The Whole Truth

Whenever I was around people who were close to my mom (there were many; she spent a great deal of her energy making sure people liked her; it was her main function in life), I have for most of my life, felt the need to defend myself to people who’ve never met me. It was either that, or I was compelled to apologize on her behalf. It’s who I became because of mom.  She was beloved by many. Even people she treated like shit; including me in some cases.

My mom gained their esteem and friendship by painting herself to be someone she never was. You see, my mom may have been one of the One Thousand Points of Light, and she might have advocated for the needy. She even got in trouble doing some work for the Massachusetts DHS, when she brought a baby home because the mother was neglecting it and she couldn’t get anyone to respond. It wasn’t unusual, as kids, to come home from school to find some random person living in our home; some young person she found panhandling for money by the metro in Brussels to fund their continued journey. She brought home Irish kids, Scottish kids, Americans, Brits… she brought them home like strays, and fed them, and cared for them, and sent them along with money so they weren’t lost in this world, or alone.  On the outside she was fucking amazing.

My mom also spent a lot of time telling people terrible things about us. Whomever was ‘bad ranger’ at the time, she would rip to shreds. So when we met her friends, whichever target child she’d maligned would be received with a sneer of disdain and disapproval from complete strangers.  This happened a great deal to me in these last years. All her little biddies, they glare at me because I am in their estimation, based on my mother’s words, the antichrist.  Yet this antichrist still marched in as much as she could to pay attention to the old lady, and spend time with her—and more importantly, to allow her to spend time with Alex.

One of the former employees of the care facility told me that I was her favourite. That she spoke well of me all the time, and not of my other sisters. But several of her senior friends had different opinions. So it’s impossible to tell. It’s impossible to know exactly what she said and to whom. It really doesn’t matter, but it is a mark of her character that has always irked me. All those people that showed up at her memorial adored her. They all had such nice things to say about her. Of course they did. She was who she wanted them to think she was.

But I’ve talked about the flip side. The stuff people don’t know about. And as I process the loss of my mother, I am brought back to those things; which, because of their negative aspects, arrive in my memory with clarity and vividness few memories share.  I had convinced myself at the very beginning of this period that I would let it all go with her. That it would fade away now that the source is gone. As if by clipping away the trunk of the invasive plant, its suckers would wither and die. But the truth is the truth. And I have to accept that my mother was not a good person. And I carry a great deal of guilt for feeling that, because of all the good she has done, and the moments she was good to us.

The last time I took my mother to visit my little brother John, this was just before my anxiety issues kicked in and I could still just drive wherever I pleased without having a nervous breakdown; my mother entered the residential home where my brother is cared for. He, as always, was slumped in a sofa chair, his thumb and index finger pressed firmly in his eye sockets, sleeping.  His hair, kept short and manageable, his clothes stretched across his round belly, his five o’clock shadow and thick eyebrows so reminiscent of my father. She went to him, and kissed his face, and he dropped his hand and looked at her. With a grunt of acknowledgement, he waved his hand and put his fingers back over his eyes. She’d spend about ten minutes telling the caretakers what sacrifices she made for him, and then turn to me and say: Okay, let’s go.  Then in the car, she would apply all the strategies for me to take her shopping somewhere on the way back.

John is a product of extreme neglect coupled with diligent care. As a child, my parents enrolled him in an intern program with the Belgian school system; where he stayed for two weeks, with a home visit every other weekend, and a parental visit on the others.  He attended a stellar school, with amazing teachers who were trained beautifully to work with severely developmentally disabled children and young adults. When he was there, he had structure, he was happy and he could communicate.

My mom never learned sign language. She never had us learn it. Nobody in my family did. Yet we have a brother who is deaf. He was absent more than he was home. Which was a good thing, because when he was home, my mother was in no way equipped to  provide proper care for him. She could barely manage her non-disabled children as it was.

