens through my early twenties involve yelling and tears.  Neither of us seemed able to stop trying to be "right" louder than the other long enough to listen to what the other was saying.

Dad is larger than life in a million different ways.  People don't meet him without being impacted by his huge personality.  I like to think I take after him in that way, but for both of us this is often as detrimental as helpful.  He is deeply emotional, and most of his words and actions bear testimony to it. 

Dad grew up dirt poor.  The youngest of six, he was born to working class parents in Ononta, MI on the Upper Peninsula in 1927,  just before the onset of the Great Depression.  Dad recalls never having new clothes, only hand-me-downs, and when the weather was warm they went barefoot.  When dad was still very young, his family left Michigan on a train bound for Idaho.  Like many depression-era families, his parents hoped to find work, and a better life. 

After the family settled in Post Falls, Idaho, my grandfather did find work, on the CCC and WPA government projects.  He drowned while working on a WPA project on the river in Post Falls .  My father was only 12 years old.

Loss, poverty, hard work - these things shape a person.  Dad is one of the hardest working men I have ever known.  He dropped out of high school at 16 to start earning a living wage in order to help out his family.  He served one tour as an enlisted marine.  He worked on Foss tugs in Alaska, earning his captain's license.  When he met and married my mom he already had a decade behind him as a fireboat captain for the Seattle Fire Department.  In those days, firemen didn't make a terrific living, and so he worked weekends too, taking carpentry and painting jobs to supplement his income so my mother could stay home with my brother and I. 

 

Before he retired from the SPD he and mom bought some acreage on Marrowstone Island.  He built a house there, working on it on his days off.  Retirement didn't last long, however, and it was not long before he started a second career, working on the decks of the Washington ferry system. 

Whenever I recall my dad during the years of my childhood, I picture him working constantly. If he wasn't at his job, he was fixing a car, putting up fence, building a barn.

I will never in my life hear the phrase "Hard Working Man" without picturing my dad.

I spent most of my childhood thinking that my dad was angry.  It is only with the perspective of a working adult that I realize he was probably more tired than anything.  He was also a man of strong conviction about how people ought to treat other people, about doing the right thing, and those beliefs drove almost everything about him - and to others, often translated into orneriness.  He had no patience for cheaters or people who took the easy way out. 

There's another word that comes to mind when I think of my father:  Love. 

My dad has loved me unwaveringly for my whole life.  Even though I can think of only a handful of times he has said so in words, he has spent my lifetime showing me his love by giving of himself.  Anyone who knows my father knows that his family is the most precious thing to his heart.  He gave me endless hours of his time, teaching me to drive, teaching me to change my oil, driving me to horse shows and basketball camps, coming to my musicals and plays and games to cheer me on.  He valued education, particularly because he had to interrupt his own, and he and my mother put a priority on making sure my brother and I would have a college education available to us.  

Dad has always seemed larger than life to me, and in retrospect maybe I argued with him so much because if I could convince my Dad that I was right about something, nothing else would ever again seem difficult or impossible.  He was that stubborn.  Earning his approval has driven me for nearly all of my life.  It wasn't until I was in my forties that I realized I didn't need it.  Having his love was always more important, and his love was always unconditional.

Dad's in the early stages of dementia now, but he's still larger than life and his love for his family is undiminished.  He's difficult, to be sure, but then again, he always has been - another trait he so generously passed on to his daughter.  Living with his difficulty was the worthwhile price for being one of the people he loves.  

The relationship between a father and his daughter is the relationship by which she will judge all other men.  If our relationship was somewhat codependent, it was also resilient.  I could always, always trust that my father would love me and that he would be there for me, and that trust has been the rock solid foundation I could rest on.  No matter what goes wrong in my life, my Dad still loves me.  That is a priceless gift to give your child.

I owe him far more than I could ever repay.  Happy Father's Day, to the first and best man in my life.

 

Being real

I always thought that Gepetto loved Pinocchio just as he was.  I believe that the ending of the story, where Pinocchio becomes real, is more of a metaphor than anything else.   I think Pinocchio became a real boy not because of the fairy but because he finally believed that he really was Gepetto's son.  I stick to this version because if the ending really means that belief isn't what creates reality then the story invalidates my self-perception.

