Temmie

Dear Leeann, You write with such wisdom, and always with good cheer. Of course ... my best is all I can be. (Doh! How do any of us ever distort this reality?) Just a quick update ... I had help from a friend today, and have more confidence (with help) I can get this done. I am now getting back into "teacher" mode and will likely have little time to read or write. I want to thank you, however. I've read quite a bit of your postings on this board, and you are a very dear and special woman. So open-hearted, and so clear-thinking and wise. Thank you for what you've given me, Leeann! Temmie

Waiting for a day when life becomes more effortless ...

let there not be a room unlit or a silence unbroken with the call of your name but an opening to your enduring presence a lifting to a higher hearing, seeing, knowing and the awakening to inspiration for more delightful ways of sharing the love you inspired april 7 2008

Dear One, Is there anyway you can go to the ocean for your anniversary? What a lovely gift ... and are you feeling any better today? It is a difficult journey for the survivors. I have so much to do, and am still in jammies and looking at the clock at 10 a.m. There is so much inertia ... for me ... to get up and get moving. Maybe we just need to be as gentle with ourselves as we can, and that includes opening to accept forgiveness ... And then? To accept guidance on that that "next best thing" is that needs doing. My next best thing? Finishing the vacuuming and putting vacuum cleaner away. Maybe going for a healing soak in the hot tub at the fitness center (since I'm not of a mind to work out). Stopping at the grocery. There is no nourishment in this house. Then? Maybe starting to assemble school work into piles (reading, writing, math, science, social studies, etc.) There are great mounds of paper work I need to take care of, and ever so much more beyond paper work ... but just a step at a time. What's your next best thing? What's the next best thing you need to do to make your life and home right? Baby steps ... and tons of love! I'm so pleased we have this place to write! Temmie

Dear Kim, My condolences for your loss. I can certainly relate to your father entering the hospital a well man, and having all manner of problems descend following his arrival. This was my Dad's experience also. I'm quite sure, among the elderly, the risk for infection is always great (and often, doctors don't know exactly what they're doing). They can be great. Fabulous. Life savers! But sometimes, as I explained to my dad at the end, "They just don't know." They do the best they can, but like all of us, sometimes they make mistakes. On to issues of guilt, and "stages of grieving," in general. When my mom died in March, I found help with the book, I Wasn't Ready to Say Goodbye by Brook Noel. It details some of the stages of grieving, and for me -- was such a help. With my Dad's recent passing, I've been reading books about Heaven, Near Death Experiences (NDEs) and Angels. I have had some out-of-body experiences (not ND, but similar), and I've had some spiritual experiences; so -- for me -- call it what you will, but I know the "unseen realms" exist; and to my thinking, that includes Heaven. There are quite a number of titles in this genre, but two that come to mind are Embraced by the Light by Betty J. Eadie and Saved by the Light by Dannion Brinkley. I used to own them both, and bought multiple copies of the first to share with friends. I've picked up another book by Eadie at the public library, and have found it a great comfort. She also has a web page, incidentally, if you want to read some of her story. There is also a message board where individuals have posted some of their experiences. Call it fantasy reading, if you will, but if it helps? Give it a shot. My personal beliefs are that earth isn't our real "home," and I don't mean to push dogma here -- but it helps me to consider -- Mom is finally home. Dad is finally home. We did the best we could. (And death, as is birth -- is so out of our hands). We all did the best that we could. Finally, grieving is not linear, but happens in its own sweet time. Without ruminating on the more negative aspects ... which tend to keep us in a negative focus/state of mind, I'd encourage you to keep feeling, keep opening up to what you're experiencing, keep writing -- and if you're a praying woman, pray. Prayer is nothing more than the articulated intention of wishes. Ask to be lifted up. If you feel you need forgiveness, ask that you experience the same. Ask for strength. Wisdom. Comfort. Guidance. That warm bubble bath sounded like a terrific idea! (Think I'll do the same.) Be gentle with yourself ... and keep yourself in close company with those who respect, care for, and understand you. We have such a lovely community here. Wishing you peace ... Heavenly peace, Temmie

