Throughout all of these enlightened reflections of my Father's death, I almost forgot about Cousin Douchebag. I was reminded when I read this Facebook post earlier:
If my dad remains in the condition he was this weekend, slow and tired all of the time, he'll die by the end of the year and I'll be back in New Mexico.
Really? Really, Cousin Douchebag? It happens that his father is also very sick. How do I know this? Because he constantly posts pictures of his sick father drooling on himself on Facebook. This is the guy who called my Dad up and said:
Hey, Cousin! I heard you were dying.
Those were the last words he said to my Father. Cousin Douchebag has a lifetime history of being an idiot. I had no choice but to reach out to Cousin Douchebag and send this little gem:
Thanks for calling my Dad?
I guess I should be grateful that you called my Dad to wish him well. And I am. What I'm not happy about is that you called him to tell him you heard he was dying.
Tactless. And tacky.
While we know that as a family and are preparing for it, it is not helpful to us to have you blurt it out so carelessly. I would like to delicately address my displeasure, but I'm afraid you won't get it.
You are a jackass.
See, I'm nice like my Mother. But I'm also a little mean like my Grandmother. I'm protective of my family and especially right now of my Father.
Please don't reach out to apologize. I don't need it. I've said my peace. And frankly, I don't have time to give this another thought. My energy needs to be directed towards helping my Dad.
I was being so Zen like until I remembered what he said to my Dad a month ago. It makes me angry because he clearly doesn't understand how sensitive he should be. He can't even be sensitive enough to refrain from sending pictures to all of his FB friends of his father who is suffering with dementia. It's sad.
My Uncle took my Dad in after his mother kicked him out of the house at 14. That's the whole reason he moved out from Hawaii to California, where my Uncle was living at the time. My Uncle really took my Dad under his wing and helped him out a lot. My Uncle's a great man who deserves so much more than his idiot son. He deserves dignity and care. This jackass gives him neither.
I've debated on whether or not I should reach out to my Cousin to tell him what a douchebag he's being. But I don't really want much to do with him and I don't think he'll get it. It's horrible what he's doing. And it makes me feel so bad for my Uncle.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
I'm Back to Therapy
I've been seeing a bereavement counselor through my Father's hospice care program. In general, it has been helpful to have someone to talk to. But as I've been speaking to Thomas my bereavement counselor, I have realized that I really need a bit more help on a deeper level. So I'm back in therapy. And this guy is interesting. A bit passive maybe for my tastes. I want to give it three or four sessions to suss it out before I make a decision to change. But I didn't feel like it was quite clicking yet.
He seemed a bit put off by the fact that I seemed like I was holding it together. Well, my Dad just died and I was the one who held it together and I'm still probably in that mode. Besides, I don't know him that well yet and maybe I'm saving the waterworks until I've got a better feel for this guy. He's not encouraging me to open up necessarily. When I was going to therapy before, my former counselor made me feel comfortable. I cried for the first four sessions.
But this guy did say something very interesting at the end of the session after I had done all of the talking. He interjected selectively, but I felt very much like he was observing me and not engaging enough. I had talked about my anger towards my Dad, which I feel like I've worked through. He said that I almost seemed to be smiling when I talked about my anger. And it's not like I didn't have plenty of anger and expressed it. But I also got this image of the smiling Buddha. And I like that image.
But I told him that I came to therapy exactly so I could get below the surface. I acknowledged that there was a veneer, but that I came to therapy because I needed help with getting underneath my grief. I didn't like that he just thought I was putting on some sort of act or that I was just trying to hold it together. If I thought everything was hunky dory I wouldn't be sitting across from him! I'm ready to do some work. All of his questions seemed very rudimentary and very by the book. I don't respond to that. I don't respond to generic questions or a lack of imagination. I'm a writer! I want you to get there and to go deep.
Well, I will have to see how things go next week. The jury is still out.
He seemed a bit put off by the fact that I seemed like I was holding it together. Well, my Dad just died and I was the one who held it together and I'm still probably in that mode. Besides, I don't know him that well yet and maybe I'm saving the waterworks until I've got a better feel for this guy. He's not encouraging me to open up necessarily. When I was going to therapy before, my former counselor made me feel comfortable. I cried for the first four sessions.
But this guy did say something very interesting at the end of the session after I had done all of the talking. He interjected selectively, but I felt very much like he was observing me and not engaging enough. I had talked about my anger towards my Dad, which I feel like I've worked through. He said that I almost seemed to be smiling when I talked about my anger. And it's not like I didn't have plenty of anger and expressed it. But I also got this image of the smiling Buddha. And I like that image.
But I told him that I came to therapy exactly so I could get below the surface. I acknowledged that there was a veneer, but that I came to therapy because I needed help with getting underneath my grief. I didn't like that he just thought I was putting on some sort of act or that I was just trying to hold it together. If I thought everything was hunky dory I wouldn't be sitting across from him! I'm ready to do some work. All of his questions seemed very rudimentary and very by the book. I don't respond to that. I don't respond to generic questions or a lack of imagination. I'm a writer! I want you to get there and to go deep.
Well, I will have to see how things go next week. The jury is still out.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Facebook Condolence Highlights
It was with great trepidation that I even posted stuff on Facebook about my Dad. During his illness, I had posted some status updates that mentioned him. Nothing explicit like:
My Dad's rectum is bleeding. Now on my way to Starbucks.
Dad forgot to take his lasix today and yelled at my mother and his caregiver. I escaped the Wrath of Khan.
Dad peed himself three times today. But only threw up once.
I avoided anything that was too deeply shaming. But I shared thoughts about how I felt about him as I was caring for him. So when I posted on Facebook the following message, I got some lovely responses.
Oh, WOW. Be strong...you are so strong for others. May he rest in peace...condolences.
Hugs and love to you and your family. Reading about this process through your eyes has been beautiful. Thank you for sharing the journey.
My heart goes out to you.
I'm really sorry for your loss, man. Losing your dad is a real bitch. You and I are a part of a shitty club.
I often think of the man who could have raised such a brilliant, confident son.
I know you are grateful that you could be there with him during his fight.
You are lucky to have had a father like that in your life. Thinking of you.
I'm so sorry for your loss. It sounds like your Dad was an ace and solid soldier...you are a product of good supportive fabric.
It sounds like his attributes have been passed onto you and will live on.
So sad to hear of your Dad's passing. You know I thought he was cool!
Tears are welling up for you, my friend. While I never met your father, I feel like I knew him and how much he meant to you by all the kind words you have posted about him. He raised you right and I promise he knew how much you loved and adored him. My thoughts are with you.
My thoughts and prayers are with you. I have beautiful memories of you and your family. Your words hit me to the core. Thank you for your openness and authenticity.
Condolences. He is always with you now.
You were there for him. He knows it. You know it. That's the best we can do in the face of unspeakable loss.
Very grateful to him that we have you.
Sending you and your family lots of love. This is beautifully written. Such a fitting tribute to the man. Your skill as a writer is second only to your devotion and caring to the people you love.
I am so sorry for your loss and so glad you could spend time with your father before he passed. You were such a good friend to me when my Mom died and I wish I could be there to do the same for you. I still remember crying in the church when everyone was trying to console me. You came up to me and said, "You look great in that outfit." It brought me just what I needed, which was a release and a giggle. Here's to release and giggling in the toughest times and here's to great friends, loving families and good outfits. Love you.
Thinking of you. You are fierce.
I am sorry for your loss. I know the pain of losing a father and I'm glad you are being strong but remember that your friends may not know what you're going through but they love you and are there to support you. It's okay to lean on them for support. I'm praying for you my friend. I know your father is proud of you.
My Dad's rectum is bleeding. Now on my way to Starbucks.
Dad forgot to take his lasix today and yelled at my mother and his caregiver. I escaped the Wrath of Khan.
Dad peed himself three times today. But only threw up once.
I avoided anything that was too deeply shaming. But I shared thoughts about how I felt about him as I was caring for him. So when I posted on Facebook the following message, I got some lovely responses.
Here are some of the lovely responses I got back:
Oh, WOW. Be strong...you are so strong for others. May he rest in peace...condolences.
Hugs and love to you and your family. Reading about this process through your eyes has been beautiful. Thank you for sharing the journey.
My heart goes out to you.
I'm really sorry for your loss, man. Losing your dad is a real bitch. You and I are a part of a shitty club.
I often think of the man who could have raised such a brilliant, confident son.
I know you are grateful that you could be there with him during his fight.
You are lucky to have had a father like that in your life. Thinking of you.
I'm so sorry for your loss. It sounds like your Dad was an ace and solid soldier...you are a product of good supportive fabric.
It sounds like his attributes have been passed onto you and will live on.
So sad to hear of your Dad's passing. You know I thought he was cool!
Tears are welling up for you, my friend. While I never met your father, I feel like I knew him and how much he meant to you by all the kind words you have posted about him. He raised you right and I promise he knew how much you loved and adored him. My thoughts are with you.
My thoughts and prayers are with you. I have beautiful memories of you and your family. Your words hit me to the core. Thank you for your openness and authenticity.
Condolences. He is always with you now.
You were there for him. He knows it. You know it. That's the best we can do in the face of unspeakable loss.
Very grateful to him that we have you.
Sending you and your family lots of love. This is beautifully written. Such a fitting tribute to the man. Your skill as a writer is second only to your devotion and caring to the people you love.
I am so sorry for your loss and so glad you could spend time with your father before he passed. You were such a good friend to me when my Mom died and I wish I could be there to do the same for you. I still remember crying in the church when everyone was trying to console me. You came up to me and said, "You look great in that outfit." It brought me just what I needed, which was a release and a giggle. Here's to release and giggling in the toughest times and here's to great friends, loving families and good outfits. Love you.
Thinking of you. You are fierce.
I am sorry for your loss. I know the pain of losing a father and I'm glad you are being strong but remember that your friends may not know what you're going through but they love you and are there to support you. It's okay to lean on them for support. I'm praying for you my friend. I know your father is proud of you.
The Best Message I Recieved About My Father's Death
My best friend Alanna called me on Monday after my Dad died and said that I was about to get some great messages from friends. And the best voicemail I received was on Monday night from an ex-boyfriend of hers named Greg. He was acting full time when they met and now has gone on to work in music in New Orleans. I've tried to transcribe as much as I can, but here are some highlights.
Eric,
This is Greg ____. Hi. I just got a message from Alanna about your father and I've lost my father a while back, as you probably remember. It hits me so hard that don't care that we haven't talked in 8 years.
I did not know your father, but I know you--I knew you--I feel like I still know you. But he must have had incredible qualities because you can just see it when you see such a spectacular person.
If you ever want to catch up or talk, or need a friend.
I have a feeling I'll be seeing you sometime in the future, buddy. I am sending my love. I am sending my condolences to you and your family. I'm thinking about you and I've BEEN thinking of you, which is a bit strange. I look forward to speaking with you under better circumstances. And I just hope you are well and with the right people and taking it in stride. You have a great friend in Alanna, no question about it. I love you.
It was so touching to get a message from a person I haven't talked to in a long time. That's just one example of so many that keep coming in. These are the times when you are filled with love.
I got a call today from my friend Julia, who had lost her father two years ago. I got a call from my friend Gina today. These are people who have known me for a while and who have seen me evolve and know the kind of person I am. It means a lot for people to reach out because it is so hard when you don't know exactly what to say. It touches me that these people have spoken from their heart.