Bastard Moments have been very few in my life.  My family never shied away from the topic, but even though being an adoptee had enormous impact on me emotionally, but it wasn't something we needed to constantly discuss.  As my Dad often remarks, our family has a wrong kind of humor.  We have been known to mess around with people who didn't realize my brother and I weren't our parents' biological spawn.  We'd go to some event or family thing, some new person would remark on how much I looked like my parents and we'd start laughing like wild hyenas.  Fun times.

Never have I felt like I was anything less than my parents' child.  My brother and I were - are - loved just as deeply as any child has ever been.  

I remember as clearly as if it were yesterday the sense of indignation and burning shame I felt when I realized that even though we weren't somehow less real in the eyes of our parents, we were decidedly so in the eyes of others.  Mom had a copy of the Bardwell family genealogy book - a big hardbound monster of a thing - that listed all the Bardwell descendants, living or deceased.  Right there in print next to my name and my brother's name:  ADOPTED.  I couldn't understand - then or now - why such a distinction even needed to be made.   Whenever I read an obituary that pointedly refers to the deceased's surviving child as adopted I immediately assume the obituary's author is an asshole.

Not once did I ever think that any of my close relatives thought of us as less real than biological progeny, even if some  nameless, faceless genealogy junkie did.

 

It wasn't until my uncle passed away that we learned otherwise.  

 

Of all of the relatives I knew growing up, this aunt and uncle were the closest to us both in proximity and in heart.  They were my godparents, and I was my aunt's namesake.  When my uncle passed away I had not seen them in almost ten years, having just moved back from the other side of the country.  I had just started my new job that week and the dinner would be a midweek affair over on the other side of the mountains.  I could not go, but my brother and parents could.  When my mother requested that the gathering be held on a night my brother wasn't working, my oldest cousin's wife balked.  "Why should it matter if Ken or Mary can come? Its not like they're actually related or anything."

 

I think I could smell my mother's hair burning from half a state away.  

 

That was - oh, gosh - more than seven years ago.  In the time that has since passed, I assumed maybe things had softened, settled.  Maybe it had just been a careless remark - the kind you say but don't really mean.  We've all done that a time or two, right?  I have.  And we've had at least one family reunion and had a wonderful time.

 

And then  - the wedding.  My cousin's youngest daughter.  We'd been hearing and talking about it for months and since my Dad's health precluded my parents' attendance, I planned to attend.  It would be wonderful to see all of my cousins and my aunts.  

 

And of all of the relatives on this coast and elsewhere, guess which cousin was the only one not invited?

 

My parents got an invitation.  Since I'm nearly 50 I think I can safely assume that the invitation addressed only to them did not include their children.  I waited for my invitation to arrive.  And waited.  After more than a week I had to admit that it wasn't ever going to be in my mailbox.  It had never been sent and never would.

 

I will be the first to admit that my hurt and dismay are likely exacerbated by my current health issues.  I know I'm a miserable person these days.  But that ... being left out like that ... was more than a slight.  It was more than an insult.  

 

When other relatives started posting pictures last weekend of the fabulous reception and talking about how much fun they were having hanging out with their family I felt almost sick to my stomach.  

 

In one of those typically dramatic reactions I tend to have I deactivated my Facebook account.  I'm sure that showed them!  Almost as much as being taken off my Christmas card list will SHOW THEM!

 

I reactivated Facebook yesterday, but I really mean what I said about the Christmas cards.

 

I know that "feeling" like I'm the real daughter of my parents doesn't change the reality of our biological disconnect.  But I will go toe to toe - and I'd probably have to get in line behind Mom and Dad -  with anyone who thinks that my parents and I are anything other than family.  

 

My Dad loves his family and he loves me.  I always thought they were my family too.  Does it require their belief that I am also theirs to make me real?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Into the Deafening Silence

I don't know what to write here anymore.