When John got home, he was promptly locked in his tiny bedroom to spend the entire weekend in the dark, with only brief breaks for food and hygiene.  He was so frustrated sometimes, he broke things. Even windows. His room had been a nursery, so it had a window inside that was viewable from the corridor upstairs, and then an outside window. He smashed both of them. And they were both boarded up like a shanty house. He smeared his feces on the walls. He would scream in frustration and fling himself against the door.  As kids, we all had to listen to it, and feel the depth of misery for it, but were powerless to do anything about it. To this day, none of us can talk about it without a profound painful sense of guilt and anger. At ourselves and at mom. We were kids, we know it wasn’t our fault, but it doesn’t help to appease that pain.

My dad was noticeably silent on the matter. I don’t know exactly what he felt about this. But there were some pretty hellacious fights over him, many that came to blows. My father resented my mother insisting on having him, when she was presented the choice and told that the child was abnormal. She wanted her son. It was paramount to her, even if it meant she would neglect him for his entire life. When it came to the parental visits to my brother’s school on the odd weekends, my mother never went. It was my father who went and spent the day with him.

When my mother took up with her lover Omar, who would turn out to be my molester, there was one good thing that came from that, and that was Omar’s unease about this situation. Even a child molester couldn’t deal with it. So when my dad was working, or away, he was often there, and he would take John out of his room, feed him, play with him, and pay attention to him. Part of the reason why I accepted Omar to be how he was with me was because I loved him for the care he gave my brother. In a childhood where trusting adults was a dangerous game, there was this one little shimmering good thing next to so many terrible things.

When my mom decided out of the blue that she wanted to return to the US, a several years after Omar killed himself, she got my father to agree, and within a month of this decision, which was not imparted to anyone, even me until the day before the flight (not kidding) we were moving back to the states after 20 years. She left John behind. She also abandoned our saddle club with horses still in the stalls.  She abandoned a lot of things.

It took several weeks to even get her to acknowledge that something had to be done about John. She flew back to Brussels and disappeared for several more weeks. When I called the school, they said they hadn’t even heard from her.  Hunting her down was a task and half. I had to go through a friend of a friend of a friend, cross-Atlantic call after call. When I tracked her down, she was sofa surfing at a friend’s house, partying in Brussels and hadn’t even gone to see John. I talked to her briefly, and she finally said she was going to come home with John.

I was worried the moment we arrived in the US, because I was not familiar with the social services nor with what sort of options could be had for a young adult like John. I discussed it with my dad, who was ambivalent and unhelpful. And when mom got there, I started researching places, and her response was “I DON’T WANT HIM IN AN INSTITUTION!”  All I could foresee was a repeat of those weekends of John locked away in a room.  It was a worry that came to fruition in many ways.

While in New England, John rarely if never left the house. They took him to a doctor to have him medicated, and my brother spent his days both furiously bashing down the house or sleeping. His care became my responsibility on the most part. I lived in that house until I was 27—my entire life crammed into  a small bedroom with a locked door while my mom went around being one of a Thousand Points of Light, and spent her evenings carousing with a bunch of crusty old men at a membership club bar.  When my dad retired, he took over the medication and bathing of John, and I did the housework.  When I decided to move out and get my own life, there was a meltdown in the family that went as far afield as my eldest brother, from whom I had not heard for over a decade—he was sure to call and chastise me for ‘leaving daddy with everything’.

But leave I did. It wasn’t a total split, until I moved to Oregon. I still went there. I still cleaned the kitchen and did laundry or it would just pile up on the floor in mounds. I still cooked holiday meals. I still went there and put up a Christmas tree for John, because if I didn’t nobody would.

I often feel my leaving New Hampshire is what caused the final spiral of my mother and father’s home life.  Perhaps, I even took part in my father giving up entirely on everything. At least that’s my theory. Because the light in his eyes was so faded the last time I spoke to him face to face and he was lucid. There are members of my family who still think I was selfish to leave—spoken while they nestled in the lushness of their full and meaningful lives, jobs and families.

John’s care went downhill, naturally. My battle to get him cared for by the state was lost. My mom’s idea of feeding him a good meal was to microwave him a burrito or bring him Burger King. The laundry in the laundry room was knee high when my husband went to clean out the house. The place was disgusting. I cannot even begin to describe how disgusting, but if you watch Hoarders, the really dirty episodes, you’d have the right idea.