Eric,
This is Greg ____. Hi. I just got a message from Alanna about your father and I've lost my father a while back, as you probably remember. It hits me so hard that don't care that we haven't talked in 8 years.
I did not know your father, but I know you--I knew you--I feel like I still know you. But he must have had incredible qualities because you can just see it when you see such a spectacular person.
If you ever want to catch up or talk, or need a friend.
I have a feeling I'll be seeing you sometime in the future, buddy. I am sending my love. I am sending my condolences to you and your family. I'm thinking about you and I've BEEN thinking of you, which is a bit strange. I look forward to speaking with you under better circumstances. And I just hope you are well and with the right people and taking it in stride. You have a great friend in Alanna, no question about it. I love you.
It was so touching to get a message from a person I haven't talked to in a long time. That's just one example of so many that keep coming in. These are the times when you are filled with love.
I got a call today from my friend Julia, who had lost her father two years ago. I got a call from my friend Gina today. These are people who have known me for a while and who have seen me evolve and know the kind of person I am. It means a lot for people to reach out because it is so hard when you don't know exactly what to say. It touches me that these people have spoken from their heart.
Rebirth
The day after my Father died, my Brother sent me a text:
Are you shaving your head today?
You see, when my Dad was sick I said that I was going to let my hair grow until he died. Then I would cut it short. Chris and I were having a conversation months ago and he said he was thinking about buzzing his head and might do that after Dad died. Then I said I'd buzz mine if he buzzed his. Just like Chocolate and Peanut Butter--two ideas that go great together.
My Dad died around 4 PM on Monday, July 23rd. My Brother texted me at 10:43 AM on Tuesday, July 24th.
ME: I haven't thought about it yet. Are you?
CHRIS: Yeah, I think so.
ME: Let me know when you're doing it. I'll go to the barber shop.
I knew that if I was going to shave my head, I would have to do it at the barber shop where we used to get our hair cut as kids. When I was seven, my Dad took Chris and I to the barber shop to get our summer cuts. He told the barber to buzz our heads. I had no idea what that meant. When I realized that it meant that we would have no hair, I started crying. I cried all the way home. And I wore a sailor hat the whole summer.
It was the beginning of my Father disappointing me. It was the first time I had really seen what my face looks like. And it was the start of me learning to accessorize.
Chris was going to do it between 12 and 2. So I decided that I would do it between 12 and 2. My Mother thought it was a horrendous idea.
I went to the barber shop. It looked exactly like I remember with the cheap wood paneling, the TV on in the background. I think as a kid it was always turned onto "The People's Court" with Judge Wapner. When I walked in it was "The People's Court" with Judge Marilyn Someone. The only barber in the shop at the moment, a Filipino guy, was finishing up with a customer. I looked at the Price List:
Haircut $10
Military Cut $11
Fohawk/Mohawk $11
Shave $8
Yes it said FOhawk instead of FAUXhawk. This is the kind of establishment I was in. Given the present company, I wouldn't have been surprised if it was listed as PHOhawk, which still would have been mispronounced and served with a bowl of soup. It would have been an interesting promotion, although the establishment didn't look clean enough to eat in.
Anyway, it was a deal. I think it was $6 when I was a kid and that was a LONG time ago. Tuition and Room and Board at my undergrad college had tripled since I went there and that wasn't as long ago as the last time I had a haircut in this place.
I also saw that there was a spot for a guy named Danny (which is my Dad's name, but not the point...well, maybe the point...that's just not where I was going with this). Danny was a guy who had worked there when I was a kid and who had cut my hair several times. That was the connective tissue I guess. But Danny wasn't there (and for the record, neither was my Dad, but that might be connecting too many dots).
I was up. I sat in the chair. No booster seat needed this time. The Barber asked me what I wanted done. I told him I wanted a buzz cut. He looked at me with WIDE EYES, kind of like Mickey Rooney's terrible racist character in Breakfast at Tiffany's. He was looking at my long hair. I don't know if he was sophisticated to appreciate the layers and the texturizing that went into it. I don't know if he admired the precision in the cut and how wonderfully it had grown out.
Are you sure?
He looked at me like he wasn't going to do it. So I had to say to him:
Yeah. I want to cut it all off. You see, my Dad just died yesterday and my Brother and I said that we would shave our heads after he passed away. He lives in Portland, my brother, and he's cutting his hair right now. This is the barber shop that we used to go to as kids, so I thought it was apropos that that I come here to get it cut, in the same chair I used to sit in as a kid. Kind of symbolic, you know?
There was that wide eyed look again.
Ok. What setting do you want?
I told him I wanted it set at a 1. At this point, I thought I'd have to catch one of his eyeballs as it flew across the room from the pressure of so much shock in such a concentrated amount of time.
You sure? That's short. You don't want it like me? This is a 3.
Since I didn't have a polite way to say that no, I didn't want to look like a horrible extra from "Good Morning Vietnam," I said:
No. A one will be fine.
Still skeptical, he set it at a 1 and gave me a preview in a small spot at the side of my head. I nodded. He proceded to shave me hair off. The first thing I noticed as the breeze on half of my head as he shaved my hair off. The breeze makes it sound so romantic, but I'm sure it was the loud air conditioner that was drowning out my thoughts and Judge Millian (I just remembered her name, Judge Marilyn Millian).
There was a kid who was hanging around watching my every move. I don't know who he was, someone's kid or the shop mascot. He looked like a little Mexican Gollum.
But the air on my hair took me back to my childhood. It's like I was shedding myself and going back to that kid, to some part of my true nature. There was a mirror directly opposite of me so I could see myself as he was buzzing my hair off. It looked a bit too short, but it looked good. I wanted it to be shocking. I wanted it to be stark.
This guy spent something like 15 minutes working on me. He was very precise. I thought it would just be "A one...a two-hoo, a three. CRUNCH. A three"...like the owl in those old Toostie Pops commercials I used to watch as a kid. But this was much more delicate than that. I wanted to tip the guy big when I was done. I handed him a twenty and he gave me back ten. When I tried to offer him a tip, he refused. I shouldn't have been surprised since I had given him that whole story and basically guilted him into shaving my hair. It was his way of offering his condolences. I appreciated it.
I walked out of there a different person. I drove back to my Mom's house and she scrunched her face. I don't think she loved it. And she wanted to know again if my Brother was going to do it too. I sent a pic to Chris and didn't hear from him for several hours. But eventually I did and he had done it too. Another sign for how close we were as brothers.
When we were kids, people said we didn't look alike at all. We looked like we were related, more like cousins. Nowadays, people say we look very much alike. We don't see it. But with the buzzed heads, maybe that resemblance is even more pronounced.
I love the fact that Chris and I both decided to make a similar gesture to acknowledge our Dad's death. Even though we're 1500 miles apart, in that moment, we felt like we were standing right next to each other. So just for that moment, it was exactly the right thing to do. A fitting tribute to my Dad, only cemented by the fact that I went to our childhood barber shop.
Then I chatted with my friend Susan. She said it felt very spiritual to her. A shedding of the skin. I realized that my Father had shed his earthly body, so it felt like I had to take something off as well. My friend Dave supported that thought. It felt like it had an ancestral vibe to it. It also had a feeling of rebirth. And actually, my Father's family are Buddhists, even though he was raised as a Catholic. I did have a very monk like quality.
Then I looked in the mirror and I didn't recognize myself, which seemed fitting because I had just had an experience which had changed me forever. Gone was the pretty child and here was a bit of an austere man. I have talked about how I had grown into being my Father's son through this experience and looking at myself now, it seemed like that had manifested itself.
The reaction to my shaved head has been universally good. I have been identified by my hair for so long. Other people really like my long hair more than I do. I do have good hair, but it is such an identifying trait that it's nice to be rid of it for a while.
But I have to go back to how light I feel and I can feel everything on the top of my head: the sun, the wind, the water from the showers I take. I feel more connected. I don't have hair to hide behind or to desensitize me. I am experience everything throughout my body as it happens to me. I'm unguarded. I look like a soldier. And that's exactly the way I want to walk through this next part of my life.
There's a saying that you tell people how you want to be treated. I think you also show them. Sometimes through your actions, but also sometimes through the image of yourself that you present to them. And this is a new image. Unrecognizable from the person they saw before.
A rebirth.
Are you shaving your head today?
You see, when my Dad was sick I said that I was going to let my hair grow until he died. Then I would cut it short. Chris and I were having a conversation months ago and he said he was thinking about buzzing his head and might do that after Dad died. Then I said I'd buzz mine if he buzzed his. Just like Chocolate and Peanut Butter--two ideas that go great together.
My Dad died around 4 PM on Monday, July 23rd. My Brother texted me at 10:43 AM on Tuesday, July 24th.
ME: I haven't thought about it yet. Are you?
CHRIS: Yeah, I think so.
ME: Let me know when you're doing it. I'll go to the barber shop.
I knew that if I was going to shave my head, I would have to do it at the barber shop where we used to get our hair cut as kids. When I was seven, my Dad took Chris and I to the barber shop to get our summer cuts. He told the barber to buzz our heads. I had no idea what that meant. When I realized that it meant that we would have no hair, I started crying. I cried all the way home. And I wore a sailor hat the whole summer.
It was the beginning of my Father disappointing me. It was the first time I had really seen what my face looks like. And it was the start of me learning to accessorize.
Chris was going to do it between 12 and 2. So I decided that I would do it between 12 and 2. My Mother thought it was a horrendous idea.
I went to the barber shop. It looked exactly like I remember with the cheap wood paneling, the TV on in the background. I think as a kid it was always turned onto "The People's Court" with Judge Wapner. When I walked in it was "The People's Court" with Judge Marilyn Someone. The only barber in the shop at the moment, a Filipino guy, was finishing up with a customer. I looked at the Price List:
Haircut $10
Military Cut $11
Fohawk/Mohawk $11
Shave $8
Yes it said FOhawk instead of FAUXhawk. This is the kind of establishment I was in. Given the present company, I wouldn't have been surprised if it was listed as PHOhawk, which still would have been mispronounced and served with a bowl of soup. It would have been an interesting promotion, although the establishment didn't look clean enough to eat in.
Anyway, it was a deal. I think it was $6 when I was a kid and that was a LONG time ago. Tuition and Room and Board at my undergrad college had tripled since I went there and that wasn't as long ago as the last time I had a haircut in this place.
I also saw that there was a spot for a guy named Danny (which is my Dad's name, but not the point...well, maybe the point...that's just not where I was going with this). Danny was a guy who had worked there when I was a kid and who had cut my hair several times. That was the connective tissue I guess. But Danny wasn't there (and for the record, neither was my Dad, but that might be connecting too many dots).
I was up. I sat in the chair. No booster seat needed this time. The Barber asked me what I wanted done. I told him I wanted a buzz cut. He looked at me with WIDE EYES, kind of like Mickey Rooney's terrible racist character in Breakfast at Tiffany's. He was looking at my long hair. I don't know if he was sophisticated to appreciate the layers and the texturizing that went into it. I don't know if he admired the precision in the cut and how wonderfully it had grown out.
Are you sure?
