25th

April 30th would have been the 25th wedding anniversary for me and Bill. Although not wanting to think about it, I did. I wasn't overcome by waves of sadness. There were no large or overwhelming feelings, but I found myself reflecting back not so much on the wedding itself but on the regrets I have about things I didn't do and things I let go uncontested during the marriage. Of the faults I have in regard to the demise of that relationship, I now believe that the biggest one was that of not letting Bill know when something was unacceptable to me. It should come as no surprise to anyone that was also my biggest downfall in my first marriage. Biggest fault times two means I have to unearth what drives this in me. I think I know. I think that somehow I came to marriage feeling I couldn't ask for anything for myself and that if I confronted my husband on inappropriate or what I would consider unacceptable behavior, I would be a bitch. Somewhere I developed a thinking that said nice girls don't scold their husbands.

It's Time

It's been a long while since I've posted here. Some of this is a result of my feelings that I have put the divorce with Bill behind me, some because I have made several attempts at moving on, some because I've been busy, and some is avoidance behavior. What am I avoiding? The inevitable. My part. My culpability. My shortcomings. Although my life is radically changed from what it was when I started writing this blog; I am, in a myriad of ways, still the unrefined person I was then, more specifically, the woman who entered into two marriages that both turned out to be enormously disappointing to her. Still that same woman. I must take responsibility for my end of these epic failures. It is now time to try again to get inside that woman. I must figure out what I do that makes me end up being unhappy. It may be as simple as 'I don't look at enough qualities when I choose'. It could be, as my daughter once told me: "You have low standards, Mom." OUCH! It may be that I'm a malcontent---that is, once settled into a comfy marriage I, like countless other women, start looking at all the bad stuff, wanting more, always more. Nope. Sheesh, I was afraid to write that. I want so badly to hit the backspace key now. But as a good friend said (about themself) 'What's it like to be married to me?' I have been so afraid to investigate that. So terribly afraid. The hopeful me has so many lovely things to say about myself; the negative me becomes paralyzed at some of the thoughts that come slamming into my head. Those negative thoughts bring with them every criticism that has ever been launched at me, each of them bringing a little friend for backup. It's time to face these guys, but honestly, the task looks daunting.

Ex

I got an email from my ex the other day. His father passed away almost two years ago; I knew that. He and I had had to get papers notarized about 16 months ago and we took a few minutes to chat then. We had seen each other at a reunion in July and then again in August for a memorial service. He had been the contact person for the group and so I was somewhat used to receiving emails from him. But this missive was not about our college chamber singing group. In this message he said his mother had moved to a retirement facility and he was cleaning out their family home for sale. Oh! His parents had lived in that house for 60 years. Imagine the stuff! He said he found some pictures of me. Did I want them? Sure, I said. And the reason I said it was because he said there were some shots of my mother. Yes, I would love to have them. I have a dearth of photos from that period of my life. And extremely few photos of my mother. In fact, I have about one photo from my early college years and only a couple from the years at the university where I got my degrees (and met him). What then ensued was a polite and cautious exchange of emails. The last time I had seen him was two weeks before I found out that Bill was being put on hospice. I let him know that since I had last heard from him, both Bill and my father had passed. He wrote back and expressed sadness that my father was gone, but mentioned nothing of Bill. Why should he? He thinks Bill took me away from him. He expressed hope that my dad's passing had been peaceful as had his dad's. I wrote back that it was not quite so. I added that there had been a significant battle with pneumonia and that when Bill was on hospice the burden of his arrangements had fallen on Laura. He responded again politely that he was sorry to hear Dad's last weeks had been difficult and this time said something to the effect that he was sure Bill's final days were also tough. And it was at this point that I decided 'enough of the niceties.' No more emails. I'll thank him when I receive the photos. Why prolong this dialog? I was courteous. I have accepted his offer of the photos and have thanked him. No more. There is no reason to revisit that chapter of my life again. There's nothing more to say beyond being gracious about his willingness to give me some more pictures. He opened that door; there's no need to walk through it.

Wind in My Sails?

