Cuddly critter seems lost and is found
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Checking In
I've just got time for a quick check in. I've got a bunch of family coming in this week for my dad's funeral and Passover. Saturday night, I'm having 22 people for a sit down dinner for the first night of Passover. That will be a charming follow up to Friday morning, when we're having a private graveside burial for my Dad. We'll be burying his cremated remains which the funeral home refers to as "cremains". Every time I hear that word, I think they've mixed his ashes with dried cranberries....
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Doh
So, here's something kind of funny about when your dad kills himself. And by "kind of funny" I mean "horrifyingly morbid".
Let's say your dad shoots himself and even though you don't know exactly how it happened (was he calculating and determined? scared and tearful?) and you only have a vague idea of where (in the hall outside the bathroom) you still manage to create an image of it that appears unbidden in your head when you try to do things like, say, fall asleep. And after spending a few weeks with this image your mind returns to it with such frequency that it almost becomes comforting. And then you suddenly remember Oh shit! He was left-handed. And you have to adjust the image accordingly and start all over again.
Let's say your dad shoots himself and even though you don't know exactly how it happened (was he calculating and determined? scared and tearful?) and you only have a vague idea of where (in the hall outside the bathroom) you still manage to create an image of it that appears unbidden in your head when you try to do things like, say, fall asleep. And after spending a few weeks with this image your mind returns to it with such frequency that it almost becomes comforting. And then you suddenly remember Oh shit! He was left-handed. And you have to adjust the image accordingly and start all over again.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Confessions of a CF Husband
Are you guys reading this blog? http://cfhusband.blogspot.com/
I just found it a few days ago and it's absolutely riveting. The blog is written by Nate who is married to Tricia. Tricia has cystic fibrosis and was on the waiting list for a double lung transplant until she found out she was pregnant. Her baby, Gwyneth, is doing well despite being born 12 weeks ago at 25 weeks gestation. A donor lung match was found today and Tricia is, at this very moment, undergoing a double lung transplant.
With everything going on in my life, I'm thrilled to root for people who are desperate simply to live, love, and raise their child.
I just found it a few days ago and it's absolutely riveting. The blog is written by Nate who is married to Tricia. Tricia has cystic fibrosis and was on the waiting list for a double lung transplant until she found out she was pregnant. Her baby, Gwyneth, is doing well despite being born 12 weeks ago at 25 weeks gestation. A donor lung match was found today and Tricia is, at this very moment, undergoing a double lung transplant.
With everything going on in my life, I'm thrilled to root for people who are desperate simply to live, love, and raise their child.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
My Dad
Thirteen days ago I was awakened by a phone call from my uncle telling
me my father was dead. I know some people prefer the term "passed
away" but to me, that conjures an image of someone gently slipping from
life. My dad went out with a bang. Literally. He shot himself in the
head.
My dad and I did not have a close relationship. He struggled with an addiction to pain medication for most of my life. This addiction caused him to lose his medical license, spend time in jail, and ultimately commit suicide. Whether from the extensive drug use or perhaps from undiagnosed Asperger's, my dad did not know how to connect with people the way most people do. We used to call him Mr. Spock because he was so much more comfortable with logic and rationalization than with emotion.
Over the past ten years or so, my father and I hammered out a semblance of a relationship. This meant talking on the phone maybe 4 or 5 times a year and me sending updated pictures of the kids twice a year. In the past few years, my father began sending me books he'd read that he thought I might like. He'd call and ask if I'd be interested in a book about building bridges or sea battles or zeppelin flight. Yes, I'd say. Yes to everything. Then the books would arrive sometimes with a scrawled note attached to one saying "Don't miss this one" or "Superb dialog". I read some of them and put the rest on my shelf. They were books I never would have chosen for myself and they were fascinating.
In the past few years, my father also started ending conversations by saying "I love you." I was surprised the first time he said it, but managed to say it back. When he died, I was at peace with the relationship we had. It wasn't much, but it was a small connection. I think it was the best he could offer me and I accepted it as such. Now that he is dead, I am saddened but not heartbroken. That I am only saddened is the part that breaks my heart.
My dad and I did not have a close relationship. He struggled with an addiction to pain medication for most of my life. This addiction caused him to lose his medical license, spend time in jail, and ultimately commit suicide. Whether from the extensive drug use or perhaps from undiagnosed Asperger's, my dad did not know how to connect with people the way most people do. We used to call him Mr. Spock because he was so much more comfortable with logic and rationalization than with emotion.
Over the past ten years or so, my father and I hammered out a semblance of a relationship. This meant talking on the phone maybe 4 or 5 times a year and me sending updated pictures of the kids twice a year. In the past few years, my father began sending me books he'd read that he thought I might like. He'd call and ask if I'd be interested in a book about building bridges or sea battles or zeppelin flight. Yes, I'd say. Yes to everything. Then the books would arrive sometimes with a scrawled note attached to one saying "Don't miss this one" or "Superb dialog". I read some of them and put the rest on my shelf. They were books I never would have chosen for myself and they were fascinating.
In the past few years, my father also started ending conversations by saying "I love you." I was surprised the first time he said it, but managed to say it back. When he died, I was at peace with the relationship we had. It wasn't much, but it was a small connection. I think it was the best he could offer me and I accepted it as such. Now that he is dead, I am saddened but not heartbroken. That I am only saddened is the part that breaks my heart.
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