He looked at me like he wasn't going to do it. So I had to say to him:
Yeah. I want to cut it all off. You see, my Dad just died yesterday and my Brother and I said that we would shave our heads after he passed away. He lives in Portland, my brother, and he's cutting his hair right now. This is the barber shop that we used to go to as kids, so I thought it was apropos that that I come here to get it cut, in the same chair I used to sit in as a kid. Kind of symbolic, you know?
There was that wide eyed look again.
Ok. What setting do you want?
I told him I wanted it set at a 1. At this point, I thought I'd have to catch one of his eyeballs as it flew across the room from the pressure of so much shock in such a concentrated amount of time.
You sure? That's short. You don't want it like me? This is a 3.
Since I didn't have a polite way to say that no, I didn't want to look like a horrible extra from "Good Morning Vietnam," I said:
No. A one will be fine.
Still skeptical, he set it at a 1 and gave me a preview in a small spot at the side of my head. I nodded. He proceded to shave me hair off. The first thing I noticed as the breeze on half of my head as he shaved my hair off. The breeze makes it sound so romantic, but I'm sure it was the loud air conditioner that was drowning out my thoughts and Judge Millian (I just remembered her name, Judge Marilyn Millian).
There was a kid who was hanging around watching my every move. I don't know who he was, someone's kid or the shop mascot. He looked like a little Mexican Gollum.
But the air on my hair took me back to my childhood. It's like I was shedding myself and going back to that kid, to some part of my true nature. There was a mirror directly opposite of me so I could see myself as he was buzzing my hair off. It looked a bit too short, but it looked good. I wanted it to be shocking. I wanted it to be stark.
This guy spent something like 15 minutes working on me. He was very precise. I thought it would just be "A one...a two-hoo, a three. CRUNCH. A three"...like the owl in those old Toostie Pops commercials I used to watch as a kid. But this was much more delicate than that. I wanted to tip the guy big when I was done. I handed him a twenty and he gave me back ten. When I tried to offer him a tip, he refused. I shouldn't have been surprised since I had given him that whole story and basically guilted him into shaving my hair. It was his way of offering his condolences. I appreciated it.
I walked out of there a different person. I drove back to my Mom's house and she scrunched her face. I don't think she loved it. And she wanted to know again if my Brother was going to do it too. I sent a pic to Chris and didn't hear from him for several hours. But eventually I did and he had done it too. Another sign for how close we were as brothers.
When we were kids, people said we didn't look alike at all. We looked like we were related, more like cousins. Nowadays, people say we look very much alike. We don't see it. But with the buzzed heads, maybe that resemblance is even more pronounced.
I love the fact that Chris and I both decided to make a similar gesture to acknowledge our Dad's death. Even though we're 1500 miles apart, in that moment, we felt like we were standing right next to each other. So just for that moment, it was exactly the right thing to do. A fitting tribute to my Dad, only cemented by the fact that I went to our childhood barber shop.
Then I chatted with my friend Susan. She said it felt very spiritual to her. A shedding of the skin. I realized that my Father had shed his earthly body, so it felt like I had to take something off as well. My friend Dave supported that thought. It felt like it had an ancestral vibe to it. It also had a feeling of rebirth. And actually, my Father's family are Buddhists, even though he was raised as a Catholic. I did have a very monk like quality.
Then I looked in the mirror and I didn't recognize myself, which seemed fitting because I had just had an experience which had changed me forever. Gone was the pretty child and here was a bit of an austere man. I have talked about how I had grown into being my Father's son through this experience and looking at myself now, it seemed like that had manifested itself.
The reaction to my shaved head has been universally good. I have been identified by my hair for so long. Other people really like my long hair more than I do. I do have good hair, but it is such an identifying trait that it's nice to be rid of it for a while.
But I have to go back to how light I feel and I can feel everything on the top of my head: the sun, the wind, the water from the showers I take. I feel more connected. I don't have hair to hide behind or to desensitize me. I am experience everything throughout my body as it happens to me. I'm unguarded. I look like a soldier. And that's exactly the way I want to walk through this next part of my life.
There's a saying that you tell people how you want to be treated. I think you also show them. Sometimes through your actions, but also sometimes through the image of yourself that you present to them. And this is a new image. Unrecognizable from the person they saw before.
A rebirth.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
My Dad's Last Days
Saturday:
I had scheduled a massage in town with my massage dude Aaron at 3 PM. Given all of the stress I had been under lately with my Dad's illness, I needed to relax. Truthfully, my massage with Aaron made me realize that I was still a lot more stressed than I had been the week before. I'm not typically an every week massage sort of guy, but given the circumstances I felt I needed to treat myself. Aaron had found a lot of knots in my back that didn't seem they were there the week before.
On Thursday, I had the "final" conversation with my Dad. The one where you tell him to let go. My Dad hadn't been eating and he stopped talking. At this point he had even stopped taking his meds.
It was hard watching him waste away.
Even after the massage, I wasn't relaxed. So I decided to head to the Korean Spa to relax some more and take a dip in the jacuzzi, steam a bit and just decompress. I called my friend Nicole on the way and we got involved in this conversation about my conversation with my Dad. I sat in my car in the parking lot at the spa and chatted with Nicole. Then I got an incoming call from my Mom. I had to take it. I just figured it was more updates about my Dad's state or some questions about what to do.
I put Nicole on hold. My Mom told me that my Father had been bleeding. I didn't know what this meant. I thought that maybe his bed sores had been irritated again, like the time a couple of weeks ago where I found dried blood all over his back because of his bed sores. It sounded serious, but with my Mom, it seemed like it could have either been important or not important at all. She said that our neighbor Elyse was coming over. Elyse's a retired nurse. I clicked back to Nicole, explained the situation and explained that I would call her back.
I called my Mom back and by this point we had established that blood was coming from his rectum. I headed home to find out what Elyse and the hospice nurse were going to say.
My Dad was hemmoraging pretty bad. He had lost a lot of blood. Elyse and the nurse cleaned him up. The nurse was huddled in a corner of the kitchen with my Mom. I wanted to hear what they were saying so I approached them.
"I don't think he's going to last the night."
WHAT? The moment could finally be here. We were told to keep him comfortable/hopped up on morphine. The nurse left. Elyse stuck around. I called my Godmother, who's my Mom's best friend. She showed up twenty minutes later and barged in saying that she knows I don't like prayers, but she was going to do the rosary anyway. It's not that I don't like prayers. My Father didn't like prayers. He didn't like anything that felt hypocritical.
At that moment, I forgot that I had a rosary I had blessed from the Vatican when I went to Rome years earlier. It was meant for my Godmother and everytime I saw her I forgot to give it to her. So armed with a new Pope-approved rosary, my Godmother went and said the rosary over my Dad. I felt like it would give her comfort and it would send a few more good thoughts my Dad's way.
Outside, my Mom and Elyse were talking about last rites. I walked out there and told them that I felt my Dad would not have wanted them. I wanted to respect his wishes even in his final hours.
The rest of the night went smoothly. We got some Chinese take out. We ate. We made my Mom eat and then my Godmother decided to spend the night be to be with my Dad. They decided to go in again and pray.
From the living room, I heard certain words come from the bedroom. My Godmother had grabbed her prayer book and went back in. I heard things like:
"Lord, save his soul from damnation."
I heard things about "hell" and "salvation." I also heard "heaven" and "before you take him." Those sounded a lot like last rites. I was not happy, but I wasn't about to go in there and create more stress in my Father's room. So I waited until they came out.
When they came out, my Godmother said that her and my Mom would be taking turns sleeping and praying over him. My Mother even said that I could go in and say some prayers. I knew that this brought them comfort, but we had had enough! My Mom was going to sleep first and my Godmother was going to pray. I followed my Mom into her room and explained to her that we were done with the prayers. It wasn't what he was about and I didn't like that some very last rites-ish things were being said. She told me I had to tell my Godmother what I told her.
So I went outside and explained to my Godmother that this wasn't in the spirit of the values my Father embodied. It felt hypocritical. I felt like we weren't talking to him. I invited her to stay and chat with him. About good times. About her memories of him. Even if she wanted to invoke the name of God, that was fine. But she had to speak from her heart and not from "prayers for the dying." She listened and then she said:
"Aren't you worried about his soul?"
This was exactly why I was having this conversation. I told her I didn't think he'd go to hell because he didn't believe in it and I didn't believe in it. And I didn't like the implication that I wouldn't be worried about my Father's soul. I told her his soul was fine because he had lived a life of honesty and integrity.
Then she decided that she had heard enough. I had made my point. And then she decided to leave. Not take turns the whole night talking to him. But since she couldn't pray over him, she decided to leave. That's exactly why I had the conversation because I wanted all hypocrisy to leave the building. She felt insulted and took her Jesus with her. That's fine because there was plenty of God in there with my Dad. There was plenty of spirit.
Sunday:
My Dad didn't die overnight. But I decided to cancel my therapy appointment at 1 PM. We sat there all day. By 5:30 PM I was exhausted and I decided to go for a drive. I went over to my best friend's Mom's house who lives in town. She had cocktails and cigarettes for me. We talked a lot about her memories of my Dad. She applauded me for standing up to and telling off my Godmother. It was exactly what I needed. I just needed some understanding and some love.
That night I came home and I sat with my Dad. I took him through a bit of a life review. Remember how people say that before you die your life flashes before your eyes? Well, I wanted to take a nice leisurely stroll. So I asked him to remember the day he got married, a great meal, what it was like growing up in Hawaii. Things like that. I asked him to think about those things. It was our second last goodbye. But it was good to just sit there with him and put my hand on his and talk. I'm glad that I have those memories with him.
By the way, my Godmother didn't come by on Sunday. Maybe she was tired or not feeling well. Or she was mad. Not sure which.
Monday:
He was still with us. I went into town to go to the Korean Spa because I needed a break. I relaxed and left by 1:30 so my Mom could make it back for her therapy appointment, which I insisted she keep.
She went to therapy and I rested a bit. We were giving him morphine every two hours, per the nurse's instructions. At 3:30, Elyse and I moved him a bit. My Mom came home at 4:30. She noticed that he was on his back. We decided that we would move him to his side again when we gave him morphine at 5:30. Mom noticed he wasn't breathing. Elyse came by and confirmed it. He had passed.
Just like that. Quietly. "He's gone."
Here's where the details are sporadic. The first call was to my brother. I told him what happened. My Mom got on the phone with him and then started shaking. It hit. She had to go sit down. I consoled her and then Elyse took her into his room. I started making calls to everyone. We had the arrangements set up. By this time, my Godmother had arrived and sat with Mom.
Then I started calling relatives. I was dumb. I had made a list the other day so I wouldn't forget anyone. I went down my list and started calling. Explaining that there would be no service, per his request. Explaining that he went peacefully and at home at "around 4pm." I checked people off my list so I would remember who I had called. It all seemed to go like clockwork, even taking breaks every so often.
The case worker at the hospice came to declare him dead.
The people from the Neptune Society came to get him. They looked like a couple of 12 year olds in their Dad's suits. They were awkward and a bit too by the book. No warmth there. To them,it's just a job I imagine.
Then I went and got some food for us. By this time it was 9 PM and I don't know where the time had gone. I had made it through half my list. Family and close friends. Tuesday I would tackle more friends.