As I went to send a FB friend a birthday message this morning, I saw that she had sent me a message last fall. Her husband passed away suddenly three years ago. She is ahead of me on the grief trajectory. She had some sage advice for me. Had I seen this message before? Had I read it but not processed this information? What struck me this time were her words telling me to be patient with myself and not to worry if I felt like my life was a blank slate. Why am I having so much trouble being patient with myself? Is my history of going, doing and being productive so deeply ingrained in me that I am incapable of slowing down? Am I some kind of 'busyness' junkie? The quiet, the unscheduled hours, can be unnerving. Perhaps I will never be the old woman who sits in her house all day, putters in her yard and only uses her car to go to the grocery, or worse yet, to the grocery, church and doctors' appointments. I seriously doubtI will ever be that woman.It would have to happen as a result of physical inability. And although, sadly, that may happen, I won't give into it without a fight. Then I'll probably spend my time reading and watching TV. Now, however, I feel like I am spinning my wheels. And the HOUSE. Oh, heavens, THE HOUSE! There are rooms---yes, ROOMS!---I don't use. From being absolutely cramped for space as recently as six years ago, to having rooms I don't enter for days is such irony. This is unheard of in my past. And now I have plumbers and electricians and painters finding all sorts of things that are not in working order. News is being revealed to me that the remodel we finished five years ago was improperly wired and piped. The new heating and air conditioning system has opened up its own can of worms and the plumbing change I wanted to make to the guesthouse has resulted in the same. Today's treasure may be that the main line has a stoppage. NO! We had that last year---the day after the kids came home from the hospital with the baby. It can't be happening again. But in the midst of all that, I have this strange, uncomfortable feeling that I am a ship caught in the doldrums and can't catch a wind in any direction. There is a restlessness, a feeling of lack of purpose. I want to find a direction and get my life on some sort of course. This is all to say that I am temporarily feeling a lack of purpose, and that is not acceptable to me.

Same Title / New Meaning

The original title of this blog was meant to bid farewell to my husband. Since then life has taken a sharp turn and is now headed in a direction completely foreign to the one it was taking when I started writing. What was a time of uncertainty and insecurity is no more. Now is a time of new beginnings. The element of the unknown for me is still huge but the piece that included fear and anger is gone. I don't wonder how I will survive the next month or year or how I will pay my bills. The man who was my husband is now dead. My father has passed away. I have retired from my job. My daughter is married. I have become a grandmother. I have free time. My stress has been greatly reduced. I don't have to worry about money. I can travel. I can be generous. So, with that in mind, I see that the title of this blog can stay the same but the underlying meaning is changed. I can bid farewell to the old life, to the old way of living, to the lifestyle I had for thirty-seven years in teaching, to the life I had with Bill, to the life of a working parent, and to the lifestyle of an adult daughter with an elderly parent in her home. I see the tenor and tone of my life moving in a new and positive direction. The goodbye is no longer borne out of anger, misunderstanding and betrayal. The goodbye now can be gentle and tender. It is more like the kind of goodbye you give when you are turning, smiling and waving over your shoulder instead of the kind when you're slamming the door so hard you're making the windows rattle. This is a new chapter. I am excited about my future. I can have adventures and travels. I can do what I want and not what circumstances dictate. I can finally examine what my dreams are and how I can pursue them. The notion that teased me for years was: What are your dreams? I don't know. What are your dreams? I can't torment myself with dreaming. I can't go after them anyway. I have to work. I have bills to pay. And later when the same question came up, the answer would be: I have bills to pay and I have Bill to pay. I have an aging parent in my home. My dreams aren't thoughts for me to entertain. But now those impediments are gone. I can entertain thoughts of my dreams. I can address them and act on them. It is indeed a time of new beginnings and a enticing future. I will rejoice and be grateful for the new life ahead. This blog will still be, at least for a while, 'Saying Goodbye to You'. It's just that the 'you' has changed. The 'you' is no longer a person or persons, it is a way of life to which I bid farewell. And gladly.