I lost my mojo.  I lost my will.  I have things to say, but fear this is not the place.  I have truths to share but I cannot share them without hurting other people, so I hold them inside.  I have learned things about love, life, work, relationships, things I want to share but risk exposing myself and others in uncomfortable ways.  I have stories about my kids but realize as they grow older that their stories are not mine to tell.  I  I am not ready to give this space up, yet, and so I will work on finding the right words with which to fill it.

Today:

I am on a journey in a landscape I could never have dreamed of as a child - as a parent, as a professional, as a partner and as a human being.  I'm living in a balance between extremes -  I feel I've accomplished everything and nothing all at the same time.  I'm stuck in the churn of the waves washing up on the shore, tumbling about and never sure which way leads to the sky and air and which way leads to the rocks.  

One of the most interesting things I've learned lately is that I'm happy.  I really am happy.  I'm also unbearably sad.  And strangely I can feel both of those things at the same time, comfortably.  Somewhere along the way I must have improved my coping skills.

I'm happy because I am loved and I am surrounded by people I love.  I'm happy in my lifes' circumstances, with my family and my friends, my horses and my farm, my job, my faith and my lifestyle.  I'm blessed richly and I know that I had better enjoy all of the goodness this life contains because it could change on the flip of a coin.  

I'm sad because life is so often sad, because people I care about have problems I can't fix, because like everyone I've suffered losses and miss those loved ones so, because sometimes my own circumstances can be as challenging as they are beautiful. For instance:  SG will leave sometime in the next ten days and won't return until the end of the year.  Right now it feels a little overwhelming, but I know that this is not a bad thing, its just a thing.  For SG its a wonderful thing because he will be working and making money and that makes him feel good and safe, feel like he is providing for us.  For me it means a little more heavy lifting but I have good support and I'll be OK.  We'll both be lonely; it won't kill us.  He will most likely be able to come home for a couple of long weekends and I suppose I'll be spending some of my vacation days to go catch a gander at the east end of Nebraska.  

It makes me both happy and sad - happy for my husband because he is happy.  Sad for being alone when I have such a great husband and friend to share time with.  Happy to have time to myself to do things that only I enjoy the doing of.  Sad to think of weekends, special days, family moments without an important part of our little family with us.  Happy to know I have a great relationship that can withstand long separations.  Sad to know I have a great relationship in which long separations are part of the deal.

This is my life today.  

Thanks, God, for this wonderful life.

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They are not ours

Baby its cold outside

Happy New Year, friends.  Thanks for spending your valuable and precious time reading and commenting here.

We've had freezing fog for several days now.  Everything outside looks as if it has been flocked, even the sagebrush.  Its beautiful and miserable at the same time.  Dry cold and dry heat share similar qualities in that they don't cling to you like the humid versions.  The guy from the heating & cooling company that was out to do our semi-annual service looked so miserable SG tipped him extra so he could go get a hot lunch somewhere.

I took some days off over the holidays and we were devoted practitioners of the art of lounging around in our pj's.  Settling in on the sofa underneath a quilt and watching shows on Netflix is a perfect way to exist when the outside temperature refuses to rise above freezing.   Yes, I'm fully into lazy mode.  SG came home on the 18th, so I took a couple of days off that week, worked the Monday before Christmas, took more days off after Christmas, and just went back to work yesterday.  I spent most of the last two days realizing just how many emails are in my inbox awaiting response and trying desperately to prioritize them.   One does not simply return from vacation all primed and ready to function like a real adult.  No, one does not.  This one, at any rate.  

The sensation 2013 left in me was that of riding a bullet train.  I may be simply echoing what so many others are saying, but the nature of time to march forward with ever-growing impulsion leaves me feeling somewhat out of breath and out of step.  I look back and realize I've hit middle age without every really seeing it coming.  Now is the time of life for me to really concentrate on enjoying the moment I'm in; the hourglass of my lifetime is running out of sand faster with each passing year. 

The more I try to fit everything in, the less time I have to enjoy any of it, the less I am able to allow each moment to distill by not being present.  So although I will be following my own tradition and not making formal resolutions for 2014, I do think the theme for this year will be to slow down a little bit and spend more time drinking in the quality of my life, experiencing and expressing gratitude.   