I'm not sure how I slept that night. I just closed my eyes. But I didn't get any good sleep. I just kept going and have been going since. I can't believe it's Thursday night, almost Friday. But it also seems like time has gone by SO slowly as well. Maybe because I'm hyper aware of everything going on. I'm very present in this moment. Not sure how I'm doing that. I'm just going...much like what I'm doing now: typing. I just keep hitting proverbial keys and I watch the time march forward like this happens every day.
And it does happen every day. Just not to me. Thank God.
I had scheduled a massage in town with my massage dude Aaron at 3 PM. Given all of the stress I had been under lately with my Dad's illness, I needed to relax. Truthfully, my massage with Aaron made me realize that I was still a lot more stressed than I had been the week before. I'm not typically an every week massage sort of guy, but given the circumstances I felt I needed to treat myself. Aaron had found a lot of knots in my back that didn't seem they were there the week before.
On Thursday, I had the "final" conversation with my Dad. The one where you tell him to let go. My Dad hadn't been eating and he stopped talking. At this point he had even stopped taking his meds.
It was hard watching him waste away.
Even after the massage, I wasn't relaxed. So I decided to head to the Korean Spa to relax some more and take a dip in the jacuzzi, steam a bit and just decompress. I called my friend Nicole on the way and we got involved in this conversation about my conversation with my Dad. I sat in my car in the parking lot at the spa and chatted with Nicole. Then I got an incoming call from my Mom. I had to take it. I just figured it was more updates about my Dad's state or some questions about what to do.
I put Nicole on hold. My Mom told me that my Father had been bleeding. I didn't know what this meant. I thought that maybe his bed sores had been irritated again, like the time a couple of weeks ago where I found dried blood all over his back because of his bed sores. It sounded serious, but with my Mom, it seemed like it could have either been important or not important at all. She said that our neighbor Elyse was coming over. Elyse's a retired nurse. I clicked back to Nicole, explained the situation and explained that I would call her back.
I called my Mom back and by this point we had established that blood was coming from his rectum. I headed home to find out what Elyse and the hospice nurse were going to say.
My Dad was hemmoraging pretty bad. He had lost a lot of blood. Elyse and the nurse cleaned him up. The nurse was huddled in a corner of the kitchen with my Mom. I wanted to hear what they were saying so I approached them.
"I don't think he's going to last the night."
WHAT? The moment could finally be here. We were told to keep him comfortable/hopped up on morphine. The nurse left. Elyse stuck around. I called my Godmother, who's my Mom's best friend. She showed up twenty minutes later and barged in saying that she knows I don't like prayers, but she was going to do the rosary anyway. It's not that I don't like prayers. My Father didn't like prayers. He didn't like anything that felt hypocritical.
At that moment, I forgot that I had a rosary I had blessed from the Vatican when I went to Rome years earlier. It was meant for my Godmother and everytime I saw her I forgot to give it to her. So armed with a new Pope-approved rosary, my Godmother went and said the rosary over my Dad. I felt like it would give her comfort and it would send a few more good thoughts my Dad's way.
Outside, my Mom and Elyse were talking about last rites. I walked out there and told them that I felt my Dad would not have wanted them. I wanted to respect his wishes even in his final hours.
The rest of the night went smoothly. We got some Chinese take out. We ate. We made my Mom eat and then my Godmother decided to spend the night be to be with my Dad. They decided to go in again and pray.
From the living room, I heard certain words come from the bedroom. My Godmother had grabbed her prayer book and went back in. I heard things like:
"Lord, save his soul from damnation."
I heard things about "hell" and "salvation." I also heard "heaven" and "before you take him." Those sounded a lot like last rites. I was not happy, but I wasn't about to go in there and create more stress in my Father's room. So I waited until they came out.
When they came out, my Godmother said that her and my Mom would be taking turns sleeping and praying over him. My Mother even said that I could go in and say some prayers. I knew that this brought them comfort, but we had had enough! My Mom was going to sleep first and my Godmother was going to pray. I followed my Mom into her room and explained to her that we were done with the prayers. It wasn't what he was about and I didn't like that some very last rites-ish things were being said. She told me I had to tell my Godmother what I told her.
So I went outside and explained to my Godmother that this wasn't in the spirit of the values my Father embodied. It felt hypocritical. I felt like we weren't talking to him. I invited her to stay and chat with him. About good times. About her memories of him. Even if she wanted to invoke the name of God, that was fine. But she had to speak from her heart and not from "prayers for the dying." She listened and then she said:
"Aren't you worried about his soul?"
This was exactly why I was having this conversation. I told her I didn't think he'd go to hell because he didn't believe in it and I didn't believe in it. And I didn't like the implication that I wouldn't be worried about my Father's soul. I told her his soul was fine because he had lived a life of honesty and integrity.
Then she decided that she had heard enough. I had made my point. And then she decided to leave. Not take turns the whole night talking to him. But since she couldn't pray over him, she decided to leave. That's exactly why I had the conversation because I wanted all hypocrisy to leave the building. She felt insulted and took her Jesus with her. That's fine because there was plenty of God in there with my Dad. There was plenty of spirit.
Sunday:
My Dad didn't die overnight. But I decided to cancel my therapy appointment at 1 PM. We sat there all day. By 5:30 PM I was exhausted and I decided to go for a drive. I went over to my best friend's Mom's house who lives in town. She had cocktails and cigarettes for me. We talked a lot about her memories of my Dad. She applauded me for standing up to and telling off my Godmother. It was exactly what I needed. I just needed some understanding and some love.
That night I came home and I sat with my Dad. I took him through a bit of a life review. Remember how people say that before you die your life flashes before your eyes? Well, I wanted to take a nice leisurely stroll. So I asked him to remember the day he got married, a great meal, what it was like growing up in Hawaii. Things like that. I asked him to think about those things. It was our second last goodbye. But it was good to just sit there with him and put my hand on his and talk. I'm glad that I have those memories with him.
By the way, my Godmother didn't come by on Sunday. Maybe she was tired or not feeling well. Or she was mad. Not sure which.
Monday:
He was still with us. I went into town to go to the Korean Spa because I needed a break. I relaxed and left by 1:30 so my Mom could make it back for her therapy appointment, which I insisted she keep.
She went to therapy and I rested a bit. We were giving him morphine every two hours, per the nurse's instructions. At 3:30, Elyse and I moved him a bit. My Mom came home at 4:30. She noticed that he was on his back. We decided that we would move him to his side again when we gave him morphine at 5:30. Mom noticed he wasn't breathing. Elyse came by and confirmed it. He had passed.
Just like that. Quietly. "He's gone."
Here's where the details are sporadic. The first call was to my brother. I told him what happened. My Mom got on the phone with him and then started shaking. It hit. She had to go sit down. I consoled her and then Elyse took her into his room. I started making calls to everyone. We had the arrangements set up. By this time, my Godmother had arrived and sat with Mom.
Then I started calling relatives. I was dumb. I had made a list the other day so I wouldn't forget anyone. I went down my list and started calling. Explaining that there would be no service, per his request. Explaining that he went peacefully and at home at "around 4pm." I checked people off my list so I would remember who I had called. It all seemed to go like clockwork, even taking breaks every so often.
The case worker at the hospice came to declare him dead.
The people from the Neptune Society came to get him. They looked like a couple of 12 year olds in their Dad's suits. They were awkward and a bit too by the book. No warmth there. To them,it's just a job I imagine.
Then I went and got some food for us. By this time it was 9 PM and I don't know where the time had gone. I had made it through half my list. Family and close friends. Tuesday I would tackle more friends.
I'm not sure how I slept that night. I just closed my eyes. But I didn't get any good sleep. I just kept going and have been going since. I can't believe it's Thursday night, almost Friday. But it also seems like time has gone by SO slowly as well. Maybe because I'm hyper aware of everything going on. I'm very present in this moment. Not sure how I'm doing that. I'm just going...much like what I'm doing now: typing. I just keep hitting proverbial keys and I watch the time march forward like this happens every day.
And it does happen every day. Just not to me. Thank God.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Fast Impressions with...
On Andy Cohen's Bravo show, "Watch What Happens Live," he has a game he plays called Fast Impressions where he gets celebrity to give him their fast impression on a certain subject. My Dad just passed a couple of days ago (more on that--TRUST ME--later). But I wanted to give a few fast impressions of my own in regards to the phone calls I've had to make to let people know that my Dad just died.
Aunt Judy (my Dad's sister): The first call I made and the only time I really cried on the phone not because of my Dad per se, but because I was telling a sister that her brother had died. I was thinking of me and my brother.
Trust me, these get lighter. I just had to start at the beginning
Cousin Danton: "This is my business line." Well, your wife gave it to me and I thought you might want to know that you're Uncle died.
Cousin Dalen: I never talk to him. And I thought he was his brother the whole time I was on the phone with him. Oops.
Uncle Ruben (my great uncle, my Grandmother's brother): Told me we should take his ashes and walk along Waikiki Beach just letting them trail behind us. He said that if we just kept walking, no one would notice. Kind of like farting, which both he and my Dad liked to do a lot.
Young-Hee (my Mom's best friend, imagine with thick Korean accent): "Oh, okay. I will get with your Mom later. I am driving in the car and I don't want to be on the phone. It makes me nervous."
Rita (the wife of my Dad's close friend, George...through tears): "I'm shocked. Your father was such a great...dancer."
"Uncle" Gary (family friend): Wants us to give him a call when we go to Hawaii to spread his ashes so he can join us for a Mai Tai. And he told me that the arrangements we made for our Dad with the Neptune Society are identical to the ones he's prepaid for. Also, his demeanor was the best of anyone I talked to...pleasant and fun without desperately trying to sound happy. Maybe he was having a Mai Tai when we were on the phone.
"Auntie" Mary (family friend and Gary's ex): "Oh, I have some GREAT stories to share." I'm hoping one of those stories isn't "I remember that time your Dad and I had sex."
Uncle Louie (my Mom's brother): "You're Dad was a great Dad...unlike MY father, who walked out on us when I was a child."
Mostly people cried or wanted to get on the phone quickly or had wonderful things to say about my Dad. My brother and I are asking people to give us their not so fast impressions of him so we can share those stories with my niece and nephew when they get older. Should be fun. A hell of a lot more fun than I'm having at this moment.
Aunt Judy (my Dad's sister): The first call I made and the only time I really cried on the phone not because of my Dad per se, but because I was telling a sister that her brother had died. I was thinking of me and my brother.
Trust me, these get lighter. I just had to start at the beginning
Cousin Danton: "This is my business line." Well, your wife gave it to me and I thought you might want to know that you're Uncle died.
Cousin Dalen: I never talk to him. And I thought he was his brother the whole time I was on the phone with him. Oops.
Uncle Ruben (my great uncle, my Grandmother's brother): Told me we should take his ashes and walk along Waikiki Beach just letting them trail behind us. He said that if we just kept walking, no one would notice. Kind of like farting, which both he and my Dad liked to do a lot.
Young-Hee (my Mom's best friend, imagine with thick Korean accent): "Oh, okay. I will get with your Mom later. I am driving in the car and I don't want to be on the phone. It makes me nervous."
Rita (the wife of my Dad's close friend, George...through tears): "I'm shocked. Your father was such a great...dancer."
"Uncle" Gary (family friend): Wants us to give him a call when we go to Hawaii to spread his ashes so he can join us for a Mai Tai. And he told me that the arrangements we made for our Dad with the Neptune Society are identical to the ones he's prepaid for. Also, his demeanor was the best of anyone I talked to...pleasant and fun without desperately trying to sound happy. Maybe he was having a Mai Tai when we were on the phone.