Missing

As I mentioned earlier, several family members came to stay with me for the weekend of Dad's memorial service. Two of those people were my dad's younger half-sister and her husband. These are two very special people. They both are extremely talented, bright, hard-working, humble and down-to-earth. The husband is one of the few people I have ever known who make me think that nature has a stronger role in the ongoing nature/nurture argument. His family was right out of the pages of The Grapes of Wrath. When he was two years old his entire family piled into an old car and drove West. His place, he remembers clearly, was lying on the flat area behind the back seat, looking out the back window. A family could never do that with a child now; they'd be arrested. But those were the days long before cars had seatbelts, and mandatory seatbelt laws were unheard of. While the rest of the family gravitated to trailer parks, this child grew to be highly-educated, energetic, and successful. He eventually became principal of a high school for troubled teens which morphed into a highly-structured and innovative campus. By the time he retired the school was running schedules that started every day at 6:00 a.m. and went until 10:00 p.m. because they were designed to meet the needs of the unusual student body that included many teenage mothers and young working parents. It housed a childcare center and several job-training programs. The structure was solid and everyone knew and respected the rules. Along the way, my aunt's husband learned just about every trade that is ever taught in school: woodshop, auto mechanics, auto body repair, carpentry, drywalling, electrical and plumbing. He still excels at all of those but the one thing he really excels in is photography. It has been a favorite hobby for decades. Once when he was in a photography class, some old guy named Ansel Adams came by and told him to keep it up because it looked like he had a good eye for photos. Today he has a permanent exhibit at the capitol building in his state where he displays over 200 photos at a time and can rotate them at his discretion. He also makes all his own frames and mats. When he and my aunt visited us three years ago, he took Bill out to shoot pictures. They went to our local wetlands and we all went to the poppy fields together. He and Bill connected over photography. They could also talk cars, and I think that he understood that Bill had been a difficult teen and had an atypical learning style. While he and my aunt were here for the memorial service, I had just taken over driving Bill's old car. My aunt has the exact same car, except in red, where she collects speeding tickets. I was having trouble getting the heating system to put out hot air. It just kept blowing cold air on me and we were having a really cold spell. He checked under the hood and then showed me how to adjust the heater and make sure the a/c was off. As we sat in the car, he got quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You know what, Cindy? I miss Bill. I know you had a bad divorce and things were tough, but I miss him. We had connected with the photography and I enjoyed Bill. He was never inappropriate when I was with him. I know he didn't like your dad and that was really uncomfortable, but I just want you to know that I liked him and I miss him." And it was maybe then that I realized it was okay to admit that there are times when I miss him, too, that I didn't have to have a black or white feeling about Bill's absence, that it was okay to say----even after all the awful things that went on in the marriage and during the divorce-----that sometimes I miss Bill. So, I very slowly and quietly said, "Sometimes I miss him too." And the consideration and honesty of this man opened yet another door for me, the door where I could stop being all angry about Bill's bad behavior and walk through to the place where I acknowledge the emptiness left by no longer having the Bill who was intelligent, comfortable to be with, and interesting. And admitting that there are times when I miss him was a relief.

Another Dream

Lately I've been sleeping only about six hours a night, even with my best sleep aids. Last night I fell asleep during the 11 o'clock news. It's not unusual for me to fall asleep at that time.This morning I woke up at 6:55 and was going to get up. That's not unusual either. But then I was dreaming again. I was dreaming that I was moving into a house with other people. There was furniture being delivered but other furniture had already been delivered. The couple with whom I was to live had bought furniture at one store and then changed their minds and found different furniture that they purchased at another store. But somehow they didn't get in touch with the first store to cancel delivery. Now it was arriving. And somehow I was supposed to go out and tell the people on the truck that we wouldn't be taking the furniture. The next thing I knew Laura was walking into my bedroom with KJ. It was 8:00. I had fallen back to sleep and I was very tired. Maybe I will be sleeping well again now. However, the dream made me think. I have decided it was telling me that Laura and Kyle have turned to me to fix messes. The latest mess is not one they've asked me to fix but I feel it's one I must. The state has cancelled the Healthy Families health coverage that KJ was on. Laura and Kyle each have coverage through their employer but to add the baby was costly, enough to break their budget. They got him covered on Healthy Families, but now, since it is no more, he is not covered. I find this completely unacceptable. They feel he will be treated in an ER in an emergency. I think he needs regular check-ups, vaccinations, and the rest. I had been thinking of telling them I would cover KJ until either Healthy Families is reinstated or they find something they can afford.

