The What Ifs

     It is not a game I recommend. It is not a game I like to play. Sometimes you just get sucked in, as the noise of the day fades away, and your thoughts start to wander around freely, the first sneaky questions slink in.

    What if I had been better at managing my own stress? Would I have noticed any signs or symptoms that something was amiss any sooner? Forget the fact that I was still only six months into my latest job and the first inklings about a world wide pandemic were being revealed. What did I miss? What if I had asked better questions? Would we have ended up with different answers and better outcomes?

    In the first few weeks after he died these thoughts ran amuck, tearing through my mind, ripping my heart to shreds. What if we could have got an in person doctor appointment? What if we had not gone in for this CT scan here but had gone for a CT scan at this other hospital instead?  

    He seemed to be off his feed, so to speak. I knew he needed more fluids so I made ice cubes, and made ice cream floats, I bought grapes and oranges, and other fluid rich foods. I should have done more. What if we could have gotten a virtual appointment, those were so hard to come by too.

    What if, when we finally knew we had to call an ambulance, that whatever this was, it was beyond us all, what if we would have chosen a different hospital as our destination?    

    And then begin the months of what ifs, each choice gets rerun in my mind. What if we had refused surgery? What if he had never had acute toxic metabolic encephalopathy while in the ICU after surgery? What if he got sent to this rehab facility instead? What if there had not been a massive infection in the surgical site?

    It is such an exhausting game to play. It is hard not to participate when my brain starts a new round. It sucks you in. It becomes harder and harder to not play the endless loop of what ifs. Nothing can be gained, but yet, you still feel maybe you can sort it all out and somehow reach a different or better conclusion. It is not true. It changes nothing. It just eats your soul.

    The first thing to bring me relief was to submerge myself in holiday baking shows. It was relaxing to watch people engage in technical skills I wish I possessed, to see their creativity, to watch their stress as they competed, and forget my own. It allowed me to shut off my brain, to reroute the nasty nagging game of what ifs, and start to deal with the way it now is.

    One of the things I loved to do for my dad was cook him meals and bake cookies and desserts. I decided to start a new baking journey for 2021--expand my repertoire of cookies--and bake at least one new to me cookie or dessert every month. A natural expansion of that goal--was wanting to share these cookies with others, so I have been sharing the results of my baking journey with friends and family that have also lost loved ones recently.

    I pair my new baked offerings with tried and true recipes as well. My Memorial Day plates had four different types of cookies-key lime sugar cookies and coconut macaroons-which were new to me, and the tried and true sugar cookies and chocolate frosted chocolate cookies.

    It is a small gesture that honors my father as I navigate through how it is now and keeps the what ifs at bay, allowing me to find comfort in this day.

Role of a Lifetime

    There are things we are just born to do. Sometimes you feel it when you have a dream in your heart and work towards it. It just feels right, even when you are not at your goal or full ability, you get in the groove of the work of pursuing that dream and it makes your soul sing. It doesn't matter if you spend most of your days hot, sweaty, and tired, or buried under piles of research and deadlines, you have happiness in the pursuit of the dream goal or role.

    If you are in the creative arts, you may have roles on the stage or in film that you long to play. Or there may not be that exact  role that you long to play, so you write that ideal role and produce that film yourself, creating that role that you know you were born to play, to tell that story you know you were meant to tell.

    Really, we all have multiple roles we are meant to play, in our lives and the lives of others. One of my main roles was being my dad's daughter, his first born child. It is a role I love and cherish. It is the role of a lifetime. I know that roles does not end, but it has drastically, and I need to figure out how to play this version of the role. 

    I loved the role I had, even as it evolved to be not just my dad's daughter but his caregiver and advocate. I suppose now part of my role is to be caretaker of his memory. I am still working out how to succeed at that, as well as how to develop some of the secondary roles in my life, to bring them to the forefront as I work with the fact that my favorite and best role has changed forever.