"Auntie" Mary (family friend and Gary's ex): "Oh, I have some GREAT stories to share." I'm hoping one of those stories isn't "I remember that time your Dad and I had sex."
Uncle Louie (my Mom's brother): "You're Dad was a great Dad...unlike MY father, who walked out on us when I was a child."
Mostly people cried or wanted to get on the phone quickly or had wonderful things to say about my Dad. My brother and I are asking people to give us their not so fast impressions of him so we can share those stories with my niece and nephew when they get older. Should be fun. A hell of a lot more fun than I'm having at this moment.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
The Business of Being Back
When I started this blog a year and a half ago, I thought that being back was just about putting myself back together after a tumultuous relationship had ended. That was definitely a part of "I'm Back." But now that I look at my life after my Father's illness, I realize that that was just priming the pump. That the real journey of being back was going through this process of my Father dying and fulfilling the promise of so many seeds I had planted long ago.
Going through my break up gave me the courage to accept change and actually welcome it. It taught me how to take care of myself as a caretaker. It made me realize that it wasn't about being a martyr or sacrificing everything for someone else. Once I got that straightened out, my Father got sick. And it would put all of that to the test. That knowledge would help me guide my Mother through this process, even though she has her own corrections to make and lessons to learn. And it would help me let go of my expectations of her (although that probably has only happened in the last week or so).
I thought that I would only get where I wanted to go by forcing it all.
Now I know that I have to let go.
I have to let go of the narrative my Father told me and that his Mother told him and her Mother told her. I had to let go of the narrative my Mother told me and her Mother told her and her Mother told her. And I had to clear the slate.
I believe that all of this happening at the end of Mayan calendar where it's supposed to be the end of the world is significant. It's a new beginning. And it's on the cusp of a new decade for me. None of this is by accident.
Now I have to surrender. Truly, truly, truly surrender.
That's what being back is about.
Going through my break up gave me the courage to accept change and actually welcome it. It taught me how to take care of myself as a caretaker. It made me realize that it wasn't about being a martyr or sacrificing everything for someone else. Once I got that straightened out, my Father got sick. And it would put all of that to the test. That knowledge would help me guide my Mother through this process, even though she has her own corrections to make and lessons to learn. And it would help me let go of my expectations of her (although that probably has only happened in the last week or so).
I thought that I would only get where I wanted to go by forcing it all.
Now I know that I have to let go.
I have to let go of the narrative my Father told me and that his Mother told him and her Mother told her. I had to let go of the narrative my Mother told me and her Mother told her and her Mother told her. And I had to clear the slate.
I believe that all of this happening at the end of Mayan calendar where it's supposed to be the end of the world is significant. It's a new beginning. And it's on the cusp of a new decade for me. None of this is by accident.
Now I have to surrender. Truly, truly, truly surrender.
That's what being back is about.
Aziz Ansari As...
In the movie of my life (or in the movie version of the memoir I'm going to write), I want to be played by Aziz Ansari.
Who would be better? No one.
I don't look like Aziz Ansari. I'm not Indian or South Asian. I'm not as funny as he is. But that's exactly why I want him to play me in the movie of my life. I want people to think that I'm him. I want them to think that I hang out with Kanye West or that I'm as big a fan of R. Kelly. Actually, I do love me some R. Kelly. I'm a huge fan of R&B music. I love a 90s slow jam. Ginuwine? "Pony" is my go to sex song.
I have enough in common with him. We're both brown. We both love food. We both want to be cooler than we are and simultaneously, I think we're both cooler than we think.
I might have the bigger dick. That might be the only difference.
Everyone says they want Meryl Streep to play them in a TV movie of their lives. Aziz Ansari is my Meryl Streep.
Aziz Ansari as me as written by Woody Allen as directed by Woody Allen with Bradley Cooper as The Drummer with costumes by Arianne Phillips.
D to the O to the N to the E.`
Who would be better? No one.
I don't look like Aziz Ansari. I'm not Indian or South Asian. I'm not as funny as he is. But that's exactly why I want him to play me in the movie of my life. I want people to think that I'm him. I want them to think that I hang out with Kanye West or that I'm as big a fan of R. Kelly. Actually, I do love me some R. Kelly. I'm a huge fan of R&B music. I love a 90s slow jam. Ginuwine? "Pony" is my go to sex song.
I have enough in common with him. We're both brown. We both love food. We both want to be cooler than we are and simultaneously, I think we're both cooler than we think.
I might have the bigger dick. That might be the only difference.
Everyone says they want Meryl Streep to play them in a TV movie of their lives. Aziz Ansari is my Meryl Streep.
Aziz Ansari as me as written by Woody Allen as directed by Woody Allen with Bradley Cooper as The Drummer with costumes by Arianne Phillips.
D to the O to the N to the E.`
The Last Goodbye
I don't even know if it was the "last goodbye", but it was a good-bye.
Our case worker Cleo came by today (at my request) to check on my Dad and to see how he was doing. Cleo's a person I would want to go have a drink with. She'd probably do something crazy. And then we would both exchange numbers and promise to hang out again soon. But we probably wouldn't. And that would be it.
But Cleo as our case worker with someone who has vital information to help us through the process of my father's hospice and eventual passing is not helpful. I hate it when it seems like people don't know what they're doing, even when they might have SOME important information. But if it seems to be that you don't have expertise, then I immediately shut off. You're not really worth my time. I don't mean to paint a picture of Cleo as an incompetent, but for my personal needs, she doesn't provide any sort of comfort or real information.
However, she did say something today that was helpful. She mentioned that sometimes a patient might be holding on because he's worried about the family. My Mother also mentioned that my Godmother's husband went into serious convulsions before he died. We kind of concluded that it might be good to have the "it's okay to let go" conversation with him before it gets to that place. It felt like maybe her husband didn't feel like he could go so he was holding on for dear life, kind of like white knuckling it. And we don't want that to happen to my Dad. We want him to be as comfortable as possible.
Elyzabeth, our nurse, came to see him yesterday. She told my Mother that he looked good. My Mother gave her a perplexed look. "Good?" Then Elyzabeth explained that he looked like he was comfortable and that makes the transition easier. It could mean that he wouldn't suffer as much. And that is something we want. We want to make sure that he has an easy time of it.
So today I went in to change his diaper. I cleaned him up and then I took the opportunity to read to him. I have been reading Jane Fonda's memoir, "My Life So Far" to prepare for this pilot I'm writing. And one of the chapters is called "Closure" and it details what she did when she knew her father was dying. What she said. What she wishes she had said. It was all incredibly moving and oddly close to my personal experience with my Dad. I even went back and watched "On Golden Pond" after I read her account of her experience with the film. Henry Fonda was a father who was distant and never gave her the approval she had craved for her entire life up until then. I felt a connection to her story.
So in an effort to both give myself the courage to talk to my Dad about letting go and to present someone else's story so my Dad wouldn't feel confronted, I decided I would read this chapter to him. I read the whole thing to him and then I started speaking to him.
I told him that I was proud to be his son.
I told him that even though he didn't think he had taught me things, he had.
I told him that my Mother and Brother would be okay.
I told him that I knew that he only pushed me to help reveal the potential he knew was just below the surface.
I told him that I was starting to finally realize that potential.
I promised him that I would start living my potential.
I told him a bunch of other things that were heartfelt, sincere, well articulated and wonderful. None of those things I can remember now.
I told him I loved him.
I told him it was okay for him to go.
My voice was teetering on the edge of breaking and losing it. But I kept going. I let myself sit in that. I let my voice rest in that.
I am sorry my Dad won't live to see all of the things he knows I'm capable of. But I'm glad he was alive to see me overcome the bullies, go to college, find my voice, come out of the closet, go to graduate school, and start living my dreams. The other stuff is material and surface and the world's idea of success. I do wish he could see that, but...
I also told him that his gift to me was to help me realize and fulfill that potential by making his transition. I remember that now.
A friend of mine told me a year and a half ago after my breakup that sometimes a Son holds back from realizing his full potential because he doesn't want to outshine his Father. I think that is true. I don't think that's the entirety of the reason I haven't done the things I know I'm capable of or that I haven't had the outward success that I'm working towards. But I do think I have held back to protect my Father's pride. That seems so fucked up. But I always wanted to make my Dad proud and I guess somewhere I thought what would make him the proudest was protecting his Pride.
I told him that I wouldn't accomplish the things I'm going to accomplish to make him proud, but I know that it would.
I don't think I got that right, by the way. But I do think that's how strong my desire to please has been. It's a powerful force. Now I can save that energy for myself.
Thanks, Dad. Love you. Hope it's not too long now, for your sake.
I also told him that I would think about him whenever I ate. My curiosity of food, my wonderment of it, my appreciation of it comes from him.
I told him that I'd think about him whenever I ate pate and crackers.
Whenever I tried something new I was excited by.
Whenever my Brother and I ate something together and shared that experience.
I told him how close Chris and I are and that our love of food comes from him and has brought us close.
I told him that I was sorry that he had been abused by his Mother and that that affected his life so deeply.
I told him a lot. I'm glad I was able to before he dies.
The other thing that Cleo said was that maybe I could share my stories with other people, to help them through something I had experienced. I took that as reinforcement that I should write these experiences down.
Our case worker Cleo came by today (at my request) to check on my Dad and to see how he was doing. Cleo's a person I would want to go have a drink with. She'd probably do something crazy. And then we would both exchange numbers and promise to hang out again soon. But we probably wouldn't. And that would be it.
But Cleo as our case worker with someone who has vital information to help us through the process of my father's hospice and eventual passing is not helpful. I hate it when it seems like people don't know what they're doing, even when they might have SOME important information. But if it seems to be that you don't have expertise, then I immediately shut off. You're not really worth my time. I don't mean to paint a picture of Cleo as an incompetent, but for my personal needs, she doesn't provide any sort of comfort or real information.
However, she did say something today that was helpful. She mentioned that sometimes a patient might be holding on because he's worried about the family. My Mother also mentioned that my Godmother's husband went into serious convulsions before he died. We kind of concluded that it might be good to have the "it's okay to let go" conversation with him before it gets to that place. It felt like maybe her husband didn't feel like he could go so he was holding on for dear life, kind of like white knuckling it. And we don't want that to happen to my Dad. We want him to be as comfortable as possible.
Elyzabeth, our nurse, came to see him yesterday. She told my Mother that he looked good. My Mother gave her a perplexed look. "Good?" Then Elyzabeth explained that he looked like he was comfortable and that makes the transition easier. It could mean that he wouldn't suffer as much. And that is something we want. We want to make sure that he has an easy time of it.
So today I went in to change his diaper. I cleaned him up and then I took the opportunity to read to him. I have been reading Jane Fonda's memoir, "My Life So Far" to prepare for this pilot I'm writing. And one of the chapters is called "Closure" and it details what she did when she knew her father was dying. What she said. What she wishes she had said. It was all incredibly moving and oddly close to my personal experience with my Dad. I even went back and watched "On Golden Pond" after I read her account of her experience with the film. Henry Fonda was a father who was distant and never gave her the approval she had craved for her entire life up until then. I felt a connection to her story.