Divorcee/Widow

When I found out Bill's death was imminent, I was visiting my siblings about four hundred miles away from home. During that time I had lunch with two friends from high school. These were two guys I used to hang out with, even cut school with, and one of them had been my boyfriend at the time. I have always felt comfortable with them and, even after decades of non-contact, I feel I can be candid with them. Although we don't see each other all that often, the companionship is good when we get together. It doesn't seem like four decades have done too much to erode the feelings of trust and friendship. When we met this time I asked them if as it appeared, Bill were to die soon, would I be a widow or a divorcee. They both said I would be a divorcee. It seemed that legally, divorcee was the correct description. The marriage had been dissolved. Bill wasn't my husband. If he wasn't my husband at the time of his death, then I wasn't a widow. How odd that seemed. Bill was going to die. I would not be a widow. The divorce would erase the twenty six years we spent together. Five months of being divorced would, in essence, take away widow. Twenty six years. Two years of ugly divorcing. Five months of divorced. On that day, at that lunch, it felt correct. There's the legality of being a divorcee but a sense of being a widow. And somehow, I knew my two friends were right. I wouldn't have 'widowhood' because of the divorce. I wonder if that ever occurred to Bill? When Bill died I felt I wasn't entitled to feel sad. Or to mourn. I wasn't his wife. I shouldn't be sad. The divorce, slightly under two years in the making and five months in finality, and acrimonious most of the way, should have wiped out any feeling I might have that would even resemble being a widow. On many levels I understood that I would mourn Bill. We had spent a lot of time together. He was the father of my child. He had been the love of my life. He had shown me all kinds of thrills and we had been on countless adventures together. And the sex had been great. Always, always great. From age 32 to age 58 for me and 39 to 65 for him. It had been consistently great. Even when he was ill. When he died, memories of the sweet and loving Bill washed over me so powerfully I was inundated by them, and in ways I can't describe, forced part of me to shut down. I remembered being swept off my feet by this handsome man who took risks and was afraid of almost nothing. I remembered how his face felt when I stroked it, the strength, beauty and tenderness of his hands, the camping trips, the windsurfing adventures, the beach-camping honeymoon at the mouth of the Klamath, the summers in Europe, the way he would keep talking to the French in English even after they had insisted they didn't speak it and then their breaking down and finally answering him. This was mourning. It was unlike the mourning I experienced when my mother or my grandfather, the first death I was to experience, had passed. This was different. It was a unique grief and mourning. Since September things have changed from those initial sweet memories. I am able to couple them with some of the unpleasant recollections and they restore my mind's equilibrium. There's always good with the bad. Or bad with the good. That said, there were twenty six years, and I was a loyal, loving and forgiving wife to him. His disease and addiction took me on some rollercoaster rides, he was not a team player, and he never even tried to support the family. He lied and betrayed and stole from me, and I forgave him, kept his secrets, and stayed by his side. Now that I spend a lot of time with our grandchild I find myself saying things like, "Your grandfather wouldn't have approved of this." "I wonder what your grandfather would do right now." "I wonder how much Bill would have helped me with you." "I think your grandfather would be unhappy with me for not feeding you vegetables." The thoughts go on and on. Even with the balanced memories I feel like a widow. I feel his absence. I wish he were around for KJ, Laura and Kyle. I wish he could fix the hole in the ceiling Kyle made when he lost his balance in the attic. I wish I knew what he thought about a multitude of things, from the neighbor's new girlfriend to the state of our economy. I miss riding bikes with him and going out to eat. At times like these I miss him and I feel like I'm sure most widows feel. But I don't get to call myself one.