Thank you all, for your kind words here. I don't know if I'm supposed to start a new "string" or "post," or to just keep spiraling along on this one. In any case, thank you. This is the hard work of grieving. Riding the keening shrieks and wails, like a bird soaring on thermal air currents, and then suffering the devastation of feeling your very body has fallen against rocks, and been crushed and broken. Heartbroken. Driving home last night, I held onto the steering wheel tight to keep myself from also lifting up into the air. I also worked to keep my car on the largely unplowed roads. Working to stay in my lane, not too much to the left, not too much to the right -- just plowing through right down the center -- also kept me grounded. I honestly didn't know it was possible to make such noises, and wondered ... as this level of crying serves as a sort of alarm ... I was sure cars would pull over and get off the road as I came wailing through the snow .... I wonder if this sort of crying isn't an alarm that pierces the the very veils of Heaven, and if my Dad knew I was hurting .... (Even if he did, there was no quick release from the torture of this wailing. I just couldn't stop, so I held onto the steering wheel, and just kept things moving forward, somehow, until I was home. And then I went to bed with my kitty.) I do find myself wondering ... honestly ... what good does such torture such as this do, if not remind us, how much greater our suffering might be were we to lose our Heavenly Father? Of if you don't believe in "God," in the conventional, Christian sense -- if we lost our ability to connect with that place of still point, highest power, greatest peace, or wise self within? I think the only antidote, remedy, or cure for such grief is to live with as much courage as we can muster, and to endeavor to live with kindness, and grace. It takes courage, and grace to push into and through the hard parts of life ... and it takes kindness and intention to work on expanding our hearts to deal with increasingly difficult situations ... because life CAN be hard ... and all that we do ... when we are broken, lost or confused ... we can do with a little more conviction if we do it do in the name and the spirit of the ones we love. Along the lines of the "Tomb of the Unknown Soldier," my son and I used to talk at night about sending all the love of our hearts to the "Unknown, Suffering Someone," for surely, on this earth, there are others who are suffering even greater than we, who have no recourse, who have no talents, strengths or tools at the ready to know how to cope, nor family, nor friends, nor loved ones, nor hope. So if not in the names of our loved ones ("Dad, I'm going to brush my teeth today, even though I don't feel like it (and I'll even throw in a floss) because you demonstrated the importance and necessity of self-care, and I'm going to dedicate all of my efforts this morning in your name with love") ... or in the name of the Unknown, Suffering, Someone. Maybe then, in that deepening ... in time, we will open to an inflooding of Light and grace, and ... eventually ... our hearts be filled with a healing balm that flows through our fingertips, lights up our faces, and makes our presence a thing of joy. And then, we will know we've begun to experience the fruits of our labors. Maybe in work such as this, grief paves the way, for I can think of no other benefit, than that it serves as an opening -- as it pierces us so -- that we might begin to transmute and relay more of the gifts from the unseen realms that others might not live in darkness ... but lift up into a higher experience of love, confidence, hope, peace ... because our work brings a greater light. I can't think beyond this. My stomach is shaky, and I have a full house full of "things" I can't deal with that I need to make decisions about today. I've just got to be ... ruthless ... going through papers ... putting like things together ... tossing and shredding things that are not relevant to anything current ... and then to box up, and start shifting things around in an already cramped floor space, because later this weekend ... and every day until the end of February, I have to sift through the same in the basement of my parents' home ... and bring whole lifetimes of work and collections ... into the tiny frame of this house, and honestly. I don't know where to begin. So grateful for this place to write, and for the friends who join me here. Blessings. In the names of our loved ones. Temmie

Thank you, Patti ... I am still learning how to navigate this site (and half the time I'm lost). I am still learning how to navigate my loss (and feel lost all of the time). I went to a party tonight, but was able to stay for only a little while. I think ... now that I have to go back to work, somehow it makes my dad's absence more real. I can't bear to think of going back to work. My work is so hard. (And not having my dad.) As if life should go on, without interruption. As if nothing happened. As if his absence was of no consequence. I can't explain. I got to wailing on the way home, and almost threw up. I made noises I never knew a human could make, were it not for something out of the movies (and the movies never get it right). Now I know what keening is. The only good thing that I can see in this ... is if this is how terribly devastating it is to lose an earthly father, how much more will we grieve were we to lose our Heavenly father. And ... how loss ... inspires us ... potentially ... to be on our very best behavior. In the names of our loved ones. As honor and tribute. In the spirit of their love. In a service to our dedication ... that we live, act, and behave ... in the name of love. (Because in the name of loss is too terrible.) I feel sick, I feel sick. I have so much work to do that I've avoided. I don't know how I'll possibly pull it together and manage next week. I am heartbroken. There are certainly things I've gone through in the past that were despairing and difficult, but I don't remember feeling this ruined ... ever.