So in an effort to both give myself the courage to talk to my Dad about letting go and to present someone else's story so my Dad wouldn't feel confronted, I decided I would read this chapter to him. I read the whole thing to him and then I started speaking to him.
I told him that I was proud to be his son.
I told him that even though he didn't think he had taught me things, he had.
I told him that my Mother and Brother would be okay.
I told him that I knew that he only pushed me to help reveal the potential he knew was just below the surface.
I told him that I was starting to finally realize that potential.
I promised him that I would start living my potential.
I told him a bunch of other things that were heartfelt, sincere, well articulated and wonderful. None of those things I can remember now.
I told him I loved him.
I told him it was okay for him to go.
My voice was teetering on the edge of breaking and losing it. But I kept going. I let myself sit in that. I let my voice rest in that.
I am sorry my Dad won't live to see all of the things he knows I'm capable of. But I'm glad he was alive to see me overcome the bullies, go to college, find my voice, come out of the closet, go to graduate school, and start living my dreams. The other stuff is material and surface and the world's idea of success. I do wish he could see that, but...
I also told him that his gift to me was to help me realize and fulfill that potential by making his transition. I remember that now.
A friend of mine told me a year and a half ago after my breakup that sometimes a Son holds back from realizing his full potential because he doesn't want to outshine his Father. I think that is true. I don't think that's the entirety of the reason I haven't done the things I know I'm capable of or that I haven't had the outward success that I'm working towards. But I do think I have held back to protect my Father's pride. That seems so fucked up. But I always wanted to make my Dad proud and I guess somewhere I thought what would make him the proudest was protecting his Pride.
I told him that I wouldn't accomplish the things I'm going to accomplish to make him proud, but I know that it would.
I don't think I got that right, by the way. But I do think that's how strong my desire to please has been. It's a powerful force. Now I can save that energy for myself.
Thanks, Dad. Love you. Hope it's not too long now, for your sake.
I also told him that I would think about him whenever I ate. My curiosity of food, my wonderment of it, my appreciation of it comes from him.
I told him that I'd think about him whenever I ate pate and crackers.
Whenever I tried something new I was excited by.
Whenever my Brother and I ate something together and shared that experience.
I told him how close Chris and I are and that our love of food comes from him and has brought us close.
I told him that I was sorry that he had been abused by his Mother and that that affected his life so deeply.
I told him a lot. I'm glad I was able to before he dies.
The other thing that Cleo said was that maybe I could share my stories with other people, to help them through something I had experienced. I took that as reinforcement that I should write these experiences down.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Adulthood
They say that when someone's father dies,that's when he goes from being a boy to being a man.
Some would say that I've been living like a child for a long time. It's not like I'm not mature. Or intelligent. Or that I don't have skill sets or haven't held jobs before. But I think I have always known on some subconscious level that I served a certain role by still being the child in a lot of ways. And that time is soon to end.
I look forward to that growth and change...in theory. I think it will make me a better person. I think it will force me to face certain things about myself and it will move me into a more whole self. But all of that change is traumatic. It's breaking me of certain things which are absolutely necessary. So I have to just surrender to it. I guess.
Dad is almost unrecognizable now. My brother said the other day that it seems like he has already left. I agree with that sentiment. It's hard. I accept that he's mostly gone and soon will be fully gone. But I still want him around. I have enjoyed the gentleness that I've experienced with him. It's nice to just hold him and cradle him. I know that sounds strange coming from a son about his father, but I just want him to experience some parts of myself he never was able to because he had all of his guards up. There are no guards now. He's unguarded.
One of the most wonderful things that has happened is that I can just be. I can just exist with my Dad and for him. I don't have to try and make him proud. I don't have to try and impress him. I just have to put my hand over his. I just have to rub his arm. I just have to smile at him or say something to make him laugh. All I have to do is exist with him. Sit next to him. Talk to him in a gentle voice. That doesn't cost anything. It is a quiet thing. But right now he's not someone who can stand much noise or interference. For him, things are best if they are simple.
He's still teaching me things. Eradicate all of the noise. Whether that's body noise or food noise or ego noise or worth noise or success noise--get rid of anything that doesn't serve you and keeps you from listening to the quietness of your soul. Just be still.
My father has been able to sustain on very little food. He's still with us. He's not trying to exert himself or keep himself going for much longer. But for what he needs to do--be around his family--he has enough nourishment.
I want him to go as peacefully as possible. What can I do about that?
I have to let him go. My boyfriend said that he thought my Mom should probably do that. I don't know if Mom has it in her. My friend Nicole said that I have to do it because my Mom can't. And my bereavement counselor has given me permission to do that as well. Now I just have to do it. I've felt a little selfish about it. Like here's this wonderful, peaceful thing I get to do...I want to share it. But maybe this is my ultimate correction, my tikkun. Maybe this is what is being presented to me.
And how do I even prepare for that?
Some would say that I've been living like a child for a long time. It's not like I'm not mature. Or intelligent. Or that I don't have skill sets or haven't held jobs before. But I think I have always known on some subconscious level that I served a certain role by still being the child in a lot of ways. And that time is soon to end.
I look forward to that growth and change...in theory. I think it will make me a better person. I think it will force me to face certain things about myself and it will move me into a more whole self. But all of that change is traumatic. It's breaking me of certain things which are absolutely necessary. So I have to just surrender to it. I guess.
Dad is almost unrecognizable now. My brother said the other day that it seems like he has already left. I agree with that sentiment. It's hard. I accept that he's mostly gone and soon will be fully gone. But I still want him around. I have enjoyed the gentleness that I've experienced with him. It's nice to just hold him and cradle him. I know that sounds strange coming from a son about his father, but I just want him to experience some parts of myself he never was able to because he had all of his guards up. There are no guards now. He's unguarded.
One of the most wonderful things that has happened is that I can just be. I can just exist with my Dad and for him. I don't have to try and make him proud. I don't have to try and impress him. I just have to put my hand over his. I just have to rub his arm. I just have to smile at him or say something to make him laugh. All I have to do is exist with him. Sit next to him. Talk to him in a gentle voice. That doesn't cost anything. It is a quiet thing. But right now he's not someone who can stand much noise or interference. For him, things are best if they are simple.
He's still teaching me things. Eradicate all of the noise. Whether that's body noise or food noise or ego noise or worth noise or success noise--get rid of anything that doesn't serve you and keeps you from listening to the quietness of your soul. Just be still.
My father has been able to sustain on very little food. He's still with us. He's not trying to exert himself or keep himself going for much longer. But for what he needs to do--be around his family--he has enough nourishment.
I want him to go as peacefully as possible. What can I do about that?
I have to let him go. My boyfriend said that he thought my Mom should probably do that. I don't know if Mom has it in her. My friend Nicole said that I have to do it because my Mom can't. And my bereavement counselor has given me permission to do that as well. Now I just have to do it. I've felt a little selfish about it. Like here's this wonderful, peaceful thing I get to do...I want to share it. But maybe this is my ultimate correction, my tikkun. Maybe this is what is being presented to me.
And how do I even prepare for that?
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
One Year with the Drummer
Since my last series of postings (not the ones that I'm putting up now), I celebrated one year with the drummer.
July 11, 2011
That's when I met him. That's when I made the steaks. That's when I had him over. It's all well documented on this blog.
And now we have been together for one year. What does that mean?
It signifies a year of change. I look back and think about the person I was when I met him. I had eight months free of a relationship. I had started doing the heavy work on myself when he came into my life. He didn't change me. But because I was changing, he was able to come in. It's great. I have a life I really enjoy.
I have put on some happy weight, which I'm not psyched about. But it's better happy with ten extra pounds than miserable with a six pack. I have a partner. I have someone I respect. I have sexiness. I added "hotness" to my list and I got hotness. That is also well documented on this blog. I have to look back at what I was looking for. Hold on. I'll be right back.
I'm back. This is the post from 12/5/10:
My friend Susan and I have started running again. We used to run every Saturday for over a year. Then we stopped, probably something to do with my relationship.
But now every Sunday, I drive to Santa Monica and we run along the beach.
So our normal Bagel Nosh was totally slammed this morning. So we went to Snug Harbor for a little breakfast. And when we were having coffee, waiting for our food to come, a group of attractive guys walk in with a female friend of theirs. I didn't think anything of it, cute. whatever.
Then Susan tells me that one of the guys is checking me out. I'm in complete disbelief.
"Which one?" I ask.
"The one who walked in first."
I turn around and see this stunning guy. He's probably around 6'2", in shape, blue eyes, brown hair. Straight acting.
I turn back around. "That guy? Are you sure he wasn't looking at YOU?"
She was sure.
"Suze, let me tell yous something. Guys like that don't want guys like me. They want the washboard abs. The big pecs. Listen, I'll be totally honest about myself. I give good face. I'm in shape, but I'm not ripped. That guy wants ripped. I can let one rip. But I'm not ripped."
She laughs.
"See, I'm funny. And quick witted and clever. But that guy wants the washboard."
"He just looked again. He keeps looking over here."
To be honest, I didn't believe her. I thought that this adorable guy who looks a little like Jake Gyllenhall wasn't going for little ol mixed race me. And where did I get this terrible self-esteem? I grew up in LA and I knew that LA guys liked the body. Even the fat ones think they deserve to date the body. That's why they make a lot of money and become really successful. That's the other reason. The main reason is that they like to eat. And then they spend money on guys. Either purchasing or winning their affections. In NYC, guys loved my mind.
I didn't even think I'd meet anyone out here when I moved back to LA. I figured I'd get my career going and move back to New York and meet a real guy. And then I met my ex and he changed all of that. But even my ex didn't have the perfect body. I always said that didn't matter to me. That it's about the intellect and the ambition and the humor and the background. I had all of that with my ex. I had the Catholic thing. I had bigger than life personality and the excitement. That's until the excitement got too exciting.
So later I'm talking to Susan and her husband about this whole scenario. And her husband asked me what I valued in a relationship. I gave him my list: brains, wit, sarcasm, emotionally available, caring, fun. The same things I've always valued. And everything I got with my ex. But I always felt like I settled for guys who were handsome to me. But I'd never think of dating a person who was hot. And it's not that I want to give up everything else just to date a hot dude. I don't want a narcissist. But someone who values themselves enough to take care of themselves. I think THAT'S about character. But I want everything else too. I'm just adding hotness to the list.
So what happened to the guy? He drove away in his black Prius with his friends. But I do know now that, according to Susan:
"That guy is exactly the caliber of guy that you could get."
So that's what I get for adding hotness to the list. I have it with the drummer: brains, wit, sarcasm, emotionally available, caring and fun. He watches MSNBC all the time (brains). He's funny (wit) and he likes to bust my balls (sarcasm) playfully. He tells me he loves me all of the time and we talk about our feelings and he cares and the sex is amazing (emotionally available). He's got a big heart and one that he wears on his sleeve (caring). And we go do fun things together like going to the mountains or hearing bands play or going on long drives (fun). And he's got the most amazing blue eyes and the best chest in town. He's just awesome. And I think a lot of people want to fuck him.
So that's nice too.
July 11, 2011
That's when I met him. That's when I made the steaks. That's when I had him over. It's all well documented on this blog.
And now we have been together for one year. What does that mean?
It signifies a year of change. I look back and think about the person I was when I met him. I had eight months free of a relationship. I had started doing the heavy work on myself when he came into my life. He didn't change me. But because I was changing, he was able to come in. It's great. I have a life I really enjoy.