When she arrived with Dad, and dad died so soon afterwards, I watched John’s appearance worsen. His nails were like talons, his beard was like a homeless person; he stunk, she never bathed him. She would drug him with old, out-dated medications so he would sleep most of the day, and she would leave him alone there so she could go shopping. Her house quickly became a disgusting shambles. Her health failed.

She ended up in the hospital, and she would be there for some time. It was the opportunity I needed, so I swooped in with the county and got John into care. And from that point on, for the first time in many years, I was able to go a day without worrying about John.  I visited him to find him shaven and clean, he’s in a day program, he’s got a routine, he eats well, he’s in clean clothes, his nails are trimmed, he’s going to a doctor, he saw a dentist for the first time in his life, he is by all standards as good as he can be.  Some things are too late. Diabetes, the blindness, his failing body. But he is okay.

My mother loved to cry about how I didn’t take her down to see him. I did; many times. But it was never a good visit. It was tedium for her. I’d drive twenty five miles one way so she could say after four minutes of telling the caregivers how amazing she was for John, “Okay, let’s go.” I got tired of it. It was just a way to get me to take her to Marshalls or Ross or Payless. For her to add to her newly growing hoard, and to abuse me miserably with accusations and nastiness. 

Finally, last year, she was in a particularly rankled mood, sour as vinegar the moment I arrived. I said: “Hey, let’s go see John. “

“Who?”

“You know, your son…?” I replied, irritated. She sighed wearily and rolled her eyes.

“All he does is sit. And I don’t have money for shopping. Your sister never sends me money…” and she went on to talk shit about my sister.  At that point, I decided I was done with taking her to see John. If she had the desire to do it, she could talk to the facility people and arrange a ride herself.

John is only one of the difficult things I have to hold on to because of her. Her predilection to abandon things, and leave me with the detritus was another—and then her subsequent blaming of me for the failure. She did it several times before I was even 20. 

If I hadn’t managed her books and payroll at her ‘successful’ temp business which was recognized by senators and the like, she would owe Massachusetts so much money, it boggles the mind to try and even imagine how much.  When I left for Oregon and quit that job, she closed the business down a few months later, owing about $70,000 in taxes.

She liked the beginnings of things. She left the aftermath to me. I accepted it, why? I don’t know. For the vain hope that she would realize I was there for her and show me a little respect? Who the hell knows?

I have so much unresolved anger towards her. How tempted I was to just tell her all those things when she was half-paralyzed, but still there. I could have. But instead, I am going to try to kiss it all up to the universe as they say. Write it down, and put the truth out there, so I can know that at least someone knows she wasn’t by any means the saint she painted herself to be. That all those ‘sacrifices (sah-kree-faysus as she pronounced it)’ she claims to have made, were not by any means selfless. Everything came with a price. Psychological interest, as I used to call it.

Did I love my mom? Absolutely. Did she love me? I suppose in whatever capacity she was capable of, yes, I think she did. She even may have loved John.  But mom wasn’t really able to love the way normal people love. She did not love herself, and that is the root of it. Her utter dissatisfaction with her own being is what spurred her forward every day.

It's hard, but I try to understand her.  Her self-reproach, the way any criticism of her would invoke wrath and a lifelong grudge. The way she would write people off, good people, and give value to the biggest losers on the planet.  She was who she was.  She was good, she was bad, she was an asshole, and a glorious woman.

Once, back in NH, a little bit before I moved to Oregon, I was met my mom at a shopping center in Salem to pick her up and drive her somewhere. She pulled up next to me and parked, locked up her car and was getting into my car, when I noticed a couple of teenage girls standing by a car with their doors and trunk open. They were pulling out empty bags of junk food, cups, garbage and all sorts of other debris and brazenly tossing it onto the parking lot.

“Oh my god! What little assholes!” I exclaimed.  My mom’s small eyes locked onto them, her lips tightened into a straight, hard line, and she wordlessly slid out of the car and slammed the door.