Ammo

As I was re-organizing the driveway last weekend (Oh, Lord! Will my driveway EVER be clean?), I came across two boxes ammunition. Now WHAT am I going to do with that? Although I know how to use a gun and have been to shooting ranges on numerous occasions, I have no guns, I have no interest in guns, my shootin' days are over. At least that's my plan. So, the question was, what do I do with these boxes of bullets? I called the local police department. The desk sergeant told me it was no crime to have bullets. In fact, it was perfectly legal in this state to sell bullets. You just can't sell guns. Therefore, I could do one of two things: I could bring my collection of bullets down to him at the station or I could sell them. I finished my driveway work and then the kids came over. I temporarily forgot about my munitions. Then at 6:15 I remembered my little errand. I got in the car and drove down to the police department. I had had very clear instructions: Put the ammo in the trunk, not the passenger compartment. Drive to the station. Walk in. WITHOUT the ammo. They would come out to the car with me and get it. When I arrived, the desk sergeant who, by his own admission was a goofy guy, was engaged in a conversation with some man who had had a cashier's check stolen from the mail in Minnesota. The officer was trying to explain that it was in Minnesota's jurisdiction. I had to wait. I was feeling a little impatient. Another officer came out to the desk and, after a while, asked me if he could help me. I explained my task. He then told me that it was 6:45, and his and his partner's shift had ended at 6:30. If I were to have them retrieve my ammo they would have to fill out a big report, and he held up a long piece of paperwork that would be his responsibility to complete should I impose my bullets on him thus causing them to work even longer than they already were, causing them to be even later getting home to their families. I was intimidated. The good little girl in me felt guilty and I was busy scolding myself for having neglected this errand when it would have been a better time in the policemen's shifts, when the desk sergeant completed his task regarding the forged cashier's check. The desk sergeant said not to feel bad about coming in so late and that he didn't mind filling out a report. Ugh. We went out to the car, and I opened the trunk. He went through my 'treasures' and again told me I could sell them. He said people have gotten very angry with him for not telling them how much cash they could make off of bullets. Apparently I have .22 caliber and 9 millimeter bullets. I have hollow tips and full metal jackets. I have child safety locks and gun cases. He said these are all hot ticket items. I could sell them on some websites. I could take them to gun shows and would have them sold before I even had them all unpacked. He said they wouldn't even hit the table at a gun show. Really? Sell them online? Set up a spot at a gun show? Let's suppose for a moment I sell them online. Where do I meet the buyer? At my house? At a local Starbucks? What if someone used my bullets to kill a cop? Or a bunch of schoolkids? This sounds just crazy to me. Selling ammo. Driving around with ammo in my trunk. Throwing my ammo on a table at a local gun show and selling it to crazy survivalists. Or nutjobs. Sheesh. Ah....but then cha-ching! My 'stuff' is worth a few hundred dollars. The Scotsman in me was in a quandary. Money? Aide and possibly abet a murder? Donate to the practice range at the local police station? Cause this nice officer another half hour's work filling out a report? This was tough. I'm still driving around with a bunch of ammo in my trunk.

Lenten Devotions

At an Ash Wednesday service I attended, we were given booklets of Lenten devotions based on apologist commentaries by C. S. Lewis. Coincidentally I had seen a play the week before, a somewhat fictional play where Lewis and Sigmund Freud meet and have a discussion about whether or not there is a God. In it, Lewis seemed (at least to me) to come out on top. He willingness to admit that he didn't have all the answers and that the God he so loved wasn't going to provide him with those answers was presented in a peaceful, humble and joyous manner. Receiving the book of devotions has furthered my excitement to better understand how Lewis understood God and Christianity. A couple of days ago the devotion was based on Matthew 5:19. Lewis talks about God using trials to force Christians to a higher level thus making them braver, more patient, more loving, more tolerant of frailties. Lewis ends the segment by saying, "It seems to us all unnecessary: but that is because we have not yet had the slightest notion of the tremendous thing He means to make of us."