I have put on some happy weight, which I'm not psyched about. But it's better happy with ten extra pounds than miserable with a six pack. I have a partner. I have someone I respect. I have sexiness. I added "hotness" to my list and I got hotness. That is also well documented on this blog. I have to look back at what I was looking for. Hold on. I'll be right back.
I'm back. This is the post from 12/5/10:
My friend Susan and I have started running again. We used to run every Saturday for over a year. Then we stopped, probably something to do with my relationship.
But now every Sunday, I drive to Santa Monica and we run along the beach.
So our normal Bagel Nosh was totally slammed this morning. So we went to Snug Harbor for a little breakfast. And when we were having coffee, waiting for our food to come, a group of attractive guys walk in with a female friend of theirs. I didn't think anything of it, cute. whatever.
Then Susan tells me that one of the guys is checking me out. I'm in complete disbelief.
"Which one?" I ask.
"The one who walked in first."
I turn around and see this stunning guy. He's probably around 6'2", in shape, blue eyes, brown hair. Straight acting.
I turn back around. "That guy? Are you sure he wasn't looking at YOU?"
She was sure.
"Suze, let me tell yous something. Guys like that don't want guys like me. They want the washboard abs. The big pecs. Listen, I'll be totally honest about myself. I give good face. I'm in shape, but I'm not ripped. That guy wants ripped. I can let one rip. But I'm not ripped."
She laughs.
"See, I'm funny. And quick witted and clever. But that guy wants the washboard."
"He just looked again. He keeps looking over here."
To be honest, I didn't believe her. I thought that this adorable guy who looks a little like Jake Gyllenhall wasn't going for little ol mixed race me. And where did I get this terrible self-esteem? I grew up in LA and I knew that LA guys liked the body. Even the fat ones think they deserve to date the body. That's why they make a lot of money and become really successful. That's the other reason. The main reason is that they like to eat. And then they spend money on guys. Either purchasing or winning their affections. In NYC, guys loved my mind.
I didn't even think I'd meet anyone out here when I moved back to LA. I figured I'd get my career going and move back to New York and meet a real guy. And then I met my ex and he changed all of that. But even my ex didn't have the perfect body. I always said that didn't matter to me. That it's about the intellect and the ambition and the humor and the background. I had all of that with my ex. I had the Catholic thing. I had bigger than life personality and the excitement. That's until the excitement got too exciting.
So later I'm talking to Susan and her husband about this whole scenario. And her husband asked me what I valued in a relationship. I gave him my list: brains, wit, sarcasm, emotionally available, caring, fun. The same things I've always valued. And everything I got with my ex. But I always felt like I settled for guys who were handsome to me. But I'd never think of dating a person who was hot. And it's not that I want to give up everything else just to date a hot dude. I don't want a narcissist. But someone who values themselves enough to take care of themselves. I think THAT'S about character. But I want everything else too. I'm just adding hotness to the list.
So what happened to the guy? He drove away in his black Prius with his friends. But I do know now that, according to Susan:
"That guy is exactly the caliber of guy that you could get."
So that's what I get for adding hotness to the list. I have it with the drummer: brains, wit, sarcasm, emotionally available, caring and fun. He watches MSNBC all the time (brains). He's funny (wit) and he likes to bust my balls (sarcasm) playfully. He tells me he loves me all of the time and we talk about our feelings and he cares and the sex is amazing (emotionally available). He's got a big heart and one that he wears on his sleeve (caring). And we go do fun things together like going to the mountains or hearing bands play or going on long drives (fun). And he's got the most amazing blue eyes and the best chest in town. He's just awesome. And I think a lot of people want to fuck him.
So that's nice too.
The Story of My Life
What's the story of my life?
Is it my relationship with my Father? Having so many years where I tried to make him proud and tried to become a person that was in direct conflict with myself so he would be proud.
Is it the relationship with my sexuality? Being so clearly gay and exuberant and creative and individual.
Is it the relationship with my Mother? Mirroring her nurturing nature at the expense of myself.
Is it about being a Writer? I have experiences that I have to write down. This is the lens through which my world exists. Sometimes my world is fantasy because I'm living in the dream I am writing.
Is it about being a mixed race person? I'm Chinese and Mexican and sometimes that says everything and sometimes that doesn't even scratch the surface. It's meaningless.
I'm thinking about writing a memoir. I wrote fiction as a child. I wrote short stories in college. But I haven't written prose in years. And I never thought I would be the sort of person who would use direct autobiography. I have actually steered clear of it for a long, long time. When I started writing prose as a kid, I wrote things that were direct autobiography. But I never considered that writing. My evolution from poetry to dance theatre to narrative theatre/film/TV writing it seems has taken me back to writing about my personal experiences.
I thought about writing about my Dad's illness and eminent passing as a play. Mainly because I've been writing plays lately. Then it seemed to be about writing something that would take me away from the story of dealing with the idea of my Dad's death. I wanted to get theatrical and crazy on it instead of tell a real story. And writing a memoir would give me the chance to write a real story and my real feelings about my real Father and preparing for his death. It's something that seems so foreign, yet it seems like exactly the way I should write about him. But I know I can't write about my Dad without writing about another relationship that ended, the one with my Ex.
A friend had suggested in the early days of me writing this blog that I write a book about the break up. Again, since I abhored the idea of writing an autobiography I continued writing the blog and figured that that was enough. Let's be honest, this is autobiographical, uncensored writing. And it's been a great release (and great relief). But still that didn't seem like enough of a story for me. But when I thought about writing about what's going on with my Dad and his illness, it seemed like there was a part of the story that allowed me to write about the break up. All along, I've said that I was grateful to my Ex because the break up and what I discovered about myself gave me the strength to deal with my Dad's illness and now his death which seems to be approaching quickly. I know that I would not be handling my Dad's illness with any sort of strength if I hadn't survived this break up. If we were still together, I would be managing my Ex's selfishness. If we were still together, my Dad being sick would have caused my self-destruction. I would have been so far gone. I know that I was destroying myself by being with my Ex. He wasn't destroying me. I was committing some sort of spirtual suicide. And I was killing everything that was beautiful and unique about myself because I had offered myself up to him like a lamb to the slaughter. Strong words, but completely accurate and not overexaggeration at all. But I was responsible for that, not my Ex. I know that now.
But this story isn't about the break up. The break up informed how I have been handling everything. It has let me know that I have strength and power I always knew was there but was not accessing. Some people would say that they had strength they didn't know they had. I have been fully aware my whole life of that strength. I just haven't used it. It has been there in moments, but I took it for granted. I thought it would always be there. Then that relationship almost destroyed my spirit, as did the job I held for seven years. And I was perfectly aware and perfectly all right with it all going away. I have more to give and if I don't give it, then I am the fool. But the story isn't even about that. Well, it IS of course to some degree. But it's about giving up and letting go and experiencing my Father for who he is.
I don't like food with a lot covering it up--gravies, sauces, etc. And I'm not learning to appreciate life without a lot covering it up. I want food to taste like food. And I want life to taste like life.
That's the story.
Is it my relationship with my Father? Having so many years where I tried to make him proud and tried to become a person that was in direct conflict with myself so he would be proud.
Is it the relationship with my sexuality? Being so clearly gay and exuberant and creative and individual.
Is it the relationship with my Mother? Mirroring her nurturing nature at the expense of myself.
Is it about being a Writer? I have experiences that I have to write down. This is the lens through which my world exists. Sometimes my world is fantasy because I'm living in the dream I am writing.
Is it about being a mixed race person? I'm Chinese and Mexican and sometimes that says everything and sometimes that doesn't even scratch the surface. It's meaningless.
I'm thinking about writing a memoir. I wrote fiction as a child. I wrote short stories in college. But I haven't written prose in years. And I never thought I would be the sort of person who would use direct autobiography. I have actually steered clear of it for a long, long time. When I started writing prose as a kid, I wrote things that were direct autobiography. But I never considered that writing. My evolution from poetry to dance theatre to narrative theatre/film/TV writing it seems has taken me back to writing about my personal experiences.
I thought about writing about my Dad's illness and eminent passing as a play. Mainly because I've been writing plays lately. Then it seemed to be about writing something that would take me away from the story of dealing with the idea of my Dad's death. I wanted to get theatrical and crazy on it instead of tell a real story. And writing a memoir would give me the chance to write a real story and my real feelings about my real Father and preparing for his death. It's something that seems so foreign, yet it seems like exactly the way I should write about him. But I know I can't write about my Dad without writing about another relationship that ended, the one with my Ex.
A friend had suggested in the early days of me writing this blog that I write a book about the break up. Again, since I abhored the idea of writing an autobiography I continued writing the blog and figured that that was enough. Let's be honest, this is autobiographical, uncensored writing. And it's been a great release (and great relief). But still that didn't seem like enough of a story for me. But when I thought about writing about what's going on with my Dad and his illness, it seemed like there was a part of the story that allowed me to write about the break up. All along, I've said that I was grateful to my Ex because the break up and what I discovered about myself gave me the strength to deal with my Dad's illness and now his death which seems to be approaching quickly. I know that I would not be handling my Dad's illness with any sort of strength if I hadn't survived this break up. If we were still together, I would be managing my Ex's selfishness. If we were still together, my Dad being sick would have caused my self-destruction. I would have been so far gone. I know that I was destroying myself by being with my Ex. He wasn't destroying me. I was committing some sort of spirtual suicide. And I was killing everything that was beautiful and unique about myself because I had offered myself up to him like a lamb to the slaughter. Strong words, but completely accurate and not overexaggeration at all. But I was responsible for that, not my Ex. I know that now.
But this story isn't about the break up. The break up informed how I have been handling everything. It has let me know that I have strength and power I always knew was there but was not accessing. Some people would say that they had strength they didn't know they had. I have been fully aware my whole life of that strength. I just haven't used it. It has been there in moments, but I took it for granted. I thought it would always be there. Then that relationship almost destroyed my spirit, as did the job I held for seven years. And I was perfectly aware and perfectly all right with it all going away. I have more to give and if I don't give it, then I am the fool. But the story isn't even about that. Well, it IS of course to some degree. But it's about giving up and letting go and experiencing my Father for who he is.
I don't like food with a lot covering it up--gravies, sauces, etc. And I'm not learning to appreciate life without a lot covering it up. I want food to taste like food. And I want life to taste like life.
That's the story.
Talk with my Brother
Chris and I chatted on the phone tonight after I went to dance class at the gym. We have been talking every day for the past several months, ever since it became clear that my Dad was not getting any better and that he would be dying soon. I don't even remember when that happened.
Maybe I do. Maybe it was when the Doctor told my Mother that my Dad had to go to hospice. That was April 1, 2012.
During the course of this journey, I have been pretty ok with the fact that my Brother hasn't been around. He has been around a lot, as much as he can. He has come three times in the past 2 1/2 months. Yes, he is not living here and I am dealing with everything. But I haven't really felt resentment. There have been a few times where it did seem like he had his life going on and I had to deal with Dad, but that's before we knew he was dying. And I nipped that in the bud. I told my Brother straight out that I was starting to be resentful and we dealt with it. Whenever we talk now, I don't feel like my Brother is being pulled in a million directions. Even if we only have five minutes to talk, I feel like I'm his for that five minutes. And I don't call during dinner or when he's trying to put the kids to sleep.