Even if our cold snap ends before tomorrow I have a feeling I will be spending more time in my pjs.  It will be a good start to the year.  May the New Year bring us all more days of peaceful enjoyment and fewer days of hurry and worry.

Peace and God bless.

 

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Brrrr!

Oh Christmas.

Into reality

My brain is an escape artist.

It takes advantage of books and movies, mostly, though daydreams will do in a pinch. If the story is good enough for me to suspend disbelief, my consciousness will gladly take a break from the here and now and spend time in that imagined world.  

Once the movie ends or whenever its time to put the book down for a bit, there is a small period of adjustment as my cerebral hemisphere attempts to transition between the imaginary and the ordinary.  Occasionally I'll have a small moment of panic as it seems that awareness of the passage of time is one of those functions that takes a short vacation.  I was reading at the nail place this weekend during my pedicure and when I was driving away I looked up the street and saw my bank.  My adrenaline surged briefly as I tried to remember if I'd actually paid bills on our last payday.  Of course I had; but that reality hadn't yet returned.

I had a similar experience during the weeks that followed my brother's death, but instead of escaping to an imaginary reality, my brain took refuge in the minutiae of planning, sorting, figuring out what needed to be done.  When all was said and done and I headed back home to real life, my brain was reluctant to follow me back.  The period of dislocation was extended and profound; no surprise, my conscious brain was in no hurry to take residence in a reality where my loved one was no longer going to be present - ever.  

Interestingly enough, I have periodic moments of panic when I forget that he is gone and realize I've let an important date or event slip by without calling or inviting him.  Or I've fallen into a daydream of childhood and adult memories, conversations we've had, youthful escapades, various episodes that became the stuff of family legend.  Then I remember and that little zip of adrenaline sinks into something I can't name but feels like hollow pressure inside the center of my sternum and a lurching sensation in my stomach.

And people probaby wonder "when is she going to stop talking about her dead brother?" but its less that than an acknowledgment to friends who have also suffered losses who are remember birthdays, holidays and events and living through them without their own loved ones.  

I don't believe there is a finite point where one must no longer make public references to someone they've lost.  We can be past that period of heavy, active grief and still be filled with memories and thoughts of the person we miss so deeply.  Wishing them a happy birthday or remarking how much they had been here to join us for a reunion, event or holidy - its not morbid, its not escaping reality, its not attention-seeking.  We honor those we love even though they are gone because they made a mark on our lives that can never be erased.  Steph remembers her dad's birthday even if none of her other family members are talking about it on Facebook.  Vicki writes to Jack how much she loves and misses him on the fifth anniversary since he died.  Varda finds more pictures of her mother and father and posts them on her blog.  Our memories are engaged and for a period of time we do not wish to take that step out of the theatre door into the afternoon sunlight.

Woudl that it were that easy.

Rest, Play, Rest, Play

Weekends are supposed to be for recharging your batteries, right?  Which supposition leaves me wondering what it is I'm doing wrong.  I ended up taking a nap in a lawn chair at 7 pm last night, woke up in time for the weekly episode of True Blood, then collapsed into bed, waking at 5 am bleary-eyed and feeling way too tired for the 40 minute kickboxing workout The Daily Burn made me do.  That's right, I said made me do.  They said if I did their cardio workouts for 30 days I'd get into amazing shape.  Its probably a lie, and there is something rather pathetic about an almost 50 year old woman sweating like a pig and trying to jab and kick as fast or as well as three twenty year old chicks who look like you could bounce quarters off their collective asses, but I put on my bathing suit this weekend to cool off in the pool and I know how badly I need to do those jab-and-kick combos.  Not to mention also needing to get something resembling color on my legs.   White dough. Yuck.

"I don't care what you say, you're still sexy, baby," SG says to me when I complain.  Not that a man his age is going to be terribly picky, but its nice to know your husband thinks you're hot.

That pool has to be the best investment we've made in the last 12 months.  