Today is the last day of my "bereavement leave" from work, which means -- ready or not -- Monday I'll have to be in school early, polished and ready to meet my 3rd-grade students. My dad passed away in the early morning hours after Christmas, so I was blessed with an *extra* long time off from work ... two weeks for winter break, and this next week for bereavement. Coupled with "snow days" and "family medical days" preceding winter break ... I haven't been at school for most of December. And after explaining about all this "time off," I just wanted to note ... now ... the depression feels like it's really settling in. I spent yesterday in tears going over budget matters and feeling a good bit of "overwhelm" re. bills I can't pay. A woman at my bank talked me into applying for a Home Equity Line of Credit, and we spent ... ever so long ... on the phone ... going through steps and details, discussion about interest rate, Prime, and other things that went over my head. Then I needed to gather insurance forms to FAX. Honestly, the process went on and on. "So this is what it feels like," I thought, "to be an orphan ...." No one to turn to for counsel and advice. No one to help with decisions. This morning? I rolled over my debt into a new zero-percent promotion credit card that's good until February of 2010. It took about five minutes. But the point? That I've felt I've not had enough time to grieve. Good grief (pardon the pun). Everyone's been in such a rush to empty out the house, and get things moving -- and this and that -- And I'm the one with All The Stuff In The Basement that needs addressing (in case you saw my earlier post) ... and I've barely been able to put one foot in front of another, and d*mn it, I'm not ready for work on Monday (and not ready ... don't have any kind of "work crew" assembled to help me) move things out of the homestead. There is no room. There is no time. There is little ability to make decisions. We're in the middle of snow storms. Next week the temperatures are projected to be sub zero. It's so sad ... ... that I haven't felt I've had anyone to help me. (And, no, my family is not a compassionate and understanding lot.) That's one thing I guess we can thank my dad for. That he raised a raucous brood to be competitive and to fight with one another, and I'm including emotional, physical and sexual abuse with that (me, of course). There was a lot of yelling, screaming, and hair-pulling when I was growing up. (And a lot of trauma and shame. A lot of tears, oh my. A lot of estrangement and ... feelings of rejection and abandonment.) It was just awful, frankly, so why should any of us expect it would be any different today? Years ago, when I was in my late 20s, I found myself doing secretarial work for the Department of Psychology at SUNY-Albany, and one day I braved a question of my boss, the department head. Did he "know anyone," that could "be of help for me?" He referred me to a woman at ... Russel Sage, I believe. A bright, blonde, sunny woman. I'm sorry, I don't remember her name. I don't remember much about our work, either, except that she sent me home with a bunch of forms to fill out; one a "complete the sentence" form with things that read like this: I'm most proud of ...I wish I had more time for ...In my spare time I like to ... We use forms like this in our work with kiddos. (Or at least I do.) Funny how I never made the correlation to this earlier experience before now. Anyhow, my response to one of these questions seemed to catch her by surprise. "Oh, Temmie," she asked, "When did your father die?" "He hasn't," I said. "But you wrote here, the saddest day of my life ... was the day my father died." "Yes, I did," I said. "But he hasn't died yet." * * * * * That must have been ... 1982. Can you imagine? So I suppose, for the last 27 years, I've been doing everything I could to prepare, and to make sure ... that his last day wouldn't be my saddest. And I'm not so sure. He did not make it easy to love him, or even to talk with or engage with him. He was controlling, and sometimes mean-spirited. I had to leave the room when he started saying disrespectful things ad laughing about the hospital social worker. "Why does he have to be so mean," I wailed into the phone to my sister. I also refused to change his diaper on that last day in the hospital -- partly because I didn't want to get saddled into that responsibility. ("I'll be alright, Temmie can take care of me,"), and partly because I didn't want to remember him that way. I did not want to look down at his broken, bony form ... completely exposed. Already, were it not for my cancer surgery and my own issues of infirmity, he looked a man I could scoop up in my arms and carry away. "You're getting awfully thin, Dad." * * * * * In those last three weeks, I cleaned the crusted mucous out of his eyes, held his hands, yelled into his face, "Open your eyes, Dad," and was delirious with joy when he did. "He opened his eyes!" That first night in the ER when the doctors said we had a choice to either go for "aggressive treatment," or "keep him comfortable," I bucked the tide to advocate for "giving him a chance." God. I just wanted him to make it through the night so I could get my son home to say goodbye. Dad *did* make it through the night. And he responded to antibiotics for pneumonia and influenza, and ... later, when his belly filled with fluids, he