I watched her blaze across the parking lot like a bull, and I could not hear, but I could see her just losing it on these teenagers. She stood there, all 5 foot 2” of her, arms flailing, hands slashing, and the girls cowering back with each spittle-laden expletive that came out of her mouth.

The girls, to my astonishment, started collecting their trash. They gathered it up and threw it back into the car. Mom stood by like this angry bastion until every last piece was back in the vehicle. She then remained until they got back into their car and drove away. As they passed us on the main road, they flipped her the bird, which she responded to by blowing them a kiss. I swear I saw their heads exploding. Well, maybe not, but still, it was possible.  She got back into the car, put on her seatbelt and looked at me expectantly.

“Well? What are you doing staring at me? Let’s go already!” she snapped.  I did exactly as she asked, and put the car in reverse. My relationship with mom was like that. It was a roller coaster ride of gloriously brilliant moments followed by belly-flopping pits of negativity.

At least she wasn't boring.

The end of an era - Days 121-140 of project 365 conclude in sadness.

My mother died this morning. Early. At 12:39 am. Sunday night, my mother had a massive stroke.

The center scan shows one layer depicting the size of the bleed. It was huge.

I got the call at about 9:30 PM, we were settling into bed and we had to rush to the hospital. She was unresponsive, and had vomited over herself.  A vein burst and filled the right ventricle. That slice that is shown shows only the upper layers. It was massive. The doctors said it was rare to see a bleed this large. The pressure had paralyzed half of her body. Her eyes would not open. She could still clutch my hand and respond that first night and next day, but that did not last.  By Tuesday, she was only able to communicate the pain in her head from the pressure. They then sedated her, and per her wishes, they transitioned her to comfort care where she languished until this morning. I'm glad it wasn't like Daddy, who lingered for a long time.

So now she's gone. My sister Anna flew out immediately and has been here through most of it. We've been leaning on each other. Neither of us really expected it to be as hard as it is. But as a friend told me recently; "Losing her means you will never have a chance to have that warm mother/daughter connection you crave." It is an insightful thing to say. She is right.

All these past twenty days, I've taken photos for the project 365 thing I'm doing here. And it was so jarring how the twenty days concluded with such stark and stirring photos. So I'm going to share them all here today. Along with a note I wrote my mother this morning after I found out she had passed away.

121/365

122/365

123/365

124/365

125/365 - Alex is Skyping with his aunties

126/365

127/365 - my first new dress in a long time

128/365 - the Coos Bay Manour B&B - Topsails & Tea 2015

129/365 - Wisteria

130/365 - My favourite picture of all so far.

131/365

132/365 - someone stole mom's toe socks

133/365

134/365 - Nootka roses blooming

135/365 Hat shapes

136/365 Bath time

137/365

138/365 - Monday Morning.

139/365 - Tuesday - My child clutches my sister's and husband's hand

140/365 - Wednesday - Anna tends to mom

Dear Mom,

Things were prickly between us. No doubt.  But your leaving us brings back the good things. I guess that’s the positive aspect of death; you remember all the wonderful memories you have with that person; and the negative that you dwell on while people are living seem to fade into the background.

I think about the day that the Vice Principal of Brussels American School bruised my arm, and how infuriated you were, and how you stamped into the school and ripped that woman a new asshole.  I am thinking about the glorious moments when you stood beside me when I needed you to, and how you were always there for me, even when we were locking horns; even if the intent was not always selfless.

Mom. You were my mom. That never changes; and you are gone. And with you are the vain hopes of you ever becoming the mom I needed you to be. Gone is the chance to understand that demon inside you that made you sometimes resent us. Gone are the moments of laughter and gone are the moments of conflict. 

I hope, in whatever way it is, that you finally find peace with yourself, and with that demon that tormented you for your entire life. I hope that you know that in spite it all, that I… we all love you and that all is forgiven.  We let you leave us with open hearts. Be at peace and know that you were loved and you were not alone in death.  We were there. All of us in one way or another.  And most importantly, Alex was there with his ‘joyful noises’ as you called them, filling the hollow and sterile room of the hospital with his laughter and his beauty. I know you loved him above all else. He was there with you too.