Its an above-ground pool, 42" deep and its either the 23' or the 18' model, I can't remember which.  It was on sale the end of last summer at the department store and well worth every penny of $299.  I spent several hours in it this weekend.  Saturday it was just SG and me and a couple of large margaritas, and then yesterday the kids were home and the four of us splashed and played and had a great time.  The kids were in the pool more than they were out of it yesterday, and it warms my heart to see how quickly Race Car Man will jump away from Minecraft and go racing to find his swimsuit when I quietly ask "Hey, dude, want to go in the pool?"  I think its good for parents to find activities to do with the kids during the summer, but lets face it, summer is long and my mind is frequently dull.  Having the pool makes it easy to get them outside and away from the computer, TV and DS screens.

I probably would have felt more rested today but last night we had SG's parents and his friend Jim over for dinner.  SG cooked a tri-tip on the grill and we made a dent in the wine rack.  SG picked up a bottle of Tagaris 2009 BoarDoe.  Cute name.  Really decent wine.  My father in law brought a bottle of Kiona Vineyards Cyclops, also a treat.  Apparently last night was the night for red blends.  

 My in-laws are lovely and always easy to have.  Jim is also fun to have over, but inevitably his presence ends up involving too much wine and too much of he and I wrangling over politics.  We always start talking riding - he has mules and we trail ride together sometimes.  Inevitably this leads to something political (Jim and my husband are hardcore Libertarians).  I play the devil's advocate and start with the "what about this" line of questioning.  We always have fun and we love each other to death, but I blame him for both my need for an evening nap AND the headache between my eyes this morning.  

"Mommy, why are you guys fighting?" the kids ask.  "They aren't fighting, they're discussing," SG tells them.  "Oh, OK" they say, not believing.  "Discussing sounds a lot like fighting."  But it was my house so I win.  When we go to Jims he gets to win.  I think.

Note to self:  Arguing politics makes you tired and crabby in the morning.

Rest, play, rest, play.  My weekend involved a lot of both.  How was yours?

 

 

Post Holiday Wind-down (a/k/a the "wine" down)

Christmas seemed quiet up until about 1 o'clock Christmas Day.  My kids were with their dad from their last day of school on Friday.  We spent the time wrapping gifts and enjoying sleeping in.  On Christmas Eve SG went to the airport in Spokane to pick his son Josh up at the airport. 

We've had Josh's dog Kylie for a few months now while he transitioned from Arizona to Florida for the first part of Navy flight school.  He's ready to take her home now, and Christmas was a great opportunity to come get his dog and spend some time with his dad and his extended family here in Washington. 

Christmas Day we slept in, had a lazy breakfast and pretty much hung out until the kids finally showed up about 1:00.  Then the fun really started. 

They tore through their presents by 1:15 and were busy playing with their toys before the minute hand hit the 30 minute mark.

Once we could tear them away from the video console, we joined SG's family for Christmas dinner.  The wine and the conversation were excellent.  SG carved the turkey, escaping with only one sliced finger.  Why do people insist on trusting my husband to handle sharp objects?  Don't they know any better?

The kids and their cousins made a snowman in the park.

It was a damn fine Christmas. 

By contrast, New Year's Eve was extemely quiet.

Josh flew home that day, taking Kylie with him.  Roscoe misses her.  We told the kids they could stay up until midnight.  That would have been great, except the adults couldn't make it that long.  They're still mad at me.

We're still enjoying the quiet around here.  Its the third of January and my tree and outside lights are still up.

Don't judge.  Happy New Year!

 

 

Planning ahead

NOW when the number of my years

is all fulfilled, And I

From sedentary life shall rouse me up to die,

Bury me low and let me lie

Under the wide and starry sky.

Joying to live, I joyed to die.

Bury me low and let me lie.

                    ~Robert Louis Stevenson

 

On the days I'm actually in the mood to hear what's going on in the outside world (its an election seasion, mostly I'm not) I tend to listen to NPR's Northwest stations on the way to and from work.  Sometimes I have to throw in a CD or switch to a music station if its early morning and I'm having a hard time waking up or if its the way home and the soothing voice of Robert Seigel starts causing me to nod off at the wheel.  One of my doctors told me once that an attribute of unmedicated ADHD is  tendency to be extremely sleepy in the afternoons.  That was a BINGO! moment for me, as I had been having terrible trouble driving home from work on a daily basis.  Once I started medication it got much better, but I still have days when I'm a little overtired and driving home is a crapshoot.  But I digress.  Again.  I know, you're so surprised!