Mending a Broken Heart

     How do you put the pieces back together? I have had friends and family die before, people that I loved dearly. I remember those griefs even now. And yet, somehow, this all feels more shattering, more devastating, as if this will be raw and fresh forever. I know that sounds dramatic as soon I complete the thought. That is just how some days feel. We are coming up on eleven weeks since by dad passed, but it still seems like moments ago.

    The coming of the new year brought a focus to me, not for resolutions in the typical sense, but of a way to focus on healing my heart a little bit. I decided to embark on a journey with my baking. I usually have three types of cookies I make and I wanted to branch out a bit. I decided that for 2021 I would try to make at least one new type of cookie each month. My dad was a great baker and cook, so it seems like a good way to honor him in a small way. He always made food for everyone, so I also am sharing my baked goods. 

    For Valentine's day I made cookie platters for four dear friends/family members that have all recently lost someone, just to let them know I care. Three of them are currently in care facilities and cannot have visitors due to the pandemic, so it was my way to connect with them and let them know they are not forgotten. It won't fix anything, can't cure anything, but it can bring a bit of happiness. I like to think of it as healing my heart one cookie at a time. It is going to take time to put the bits and pieces back together and I am willing to do that work.

I Never Asked

     I never asked. It's as simple as that. I don't know why I never asked him. Now, I sure wish I did. It just never occurred to me. Maybe it was because for me, they were never "real" people, more like historical figures in the stories of our lives. I wish I would have asked my dad about the loss of his own parents.

    If I would have asked him about it, he might have had some great advice on how to navigate such a loss. I was two when my dad's mom, my grandmother, passed away. I don't personally have any memory of her. I "think" I remember sitting sitting on the stairway landing of her house, playing with some toys I never saw again. I can see golden sunshine pouring through the curtains on the windows and the way it looks like there are pixies dancing in the air. My cousins have told me she was the best grandma ever. They adored her. They say she adored me.

    His dad, my grandfather, died several years before my dad even met my mom. I never felt any particular connection until one day, when I was twelve, I went to visit my best friends grandparents. As she introduced me to her grandfather he said he he knew exactly who I was, that I was Ralph Rowe's granddaughter. Suddenly I received one of the greatest gifts in my life. For one brief, shining moment my grandparents were vivid and real, connected with me in the here and now.

    My dad would sometimes tell little stories about his parents, from when he was a child. He spoke about the time his mother had a fight with her own brother. My dad was a wee child. He remembered there was a violent storm out that night. He was playing with his cars under the kitchen table while his mother sorted out a situation with her brother. He remembered it felt like Night on Bald Mountain could have been playing in the background. His mother was fierce and did not backdown, she stuck up for herself, that was who she was.

    My dad also told stories about how his parents liked to go dancing and to watch car races. His mother also enjoyed books, music, movies, and would play with her son. There is even proof in the picture of her riding my dad's scooter when he would have been about eight and she would have been about forty-two.

    When my dad was grown, he took his mother on a cross country road trip. Among other sites they saw when they reached California, was San Simeon, the Hearst castle. It was an epic road trip that my dad would sometimes mention. They both enjoyed themselves very much.

    I think my dad was as close to his mom as I was to him, maybe even closer. I don't know. He never really talked about that loss, ever, as we were growing up. He would just tell small stories about his parents lives when they were pertinent to whatever was going on in our own lives.

    I just wish I would have known or thought to ask about it, so I could have known them a little more, known him a little better, and have a memory of his words to guide me through this loss of him now in this physical world.

    We did take his cue a bit last night and included a few stories about him, some humorous, in our New Year's Eve conversations. In that small way we were able to carry him into this new year with us.

    

Not Giving Up

     These are strange times. I often wonder, would any of this be any easier if it was NOT happening in 2020? I doubt it. There is just not a way for situations like this to be easy. As my grandma often said-growing old isn't for babies. It is hard work and heart break, just like most transitions, I suppose.

    One of the most helpful things we have done in this journey with my dad and his health issues and surgeries this year has been to call in Hospice. They really do help make the burdens easier to bear. None of this is to say that I am giving up on him, on my dad, on a potential for miracles happening. I hope no one misunderstands this.