Mom. I love you. Even though sometimes I despised you. I think there was a fine line between the two, and that the resentment was fueled by how much I wanted to love you. I will miss you. I’ll miss those moments where your face glowed with laughter, and you were the glimpses of the mom we all hoped you could be. 

Be at peace.

Feff.

Of teleportation and clothed cats

Irresistibly precious, this face.

My husband described to me the other day how someone had labeled the act of picking up a sleeping child and depositing them in bed as being 'teleported'. The person describing this was fondly reminiscing about falling asleep in one place and waking in another.

This teleporting has become a sweet routine for Alexander and I, for you see, the days of co-sleeping are done. I discovered that Alex sleeps more deeply without the disruption of larger bodies tossing and turning around him. It would wake him and set him to rooting for some comfort nursing.

A few weeks ago, we had a very busy Saturday, where we gave Alex very little chance to rest and nap. But come bedtime, he was keyed up and as bright-eyed and bushy tailed as could be. Both exhausted and unprepared to entertain him, my husband brought him into his own room to play out his energy in his crib.

To his surprise, Alex turned onto his side as soon as Dan put him in bed, blinked his eyes a few times, and promptly fell asleep. I had already passed out myself having had little sleep the night before. Dan came to bed. Next thing we know, it's six AM and Alex had slept the night through in his own bed.

I've remained determined since to continue the trend, and have put him in bed at 8 PM every night since. He wakes only once, always around 11:30ish, where his cries are more substantial than the brief winging of sleep cycle transition. I get him, carry him to bed, let him nurse himself back to sleep, and then put him back on his crib to sleep 'til morning.

This ritual is deeply wonderful. When I go to fetch him, he is clingy and drowsy, crying with impatience as I nestle in beside him to nurse. He nuzzles in and drinks deeply and soundly, his draws growing softer and fainter as he submits to sleep again. Then he rolls over onto his side, his back nested against me, and falls into a deep slumber.

I then slip out of bed and gently gather him up into my arms. There is truly nothing more precious than the warm, dangly limbed, neck nuzzlingness of a sleeping baby. I slide him into his bed, and he rolls onto his side or into the fetal position on his belly, and sleeps on.

I won't lie... I still wake up in blind panic because he isn't there. I still go in at 2:00 am to check on him. I still ask my husband as he is leaving at 4:30 am to look in on him too. But for the first time since early pregnancy... I am getting eight hour nights now and then. Interrupted, yes... But not like before.

Hood Strawberries made into baby food. Fresh and seasonal.

 Summer is here. I am trying to take time to make up some crafty goods to fill a table for a fair held locally. The bookshop closing has brought back what remains of my consigned artwork, so I figured those framed prints, my unframed ones, some bookplates, jewelry if I have time, and dolls from my spoonflower fabric, and I can make a few bucks. Let's see what I can finish before August.

  

These cats are in progress. They will be clothed.

These sheep are for my sister. They will be sent to Pensacola for pelts.

Life goes on, as they say. I had a stellar weekend at Hood River with my ORS chums, sailing the tall ships and flouncing about in costume. Alex accompanied me as usual, and was spoiled by everyone. He has many adoring aunties.

I too was spoiled on my first Mother's Day, so I am resolved to do something special for Dan too. Baby J has begun calling his father 'Da'. We thought at first it was coincidence since he has been articulating in Babyese lately... But whenever Dan is out of sight, Alex twists around to find him and cries out 'Dadadadaaah!'. My husband is moved to tears every time. So it is for those who try and try for a child... When we get one, we are amazed and humbled by every thing they do.

Dan's granny, whose dementia is worsening daily, and who cannot keep track of who is alive or who isn't, who can't recognise everyone, still knows to ask how the baby is, even if she forgets that the person she is asking is her grandson. My own mother is still transformed as well.