made it into the surgical theater where they discovered the problem was that his "artificial urinary sphincter" following prostate cancer had been left in the "on" position, distending his bladder to nearly 2 liters of fluid, and causing a new host of problems. Again, even though Dad had a "do not resuscitate" order, and "do not intubate," the surgeons said ... after discovering their error ... that while surgery wouldn't be necessary (thank God), they would still need to intubate to keep him breathing after administering anesthesia ... just as a matter of ethical protocal ... So again, back to the ICU.... It took ever so long to metabolize the anesthesia, and with a machine breathing for Dad, family didn't think he'd make it. "Dad, open your eyes! Can you hear me? Dad, hello!" I held his hands, and my dad opened his eyes, and while he couldn't talk with the tube down his throat, he was able to communicate by nodding and shaking his head. I asked if I could get him anything, and he nodded his head. I asked if he could write, and I brought him a pen. I couldn't make sense of his penmanship, so I told him to "slow down," and "go letter by letter" until I could figure it out. P - A - P - E - R ... My dad wanted a newspaper. :-) Eventually respiratory specialists extubated Dad, got him "on," and then weaned him off a BiPap machine. Eventually he was doing pretty well with oxygen ... just breathing on his own. But that's when he got mad. He couldn't stand up. He couldn't dress himself. He couldn't pee by himself. His bladder was such a mess after the artificial device mishap. One morning I stopped in to see him and he was completely dejected. "I'm useless." I was with him through this humiliating experience, and others, in which doctors (and even one of my siblings) "dressed him down," and told him ... in essence ... that, even with the most expert care ... And even with all of the King's horses, and all of the King's men ... ... the doctors couldn't restore him to the level of condition or independence he'd enjoyed before this hospitalization; and that, no, he would never be able to go home again. He was so let down. I was with him, through various increments, when I could see ... he was just ... shutting down. "I had a very good system at home," he said, and "Being straight-cathed every four hours isn't particularly comfortable." When the doctors (and nurses) responded that they could help by "numbing him up," I helped him articulate his point. Couldn't he just use diapers? No. The trauma to the bladder left him unable to void completely. Wouldn't there be a medication that could help? "FloMax," he offered. No. You need to just get out of here, and get up on your feet again. Well ... every four hours ... and taking 30-minutes or more at a crack ... "It's just not natural," he said. And again I could see him shutting down. "I'm virtually useless." * * * * * The day before Christmas he was back at the nursing home where Mom died. He was really wiped out. Christmas day he seemed in good spirits. He'd had a whirlpool bath, and ... honestly ... I don't think he'd had a bath in years. Christmas in the late afternoon, he didn't seem coherent on the phone, mixing me up with one of my sisters ... and Christmas night he didn't answer. I never saw him again. The next thing I knew, the phone was ringing at 2 o'clock in the morning. "It's Jane," the voice said. "I just got a call from the nursing home, and I guess they just checked-in on Dad, and he's gone." How did she say it? "The nurses just called, and they checked on Dad, and it seems ... he's died." I can't remember how she said it ... but all day, I've been thinking, I'm so sorry, Dad. I certainly knew better, and should certainly have read the signs, but I so believed you were going to get better. I'm so sorry I didn't get a better chance to say goodbye. It is a very sad day when the patriarch goes home. It was not a pleasant family, by any means ... and losing my mother nearly killed me. But losing Dad? He held on by sheer force of will and brute determination. He made it to his 90th birthday. He made it to Christmas. He made it through visits with every one of his six children, assorted spouses, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He made it through influenza. He made it through pneumonia. He made it through intubation ... and back out again ... able to breathe on his own. In his last days, he worked crossword puzzles, and taught me how to do the "cryptoquote" in the daily newspaper. He sat up in bed and fed himself. He brushed his teeth. (I helped him.) While it might seem trivial or unnecessary to note -- in this one ... simple ... act -- he demonstrated to me issues of "self care" related to dignity and preservation of self that are so beyond what I myself might muster ... (a woman who would gladly never brush her teeth again, and just be left in bed alone, to sleep ... to sleep and sleep until such sadness passes). He was able to feed himself ... and enjoy a nice bath ... and when Christmas was over and done, he was able to quietly close his eyes ... drift off ... and then open them to the world beyond. I so miss you, Dad. It's been two weeks now, and I ... believe you're happy with Mom and experiencing all kinds of wonder, but I really, really miss you (and I never stopped hoping and believing). Thank you for doing your best with me. I know you did your best. Temmie