    I stood by him in May of 2019 when he didn't want his foot amputated, even when it meant that I, Terri of the Squeamish Stomach, would have to learn how to dress and clean the gaping open wound that was still healing when he came to stay with us in the end of July of last year. I would do just about anything for him. I really would. I don't close the door on any possibilities, on God blessing him with another miracle, but the reality is that time is running out for that. Sometimes the answers we get are not the answers we want, and we need to face those too.

    So now, I need to do other things for him, such as working with the manager of a local funeral home that is helping me to get my dad's military discharge papers. One of his benefits he is entitled to is a burial plot for himself and my mother. I need to be doing these things for him as well, since he can't do them for himself any more. That doesn't mean I am giving up on him, it just means I am caring for him through all the possibilities and outcomes.

    As I move forward in multiple directions while still trying to love my fabulous father in the best ways I know how and in ways I am being guided through with professional help from doctors, nurses, and social workers, I hope that some how, some way my dad knows I am still doing my best for him.  I hope everyone else knows and understands that too.

    At first, I was tormented by the things left behind, the fresh groceries that rotted that week, the week that was just a blur. I had gone grocery shopping after work, we had settled in for our shows and supper, and then we never made it to bed that Friday night as we had to call for an ambulance, and he never made it back home, ever again.

    Then I was tormented by the canned goods and snacks I had bought for his lunches, the sausages, the cookies, and snack cakes, and even the ice creams I had stored in the freezer. I don't like cherry anything, and there was a half gallon of cherry fudge untouched in the freezer waiting for him. It broke my heart every time I saw these things.

    Happily, my brother took the canned sausages. He and my dad used to eat that same type of sausages  out of the can as a snack when my brother was a toddler. They would eat tins of sardines together too. No accounting for tastes, what likes and dislikes you will inherit from your parents.

    And, we did get to celebrate another birthday of my dad's, even with all the chaos of Covid-19 going on, and I had his favorite cherry fudge ice cream I could bring him.

One More Story

     I'm not a classic hoarder. I don't care for the clutter of physical things. I tend to take after my mother's mother. I will throw things out, even if I think there is a possibility I will need them later. When we bought our house, I avoided getting much in the way of furniture for as long as possible. I adored all the empty space. But when it comes to stories, thoughts, emotions, memories-I hold onto every single one, even ones that might seem pointless.

    Why do I do this? I suppose it is some attempt to try to sift through information and make things make sense, to try to understand the why and how of everyday life. We have had a bit of a traumatic summer, even more so than the usual difficulties brought on by a world wide pandemic.

    As my dad said, shortly before he had to have spinal surgery to remove a mass from his spinal cord and get his spine rebuilt, he was just eating his cheeseburger, minding his own business, watching one of his shows on History channel, until suddenly, he wasn't.

    Suddenly we were calling an ambulance, rushing from one hospital to the next, he was undergoing hours and hours of testing, and we were receiving potentially grim information. Massive amounts of medication became necessary to combat pain and the muscle spasms of an unruly nervous system that was overtaking his body. Soon, he was in surgery for 6 hours one day, then 9 hours the next.

    During the days of pretesting and surgeries, he slipped further and further away. The medications caused a deep fog to settle over him. Most of his thoughts and conversations turned either inward or were with people that I could not see. Anytime he touched down in our shared reality, I would cling to any words he said, storing them away in my heart and mind, my precious hoarded treasures. 

    The few minutes before the sedation process began before his big surgery, is when he said, "It's been a good run. Look after your mother." These words left me cringing, wishing he would not say that, as it is no easy task to honor, for a variety of reasons.

    And then he emerged, almost 12 hours later, and was so upset, due to being in even more pain, Pain we thought would be gone, that the surgery would fix. And that was the last coherent moment before he slipped away completely. And his words were full of pain, hurt, and anger over his predicament. Words I wanted to forget, but also held close, replaying whenever they crept to the front of my mind.