Not Poor Anymore

Over the past few months I have had to deal with a lot. There has been a fair amount of pain and a good deal of grief. There has also been a lot of paperwork, phone calls, bill paying, packing and moving. But there has also been an up side. That 'up side' is that I am not poor anymore. Last summer I was poised to work as hard as I could at as many jobs as I could in an all-out effort to make as much money as possible. I would pay Bill, pay my expenses, and keep my credit cards at bay by making minimum monthly payments. It was a treading-water lifestyle. I didn't know how long I was going to be able to keep it going, or how long it would last, but it was the plan I had and knew I had to make work. To make money I would substitute as many days as I could get hired, I would take at least two tutoring students every day after school, and I would rent rooms to students through the student housing office. In a perfect world that and my retirement money would keep me afloat. The plan was rife with glitches. What if I got ill and couldn't work for a week or two? What if my jury duty netted me a trial that went weeks? It was a plan that would only work if nothing went wrong. There was no place for car repairs or replacing the furnace if it broke. It was so fortunate for me that Bill passed when he did. That particular kind of fortune increased when my dad passed because then I also received an inheritance. Now I don't have to worry about making every penny I possibly can. I don't have to worry about the loss of money if I should get sick. I don't have to scramble for sub jobs and take days at schools or in positions I don't want. But most importantly, I don't have to worry about whether or not I can make my monthly financial obligations because the truth is that it was going to be tricky to do in the first place. I am able to live well within my means, am slamming down the credit cards and can sleep in occasionally. I am not poor anymore, and I like it that way.

In Which

This post doesn't really belong in this blog but I feel compelled to finally write about it because it's something I do every Sunday morning. I attend church. The pastor is a nice guy who grew up on a farm in Nebraska. He has a big heart and every Sunday morning presents us with a sermon on which he has worked fairly hard. I noticed many years ago that he has an unusual way of inserting the words 'in which' at various points in his message. It occurred to me that at some point in time someone informed him that he couldn't end a sentence with a preposition. I also guessed that the person suggested he use 'in which' as a way of avoiding the preposition trap. What I think the person DID NOT do was suggest other ways to solve the problem such as even a simple 'for which', 'through which' or 'by which', etc. You get the idea. As the daughter of a stickler for correct English usage who was also big on using the forwhichthroughwhichinwhichbywhich solution, I find the pastor's 'in which's' to be quite disconcerting. For instance, 'It is not unusual for a man to give that in which he can't'. WHAT??? 'Jesus' sacrifice in which we were saved'. Oh, Lord...my ears want to shrivel up and fall off my head. He does it constantly, so much so that I unwittingly count how many times he uses it in his sermons. He averages about three or four times a pop. If the sermon is not tremendously engaging, I find myself counting the number of times he uses 'in which' improperly and musing at how he can make sense of his sentence content. But then again, I know he fully understands what he's trying to say and we generally do too. This is just one of those little things that are like a burr in my skin, a little pet peeve that I wish I could let go of. OOPS! Excuse me, a little pet peeve of which I wish I could let go. There, Dad would be happy with that one. It's this peevishness that sometimes keeps me from fully understanding the sermon. I guess I should pray that God give me the grace to overlook this minor flaw in my pastor.

Stalled

I feel stalled and impatient. My emotions have been on lockdown for almost three years now. Who knows? They may have checked out years ago as a way to survive the 'surprises' of my time with Bill, keep the family intact, and not let my child see me upset, or worse, angry. Was it a conscious choice at some point? Did they give me some kind of notice they were checking out? Or did this happen at the break-up? As I sit here writing this stream of consciousness, I think perhaps the correct answer is the second one. They probably gave me notice and I was probably relieved to hear the news. In order to simply survive and not unravel, my emotions had to step out. And I think I knew this happened. Many years ago. The question now is: Will they be coming back? Because my gut feeling is that this had been a means of emotional survival for me for quite some time. It's how I forged ahead with raising Laura and keeping the peace in the house. It's how I insulated myself against the emotional impact of the 'surprises'. In this manner I could steel myself for anything and not be knocked over by unexpected events. It enabled me to successfully and even adeptly walk on egg shells. The upside is tremendous personal strength and the ability to generally look at things logically before, or sometimes instead of, reacting to them. I created a distance with my emotions. I became more logical, less reactive and, I think there is a nice piece of maturity in that. The downside is that I am not open to starting any new kind of relationship. I meet men and I feel nothing. The thought of even the remotest possibility of dealing with a demanding, idiosyncratic, and most frighteningly, critical male companion is currently outweighing all other considerations, and I am losing patience with it. I don't want to give up the logical and self-controlled qualities I've developed. I would say they almost give me wisdom. In fact, when I was touring Russia and Ukraine with a group of Christians, the leader called me the Voice of Sanity, but I don't want to live my life without being open to something that might enhance what I now consider to be a very full life. Now the need for caged emotions is no longer in my best interests. How do I invite them back into my life, and to what degree? Do I have much control over this? What's the procedure? How do I let go and open up? Unfortunately, I think I still have a long way to go.