Dear Elle, I'm so sorry for your loss. I lost my mom in March, and my dad died the day after Christmas. It is a staggering event, to say the least ... the process of grieving ... dealing with the very depths of loss. Lately I've been reading books about Heaven as a sort of antidote for grief. You might like, "Embraced by the Light" by Betty J. Eadie. Eadie also has a web site (google her) in which people talk about their spiritual experiences around love and loss. It is now 2 weeks that my dad has been gone, and I'm still shuffling along. I have to be back in the classroom on Monday, and don't feel I've had nearly enough time to come to peace with my situation. Still -- we must eat, live, work, etc. (and keep shuffling) until things get better, and I've found Eadie's books to be helpful. Hang in there. I wish I could help better than this. I'm sure your mom wouldn't want to see you suffering so ... try to open your heart to the possibility of there being a spiritual dimension ... and loving energies and companion "helpers" on hand to assist you in this journey. Wishing you love and care! Keep writing ... Temmie

Dear Patti ... dear Southern Eagle. How sad to read about your loss. Our situations are somewhat opposite (but parallel in that way). When I lost my mom in March, I was a basket-case. I slept on the floor beside her bed on the night that she died. Can you believe all my siblings had come and gone, and no one called me until 9 pm to tell me she was dying? Or that they would leave my mom alone on that last night? Dear God! I'll write more about that in a different place, but just wanted to note that my grieving ... at that time ... was so much more acute. It was such a staggering, stammering loss ... I didn't wash my hair for 10 days, and could barely shuffle through my work in the classroom. With my dad ... it is a situation with a different feel, but definitely one that signals the end of an era ... and the true measure of my solitude. I'm taking great comfort in your words to "pay it forward," and will do more work tomorrow to release and let go. I've just got to throw a few loads in the car ... wipe clean a few shelves ... post notices for "freebies" on CraigsList (and make a spot on the floor of my current home to stack boxes of pictures and things I can't part with. I can do it. I find such strength and comfort in your words ... and I'm so VERY pleased to have found this lovely place. Bless you, dear. I'm off to bed ... to read ... and will read and write more tomorrow. Blessings .... in our parents' names! Temmie

Thank you, AnnieO .... Relationship with siblings is complicated. I come from a loud, noisy, quarrelsome Irish-Catholic family. There were issues with alcoholism and other fracturous (sp?) items of abuse that aren't appropriate to go into here. I think everyone is thinking ... in some ill-guided sort of way ... whip/bang as soon as we can get that house "cleaned up," "closed-up" over with and done ... that the pain of losing our parents will in some way be dismissed? I cannot imagine. I don't really know, but I can only think -- the "hurry up," and "let's get things done," and get them done "now," and "as soon as possible" is not well-founded. And siblings are helping with issues of the "whole" house, but the matter of the "basement" (where all my mess is), is uniquely my own ... and sadly, I seem to come from a family that finds some measure of sport in picking at one another (instead of coming from a place of compassionate understanding). Did I mention the abuse? :-) Sorry ... it's not appropriate to smile here, but I'm kind of smiling through my tears. Tomorrow, I will endeavor ... once again ... to stand up ... and to make some measure of moving a few things. Maybe I'll map out a schedule to complete my exit by 2/1. I've asked my older sister (the executor) to give me some kind of time schedule. This is what we do as teachers. This is what we all do in the workplace, or whenever we map out a goal. We start with a plan. We articulate our ideas. We remap and revise. We talk with one another. We find a way to make it work. In my family? There is rancor and fighting. So sorry to report, and to accent the "less than" positive. But so grateful to have found this place! Thank you for writing. I'm so VERY pleased to have found a place to write and dialogue about love and loss. In the name ... and with the love ... of our loved ones. Temmie

I'm sorry to delete all these posts. They've been, in essence, the only record of how raw I've felt through the various stages of accepting/processing death. However ... they are also too long ... and perhaps, too raw. I'm feeling this morning, like the loss of my dad was the very essence of losing the last one who truly loved me. Even though he could be so challenging. And as my mom was so caring ... in this week of being sick, I've thought often how in years past, she was "always at the ready" with good care during times of illness. It is hard to carry on. Caring for ourselves ... by ourselves ... but somehow we must. (edit 2/2/09)