7 Years

And so.... I am coming up to almost 7 years since my father passed away... and where am I?

I push ahead at times boldly, confidently.  Then fall back unsure, unsettled, afraid of failure.  Was this where I was before my father died?  Truthfully.... no.

I am deeper now... scarred.  Again... my emotions are close to the surface.  Sometimes that is good... sometimes it is scares me.

One characteristic has emerged that I didn't have before though.  I am driven now.  I was cautious.... trending to security rather than daring.

I am driven and more daring.

That is where I am now... almost 7 years later.

Feeling myself again

Been a long time since I have posted...
For so long, my emotions and sense of loss, and no direction continued.

Yet.... it seems... and I'm not really sure why... but I feel... normal again... that feeling of misdirection is gone.  I feel like I am me again.  I know it is is kind of a lame way to put it, but it is true...

The moral compass I lost, has been found.

The hole that my father's death has left remains, I won't even pretend to think different.  But it is a different feeling.  Almost a reassurance.  As if he is with me still... as if he is with me always... and there is a confidence that comes from that.

Update?

Thought perhaps this blog would come to a slow end. But thought it worth just writing this out for, for no one, but me I suppose.

I am coming up on the two year anniversary of the summer of my discontent. The summer that I helped take care of my father through his last days. Bittersweet to be sure. To be able to give back to my father, to make him breakfast, to help him, to talk to him, to be there when...

My last entry written so long ago still seems to sum up where I am. Still wandering sometimes quite aimlessly, desperate for an anchor to keep me from wandering into a life of panic and desperation.

Yet, I have found that I am resilient, passionate, creative, driven. The arts seem to affect me more deeply than ever.... Powerful movies, books, music, paintings, bring me to biting my lip to hold back tears. Always a resolutely shy person... now I reach out to others, look for companionship, friendship. And yet, I find myself only letting people get so close, but not close enough. Good acquaintances seem to be where I am right now.

Interestingly, my father's death began at finding out about him... but now I have turned the mirror to me. There is good there, potential. There is also sweeping failure, panic. But I am alive... and I continue to strive... seek light, beauty, the good. Can I make a difference. Can I uphold my beliefs, my value, my strength? Can I rise up? Can I stand up for those that need me to? Can I face the mirror and say... you are worthy?

Not yet.

Atonement

My wife and I rented the movie, "Atonement" on a swampy spring night. The movie was powerful, crude at times, and beautiful in its way.

There was a scene in the movie, that moved me so deeply that I feel scarred by its raw beauty and terrible honesty.

The scene begins with the main character stumbling upon the Dunkirk beach after the bloody battle has concluded. He is with two other comrades and the camera skillfully and randomly follows each soldier as they peruse the aftermath of the bloody battle. Soldiers carousing, horses being euthanized, a nuclear family consoling each other in shock of being thrust into this scene, death, stranded boats, and one scene whereby soldiers sing a hymn that blends convincingly into the passion of the scene. The music, with an underpinning of cello, provides a powerful backdrop to the scene, so beautifully intertwined that it could have been written with the hand of God.

As the camera comes upon the main character his face is set in weary searching. Searching for what? We only find out part of what he is searching for at the end of the movie. But he is searching for so much more. And it is here that I thought of my father. But why? The scene played continuously in my conscious and subconscious for days. When I downloaded the music selection to my iPod and listened to it at a quiet moment at work, I cried, hopeless tears, and thought again of my father.

But why? Why did this scene that was so tied to the movie and its plot make me cry for my father? Because it was in that scene that I related to the main character's searching and hopelessness. He is searching for meaning, for hope, for stability, for the life that was, for the glimmer that there can be happy times again.

And that is how I find myself a year after my fathers death. Desperately searching, hoping. I thought by this time I would have moved beyond that deep mourning and painful aching. The sharp pain has eased, but the dull numbing pain remains and shows no signs of ebbing.

I am searching...

Elegy for Dunkirk-Atonement

Firsts and Lasts: Thanksgiving

First Thanksgiving without you, Dad. It was peaceful for me this year. Went to my in-laws. Watched some football.

As you may imagine, I thought back about past Thanksgivings. I thought of .... well, raking leaves.

I remember standing in a mountain of wet leaves. Putting them out to the curb. A patient of yours stopped by with a big pick-up truck and asked if he could haul them away for you. Dana and I were so impatient to go in and watch some of the noon football game, yet, here we were stuffing leaves in a dingy old pick up truck, wet and cold.

You enjoyed raking leaves, I know. For you, it was a chance to get outside, breathe the fresh Autumn air. Get some mild excercise. It cleared your mind from your never ending thoughts of your patients and their problems.

I never enjoyed these times, I have to admit that. I think you suspected as well. Our faces must have looked awefully dejected. I longed for the day you would tell Dana and me that you would like to throw a football around, or go to a baseball game. Although you did take us to two football games (one I distinctly remember OJ Simpson trotting on to the field) we knew that you didn't enjoy it.

So there it is, I hated raking leaves, but Dad, that doesn't mean a damn thing. I came to understand why you did it. And I also deeply understand that while most fathers may have played ball with their sons, you were more concerned about providing a future for us. You were driven, and raking leaves was another way to bend your will to make our yard a more pleasant place to look at. I don't think I will ever enjoy raking leaves, and I often just shuffle them into the bushes rather than put them out to the curb. That is okay, and I understand, and I love you for all the things you did do for me. And that makes all the difference in the world.

Dad, I miss you....

Dad, I miss.....

• your thoughtful advice
• your soapy smell, a mix of Dial soap and talcum powder
• your deep breathing
• holding your hand at your bedside
• your sense of humor, that never failed you no matter how much pain you were in
• your thoughtful look, index finger horizontal below your nose, the rest of your hand along your chin
• your smile
• Seeing you cup your hand to your right ear, to listen to someone
• The determined look you get on your face before hitting a golf ball
• Your grilled hamburgers, thick, juicy, and barely cooked
  

The Birch Tree

There was a white birch tree in my parents yard that has been there as long as I remember. It was always my favorite. It is the only white birch that I know of in the neighborhood and beyond. It has stood strong and proud, offering shade and shelter to all. The birch's many virtues include bark that is both soothingly attractive yet rugged, which is why the Eries and other natives used it for canoes and used its sap to make medicinal tea.

As my father was struggling through his final days, I took a walk in our yard to clear my mind. I stopped and looked at the stump of the birch tree. It had become diseased this past year and sadly needed to be cut down. I deeply missed how that tree had stood out among the others, not ostentatiously, but bright, sturdy and bold. On closer examination I found that from the remaining roots, new shoots were sprouting, green and glistening, thirsting for the sunlight, bursting with youthfulness and energy.

The impact of that imagery was comforting, knowing that my father was very much like that birch, strong and proud, singular and unique and willing to lend support, strength and provide the ability to heal. The new growth I saw sprouting from the roots remind me that my father's virtues and legacy as well as his family's genes will live on and thrive.

As I returned from my walk that day, and came back to the parlor where my father was deeply resting, I looked at our family picture that was taken long ago, that hangs on the wall beside my father's favorite chair. There in the picture, my father was standing proudly, among his family with his arm around me. And clearly behind him, is the birch tree.

In my opinion, the birch tree is the mightiest tree in the forest and my father is the mightiest man I have ever known.