A Gesture

At times I reflect back on some things that happened with Dad. My thoughts are all over the place. Sometimes I remember things that happened long ago. Sometimes it's something that happened only recently. This past week I have been overwhelmed by the memory of something that happened a few days before Dad passed. I went to visit him in the hospital. It was a Saturday and he was with the relief caregiver who, despite his intense desire to please, could never seem to 'get it'. He would do whatever Dad told him and never overrode the requests. So, as time went by, the faux pas became more and more dangerous to Dad. On this Saturday morning, Dad was very ill. He couldn't really speak although he seemed to be trying to tell us things all the time. If I bent my head down close to his mouth I could make out some words. It seemed that this day, Dad may have been coming to the conclusion that he wasn't going to beat this case of pneumonia. It was the day I had to ask him if he wanted specifically chest compressions, intubation and paddles if he were to go into cardiac arrest. But before I asked him that, I was standing next to his bed. And he did something he had never, ever done before, not in any of his illnesses or hospitalizations. He reached his hand up and stroked my right cheek. It was a tender gesture. And in his eyes I could see love. Somehow in that moment all pretenses were dropped. In that moment his eyes told me that he loved me unconditionally, more than any other human, for no other reason than I was me, his child, his firstborn. I was the person with whom he felt the deepest connection. I was someone he loved without hesitation, without exceptions. In that moment I had a shot to the heart. This was why he didn't criticize me. This was why he told me I could do or be anything I wanted. The depths of the emotion I felt at that moment were almost too profound for me to describe, and I find myself grappling for words as I write this now. It was a moment I shall never forget, a moment I was privileged to have, a moment I will treasure forever. It encapsulated sixty-one years of my life as his child. Yes, like my sister says. I was always Dad's favorite.

Why Am I STILL in Therapy?

I'm sixty-one years old. I am intelligent. I have had a career and a family. I am educated. I have friends. But I am still in therapy! I think that when I embarked on the psychotherapy journey, I thought I'd do it until I came through whatever that current crisis was. Trying to remember. What crisis was that? Ah, yes, the old standby. Gambling. 1995. Go to therapy. Go to a therapist who works in collaboration with husband's therapist. We have a few months of separate sessions, each with our own respective therapist. Then there is a night when he and I go out to dinner and are supposed to have a joint session with both therapists after. I enjoy myself at dinner. He apparently doesn't. We get in the car to go to the joint session and, on the way, he seems tense. When we get to the session. BAM!! He tells me he's been gambling. Does he do this of his own free will? No. I later find out his therapist was going to call off all the sessions unless he came clean with me. I thought I'd only be in therapy until that crisis was over. Nope. No dice. Every time I thought things were settling down and I could quit, there would be another crisis. More gambling. Or the kid became a teen with the body of a Playboy bunny and the face of a goddess. Or Bill had a heart attack. Or a parent died. What happened over the course of eighteen years is life and its problems. The calms were only brief respites between crises. Does this mean I can't handle life's problems? Maybe. Maybe not. I'm still hopeful there will come a day when I don't need a professional to help me walk through the bumps in my life's roads.

January is Over?