    And then, just nothing. Nonsense. Ramblings. Incoherence. Kind words from care givers that mean well, he doesn't mean what he says. Sometimes they never come back, sometimes the delirium is permanent, you just never know.

    Separation due to quarantines and rules about interactions with those in care facilities, loss of time, and for him, further loss of self. 

    Another hospitalization, but at least I can see him. He still knows I am his daughter, but for how long? The next day, the same results, fog, sleep, and fading thoughts.

    And then, oh glorious day, I walk in his room and he is sitting up in his bed. His doctor notices right away the change of mood when dad sees me. He notices dad is instantly grounded in the moment in a way he has not been in over a month.

    Dad starts talking about his woes which leads him to the lyrics of Old Man River from Showboat, so he sings me a verse or two. This leads him to telling me about the time he went with his parents and older brother to Chicago to see the show. He says they rode the train his grandpa Kelly was the conductor on. I know this is true, he has told me this story before. I know it is a real memory, a real piece of him that has come to the surface.

    My heart soars as it is filled with hope. I know this doesn't mean he is cured, that everything is fixed, but it is a hopeful moment, words to cling to and treasure. I am so grateful to hear my dad tell me one more story.

    

The Mystery of the Missing Mandarin Oranges

     When I was a kid I started reading mysteries. Some of my favorites were Trixie Belden, Nancy Drew, and Alfred Hitchcock's The Three Investigators. These books brought me hours of joy and helped me re-frame my every day problems in catchy little thought bubbles for my own personal entertainment.

     This is still something I do to this day when confronted with a problem. It helps me calm down and step back from whatever is causing me anxiety. I create these mini stories to help deal with whatever is frustrating me. Sometimes it helps me find a practical solution, sometimes it gives me just enough space so I can laugh about whatever has happened.

     Last week we decided to have a little indoor picnic, just me, my husband, my brothers, and our parents. We know each household has been vigilant in self care during this time of the pandemic and felt it was possible to do this safely. I planned to do simple foods such as hamburgers, hot dogs, and salads. My mother made a special request for a fruit salad that my dad used to make. I asked him if he remembered the recipe. He did not. He knew the main ingredients but had zero ideas on how much. I knew they got it from their best friend, so I messaged her right away. She was able to send me her list of the ingredients and proportions. I updated my weekly grocery list.

     I try to go shopping once a week for each household I shop for and I go straight from work so I can just keep on the same mask I have wore all day. One day I go shopping for my mother and youngest brother's household, the next day for me, my husband, and my dad.

     It is still a bit of trick getting each thing I needed, but at least I am mostly used to this now. I felt triumphant as I unloaded and put away our groceries. I put all my dad's ready to make foods on the storage table where we keep them so he can get them when we are at work, making his own meals or snacks. I put all the foods for the picnic on a separate area of one of the kitchen counters, tucked behind where I store the canned cat food, I figured that was the best place to store the canned mandarin oranges, marshmallows, and canned pineapple tidbits. Making the fruit salad was at the top of my to do list for the next day, and that was a good thing.

     I was up by 6 A.M. and was surprised to see my dad in his chair already. I decided to get to work on food prep because the salads need plenty of time to chill. I sailed into the kitchen and grabbed my cans of fruit, marshmallows, and the sour cream from the fridge. And then I counted the cans. Something was off. Then I realized the mandarin oranges were missing. I searched the counter. I searched the pantry cupboards. I searched the table with my dad's snacks. Nothing. The case of the missing mandarin oranges had me flummoxed. I knew I bought them. I even double checked the receipt as that was still on the counter. Yep, paid for them. Where could they be?

     I got dad his morning pills. As I was placing his pills on his tray table, along with a drink, I saw the glint of a can in the garbage can by his chair. I reached down and turned the can over. Mystery solved. Apparently my dad had a craving for mandarin oranges in the wee hours of the morning.

     Happily, I had plenty of time to run to the store to get more, some for the salad, and some for my dad.