It's not like I never considered how he was feeling about all of this. But it just seemed like he was working hard to keep his emotions in check. Today he told me that he has been sad and low for the past few days. It's not the first time I knew it was affecting him, but it's the first time we really talked about it directly. He said that his wife is there for him, but that she doesn't really know what it's like. I feel the same way about The Drummer. He loves me and he supports me. But sometimes he talks about my Father's death like we're trying to solve an equation. X does not Equal Y squared over 8. But he tries. And he is there to hold me and love me. That's enough. But no one, except my friends who have lost parents, really understand what this is like. And that's okay. I wouldn't want them to know what it was like and there is no way I could explain it to them. Like an inside joke, a very bad inside joke, you just had to be there.
But for the first time, I was able to give him my support. And let him know that even though he's not physically here, he's here with us. When I have to talk to my Dad about what he means to us and about how Chris and I will make sure my Mother's okay, Chris will be there as much as I'm there. We are so alike and we have so many of the same values. I don't know if that ever happens with siblings. Not with any of my friends and their siblings. My Ex and his sister were from different planets, although they were both in the Gay Universe. There's usually a smart one and a dumb one. Or a cute one and an ugly one. Polar opposites. In our case, there is a short one and a tall one. I'm the tall one. But that's really the only difference. Yes I'm the Gay one and he's the Straight one. But our core values, not necessarily what we were raised believing but what we both came to on our own, are the same. I don't know how we reached a lot of the same conclusions since we are different in many surface ways. But we are kindred spirits. And it's not just because we're brothers, although I'm sure our Mother would LOVE to take credit for that. It's not that she doesn't deserve some of the credit. But our parents pitted us against each other from the get go. And eventually, we were mature enough to realize that we liked each other even though our parents pointed out how different we were.
I told Chris tonight that he was with me in the times I take care of Dad because the way that I fight for my Dad, the way that I protect him is the way that Dad thinks Chris would protect him and fight for him if he lived in LA. So that energy is there. And everything we do, as far as my Dad is concerned, is done together.
Maybe I do. Maybe it was when the Doctor told my Mother that my Dad had to go to hospice. That was April 1, 2012.
During the course of this journey, I have been pretty ok with the fact that my Brother hasn't been around. He has been around a lot, as much as he can. He has come three times in the past 2 1/2 months. Yes, he is not living here and I am dealing with everything. But I haven't really felt resentment. There have been a few times where it did seem like he had his life going on and I had to deal with Dad, but that's before we knew he was dying. And I nipped that in the bud. I told my Brother straight out that I was starting to be resentful and we dealt with it. Whenever we talk now, I don't feel like my Brother is being pulled in a million directions. Even if we only have five minutes to talk, I feel like I'm his for that five minutes. And I don't call during dinner or when he's trying to put the kids to sleep.
It's not like I never considered how he was feeling about all of this. But it just seemed like he was working hard to keep his emotions in check. Today he told me that he has been sad and low for the past few days. It's not the first time I knew it was affecting him, but it's the first time we really talked about it directly. He said that his wife is there for him, but that she doesn't really know what it's like. I feel the same way about The Drummer. He loves me and he supports me. But sometimes he talks about my Father's death like we're trying to solve an equation. X does not Equal Y squared over 8. But he tries. And he is there to hold me and love me. That's enough. But no one, except my friends who have lost parents, really understand what this is like. And that's okay. I wouldn't want them to know what it was like and there is no way I could explain it to them. Like an inside joke, a very bad inside joke, you just had to be there.
But for the first time, I was able to give him my support. And let him know that even though he's not physically here, he's here with us. When I have to talk to my Dad about what he means to us and about how Chris and I will make sure my Mother's okay, Chris will be there as much as I'm there. We are so alike and we have so many of the same values. I don't know if that ever happens with siblings. Not with any of my friends and their siblings. My Ex and his sister were from different planets, although they were both in the Gay Universe. There's usually a smart one and a dumb one. Or a cute one and an ugly one. Polar opposites. In our case, there is a short one and a tall one. I'm the tall one. But that's really the only difference. Yes I'm the Gay one and he's the Straight one. But our core values, not necessarily what we were raised believing but what we both came to on our own, are the same. I don't know how we reached a lot of the same conclusions since we are different in many surface ways. But we are kindred spirits. And it's not just because we're brothers, although I'm sure our Mother would LOVE to take credit for that. It's not that she doesn't deserve some of the credit. But our parents pitted us against each other from the get go. And eventually, we were mature enough to realize that we liked each other even though our parents pointed out how different we were.
I told Chris tonight that he was with me in the times I take care of Dad because the way that I fight for my Dad, the way that I protect him is the way that Dad thinks Chris would protect him and fight for him if he lived in LA. So that energy is there. And everything we do, as far as my Dad is concerned, is done together.
The Long Let Go
Saw Dad today.
He slept most of the time I was there.
I had to change him and I had to wipe him clean. Humbling.
All sense of embarrassment (on my end at least) is gone. I just have to do what I have to do to make him comfortable. I never imagined myself doing the things I've done.
I yelled at a few people on the phone today. But I'm used to that. And I'm sure Gerinet Healthcare is used to that as well. Oh, well. That's what I have to do to make sure my father's taken care of.
We have to figure out how we're going to let him go. Is it okay to tell him it's okay for him to go? It's a scary prospect. And I feel a bit selfish that I'm the one who might have to do it. It's a huge responsibility and I'm not afraid of that. But I think it's a precious thing and since my Mother can't do it and my Brother isn't in town...that leaves me.
I'm also thinking about this story. My story. The story of letting my Father go. I have a story I feel I need to tell. I've been reading all of these celebrity autobiographies in preparation for a pilot I'm writing. But it has dawned on me that maybe I"m reading all of these autobiographies and memoirs because there's something in it for me as well. Maybe I'm doing research for a memoir I'm supposed to write without knowing it. It seems strange to think about, but it also is helping me contextualize what I'm going through.
I also have another story of letting go to tell. It's the one I've been telling on this blog for the past year and a half. And I realized recently that they are tied, so I can't tell one story of letting go without telling the other one. I feel that what I went through with my breakup with the Ex has helped me process what I'm going through in my "break up" with my Father.
A lot to think about.
He slept most of the time I was there.
I had to change him and I had to wipe him clean. Humbling.
All sense of embarrassment (on my end at least) is gone. I just have to do what I have to do to make him comfortable. I never imagined myself doing the things I've done.
I yelled at a few people on the phone today. But I'm used to that. And I'm sure Gerinet Healthcare is used to that as well. Oh, well. That's what I have to do to make sure my father's taken care of.
We have to figure out how we're going to let him go. Is it okay to tell him it's okay for him to go? It's a scary prospect. And I feel a bit selfish that I'm the one who might have to do it. It's a huge responsibility and I'm not afraid of that. But I think it's a precious thing and since my Mother can't do it and my Brother isn't in town...that leaves me.
I'm also thinking about this story. My story. The story of letting my Father go. I have a story I feel I need to tell. I've been reading all of these celebrity autobiographies in preparation for a pilot I'm writing. But it has dawned on me that maybe I"m reading all of these autobiographies and memoirs because there's something in it for me as well. Maybe I'm doing research for a memoir I'm supposed to write without knowing it. It seems strange to think about, but it also is helping me contextualize what I'm going through.
I also have another story of letting go to tell. It's the one I've been telling on this blog for the past year and a half. And I realized recently that they are tied, so I can't tell one story of letting go without telling the other one. I feel that what I went through with my breakup with the Ex has helped me process what I'm going through in my "break up" with my Father.
A lot to think about.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Not Dead Yet
My father is still alive and with us. The last blog post I wrote was right after the doctor had told us my Dad had two weeks left to live. Well, he has surpassed those two weeks. It's six weeks later. And he's still here, but his health has declined steadily.
My Dad is now bedridden. That happened after he tried to go back to his bedroom after he was sitting down in his favorite chair in the living room. He made it about 1 1/2 feet. Then he was too tired to get up. I had to roll him in his walker. That took about 30 minutes. When I got him back into bed, I knew that he wasn't really going to get out of bed. Then we had to start managing his pain with morphine.
When he first started hospice, the careworkers and nurses kept asking him if he was in pain. It seemed like for the first couple of months he was in hospice, we didn't have to worry about it. I was grateful. But then he had an experience where he was up and "awake" in his chair for about a day and a half. He didn't seem comfortable and my mother hadn't really done much to help him with his discomfort. It was then that I decided to give him morphine for the first time. My father's a stubborn guy and he wasn't going to say outright that he was in pain. I think he's just trying to let everything wear him down until he eventually expires. But it doesn't work that way. It just creates unnecessary pain for him while his body decides when it's going to stop working.
The thought of morphine scares my Mom to death and for the first couple of weeks I was administering it, she was afraid to. So she let him sit in pain. All of it made me incredibly angry and I kept getting to this place where I would fly off the handle. How could she let her judgment be impaired by her fear? I didn't understand it and it made me angry. She was willingly letting him suffer by not offering him medicine that could make him feel better all because she was afraid of what the morphine represented: that he was really dying.
Eventually she came around, thank goodness. Then he started refusing food and medicine and oxygen. He's not talking very much. And he sleeps all day. I wonder what he's hanging around for? It seems like he's ready to go, but that he's holding on for something. Is he waiting for my Mom to forgive him? Is he waiting for me to let him know that we're all going to be okay and that he can be at peace?
It's not like we want him to go, we just want him to not suffer any more. It's no fun to watch someone die. Either quickly or slowly. It sucks.
My Dad is now bedridden. That happened after he tried to go back to his bedroom after he was sitting down in his favorite chair in the living room. He made it about 1 1/2 feet. Then he was too tired to get up. I had to roll him in his walker. That took about 30 minutes. When I got him back into bed, I knew that he wasn't really going to get out of bed. Then we had to start managing his pain with morphine.
When he first started hospice, the careworkers and nurses kept asking him if he was in pain. It seemed like for the first couple of months he was in hospice, we didn't have to worry about it. I was grateful. But then he had an experience where he was up and "awake" in his chair for about a day and a half. He didn't seem comfortable and my mother hadn't really done much to help him with his discomfort. It was then that I decided to give him morphine for the first time. My father's a stubborn guy and he wasn't going to say outright that he was in pain. I think he's just trying to let everything wear him down until he eventually expires. But it doesn't work that way. It just creates unnecessary pain for him while his body decides when it's going to stop working.
The thought of morphine scares my Mom to death and for the first couple of weeks I was administering it, she was afraid to. So she let him sit in pain. All of it made me incredibly angry and I kept getting to this place where I would fly off the handle. How could she let her judgment be impaired by her fear? I didn't understand it and it made me angry. She was willingly letting him suffer by not offering him medicine that could make him feel better all because she was afraid of what the morphine represented: that he was really dying.
Eventually she came around, thank goodness. Then he started refusing food and medicine and oxygen. He's not talking very much. And he sleeps all day. I wonder what he's hanging around for? It seems like he's ready to go, but that he's holding on for something. Is he waiting for my Mom to forgive him? Is he waiting for me to let him know that we're all going to be okay and that he can be at peace?
It's not like we want him to go, we just want him to not suffer any more. It's no fun to watch someone die. Either quickly or slowly. It sucks.
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