January blew by. On the last weekend of the month we had a memorial service for Dad. Per his wishes. He had even designed much of the service. He had selected a photo he wanted used, he had selected the 23rd Psalm and something called 'The Indian Prayer', and I knew without asking him that he wanted neither modern praise songs nor guitars played. He wanted our friend, June, to sing. He had always told June he wanted her to sing at his service, she just didn't think he'd make her wait until she was 84 years old. He wanted the pastor to speak but told me I could deliver the eulogy. I had a friend play the organ, chose a good hymn to sing while my friend accompanied on the organ (#98 from the pew hymnal "Great is Thy Faithfulness") and then, because this friend has a fabulous voice, had him sing a solo ("The Prayer" a la Andrea Bocelli and Celine Dion). For my part, I did a PowerPoint presentation of photos from Dad's life. I had accumulated a great collection of photos during the time Dad was living with us. I let the photos guide my talking points and just supplemented with a few notes on my iPad. If this sounds 'techie', it's only marginally so, because I eked out the slideshow and the pastor had to stretch the pictures to fit the screen on several of the shots. My old scanner would scan a photo to full size; my new one doesn't. June found a video of Dad and her singing a duet from 1994. They were cute and funny and they both had beautiful voices. Dad's voice sounded very good up until he was in his 80's. June just stopped singing solos very recently. 'The Indian Prayer' I had printed on the back of the memorial folder. It didn't seem like it was really 'Dad'. He had seen it on a friend's and liked it. Under its title I put: Our father specifically requested that this prayer be included in the program. For the weekend of the memorial, I had 8 family members stay with me at the house. I loved being able to host them and particularly loved that no one had to leave the gatherings to go to a hotel to sleep. Beth's family had Dad's room, my aunt and her husband had the middle bedroom, my niece and nephew and the niece's significant other had the guesthouse. I couldn't have been happier with the arrangement. Did everything go well? Yes! The family was helpful and easy-going, the service went smoothly, the deacons provided a light luncheon for everyone, and only two things had to be fixed, but were done quickly: I had forgotten a guest book and the pastor somehow started off the service reading the 23rd Psalm, completely forgetting that my brother-in-law was going to do that. So, Mark had to quickly find a backup scripture and settled on one of my favorites: I lift up my eyes to the hills where does my help come? and so on. Psalm 121. Good pinch hitting, Mark. My aunt and her husband zipped over to the local stationers and picked up a guestbook in minutes. I kept wondering what I was not remembering. Where was I dropping the ball? I called Dad's secretary and had her call some of Dad's friends in the medical community. I asked Beth if our half-siblings were coming. She said she had spoken to our brother who was not going to be able to make it but hadn't spoken to Sue. I decided that this might be an area where I had messed up. Another place I missed was re-publishing an announcement for the memorial service in the newspaper. I had published it on November 25 but had wanted to put it in again the Sunday before the service. Yes, the sister and the newspaper. Those are the places where the balls had dropped. I had thought we'd talk about it at length in Idaho but she didn't show up. After speaking with friends, I decided that the only way I could come out somewhat unscathed with the sister was to write what we'd called a fall-on-my-sword email to her and not mention her absence in Idaho.. I saidHey, Sue, Wow! I think I may have really dropped the ball on this one here. Dad's memorial is this Saturday and, although I thought you knew about it, it occurred to me that maybe you didn't. And I realized that if you didn't know, it is totally my fault. it meant so much to me to have you with me when Dad passed. You have such a gift for caring, and you were so tender and sweet to him in those last moments You knew exactly what to say and do for both me and him. Dad was so very fond of you and was so impressed with the woman you became. He truly like and cared about you. I know this is late, it's my fault, and I know you are busy busy busy but I wanted to let you know it would be great to have you here. I love you and hope you are well. I received a response from my sister the day after the service. She said: Hey, Cindy, I'm really sorry I didn't know about the memorial or I definitely would have been there. Hope it was a blessing for you and Beth and the rest of those who attended. I will not drive myself nuts trying to read anything into this note. Just take it at face value. There's another memorial for Dad in Ohio in May.