So a couple of weeks ago Diane Rehms did a segment on aging and preparing for end of life issues.  One of the guests kept talking about a program called Five Wishes.  Its basically a living will but with extras, like telling your survivors what you'd like them to say when people ask how you wanted to be remembered, picking songs or passages you'd like at your services or if you even want services, along with standard advance directives.  In most states, signed by the proper witnesses, it stands as a legal document. 

Its not easy to talk about death and dying, not for most people.  I don't mind it, but my parents have been very open for years about their wishes for end of life issues.  Mom keeps a folder with all the pertinent instructions and information on where all the necessary documents are located.   Other people aren't so comfortable about planning for or talking about what will happen if they get ill or very old or die suddenly.  I suppose most people don't often like to think about the fact that we're going to die someday.  Its the great unknown, isn't it?  It will happen to everyone, but we don't know how or when and we don't know for sure what happens after.  We might believe certain things about what happens when we die, but there's no clear information to be found about exactly how that goes down.  Is there a test?  A door greeter?  Is there really a Rainbow Bridge and will there be a Noah's Ark of all the animals I've ever loved waiting there for me?  Who's scooping all the poop up there in the meantime? 

I do know that I'm not afraid to die, per se, but I'm afraid of dying while my children are still young.  And because my children are still young and because I only recently remarried and I don't have a current will and my advance directive is about twenty years out of date, I really dug into what the folks on the radio were saying.  SG and I talked some about what we would want to happen after Ken died, but we never went ahead and put anything on paper.

When my brother died, it was completely unexpected.  I can't remember ever talking to him about what he wanted done when that time came, it just wasn't something we thought about.  We talked about what we knew our parents wanted, but it never occurred to either of us that we might not outlive our parents.  Because he'd never had those conversations with anyone and because he didn't have any advance directives, his death was exponentially more difficult, especially for my niece and nephews. They are young adults, and my niece was in the position of having to make a lot of decisions without really knowing for certain what her dad would have wanted.  She also had to deal with the pressure of making these decisions with a lot of different people telling her what they thought she ought to do.  Its a position I would never want to be in, and its a position I don't ever want to put anyone else in.

I kind of forgot about the Five Wishes site for several days, but at some point I had a chance to actually use my laptop at home and I checked out the information there.  I was planning to sit down with SG at the next opportunity to talk about the end of life planning and the need for us to outline our wishes and probably get wills made.  And then...

(This is where the hair on my arms starts to tingle a little bit)

...the doorbell rang.  The dogs freaked out, so it took a few seconds to shove them into their crates.  I opened the door and there was a very nice looking older blond lady standing on my stoop, holding a clipboard and carrying a casual looking briefcase.  She introduced herself and as it turns out, she is a sales representative for a local funeral home. 

COINCIDENCE?  Does this stuff ever happen to you?  Isn't it really spooky when it does?

It wasn't really a good time to have her come in and sit down with us (kids rampant, house messy, in the middle of things), but we made an appointment, and she came back a few days later.  We talked for a good hour or so, and she left us with some materials.  One of the materials is a pamphlet we keep even if we decide not to do any pre-planning, where we write down all of our important information, things we or our families would need to know if when we die.

I'm not planning on dying anytime soon, and neither is SG, of course.  Most of us aren't.  But this is a one way trip, boys and girls.  Making plans isn't something we are doing for ourselves.  Its something we are doing for each other and for our children and our families and friends.  When my spirit no longer lives in my body, what happens to my body won't matter to me.  It will matter, though, to the people I love.  And so we plan ahead, hoping that those plans won't be needed for many years to come, but having some peace about knowing that they are made just in case.

(No, SG, I'm NOT having your body shot into space on a rocket.  Stop asking me.)

photo credit:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/justintron/6245250507/

 

Finis.