We have taken to writing a journal for Alex to read later on. So we can properly show him how loved and wanted he is.

Other than that, things are generally the same. I have lost a good friend because I have realized that in our difference of age, we speak different languages.  I don't stop loving people though, when things break down. So it is what it is. Life is about falling, getting back up, dusting off one's knees and marching on. I do not regret or hold bitterness about what was largely, a wonderful thing. No sense holding onto the crappy stuff. That drives people to drink... Or worse... To religion. LOL.

The digitalis/foxgloves have overtaken this year.
The absence of trees and late rains most likely are the cause.
there are hundreds. So beautiful.

Happy Birthday Papa. :)

Scary how much my brother looks like him.
He even has that crazy hair.

September of 2009; Lowell Massachusetts rehab.
He looked terrible. :(
Me on left, Helen on right.



We got him that shirt because we thought it was perfect for him.
My sisters; Anna on the left, Helen on the right. Same visit in '09.



Handsome.

2002 - Timberline Lodge. He was 72.



I post this one a lot. Papa in 1993 or 4... covered in dogs.

 

In Switzerland probably... Kinda hard to know which alp it was. :)
That's me clinging to his leg crying.
I'd say thi sis 1975ish.



Papa's in the back seat piloting. I'm with is friend in the front.
I have distinct memories of that flight. The sound of the tow-plane releasing us,
The sight of the earth beneath us, the sound of the wind holding us up.

And there he is now; in all three of us. 

Happy birthday daddy. You would be 81. We miss you so very much.

A Happy Friday. Really.

It’s a happy Friday. Two office specials for you today… for some reason I was prolific with the sketching. They’re both odd… yes. But I have odd moments a lot. The first, I just wanted to draw a little girl holding a grizzly bear’s claw… it’s probably badly scaled… and I'm also aware that her legs and torso are disproportionately long... but what the hell… I drew it in ten minutes; cut me some slack.

The second is something that actually happened in the car when I was pretty little. I was always full of strange questions when I was petite, and often drove daddy and mom crazy with my seemingly random queries. Satan My mom had a few good moments here and there… an occasional sense of humour, I suppose. I remember trying for some time to get a close look at birds after that so I could see those little wellies; and was greatly dismayed when Daddy gave me a telescope for Christmas one year, and I used it to spy on some birds to discover them sans wellies. Lies! Injustice!

Man, the sun is beautiful today. This weekend is the weekend we are going to have a memorial for my father. We are having a little dinner/barbecue at my mother’s little rental home today as a sort of pre-memorial, and then tomorrow, we sisters will go up to Mount Hood and have our own special remembrance where Daddy loved to ski. Here’s a picture of him in 2002 at Timberline… He was 72.


That was the last time he skied. He took a couple of hard falls goofing around on the skis—attempting to mimic my sister’s telemark skiing on alpine skis. He didn’t want to ski after that, and it is when I am confident that my father sort of gave up. He became an old man from that point forward. The night before last, we were all in my living room, and we reflected on those ski-trips. They were the best times we ever had with Daddy. Every winter through our youth, we went to Switzerland, Austria, Germany... France… wherever there was an alp to ski on… it was something we did without mom, and daddy, without mom, was a completely different person. We always had major fun. Our best memories of daddy were from the ski-trips. He had such a graceful style on the slopes—he was an amazing skier.

I am looking forward to the weekend. It’s going to be hectic, and I don’t foresee us having a lot of time to ourselves… but I love spending time with my sisters, and I won’t be seeing them again very soon… so I’d like to take advantage of tomorrow. I wish wish wish for once, that we got together just for the sake of getting together. Why does it take this sort of thing for us to stand on the same ground?

Struggling for normality

I have vowed to myself that my next post was going to be one less dreary and sorrowful. So here I am, trying to be less dreary and sorrowful, and making a grand mess of it, to say the least. Today was my first normal day; so to speak. I came back to work to discover much to my shame and embarrassment that my coworker has been carrying me despite the disorganized shambles I’d left things in. My productivity and follow-through these past months has been shabby to say the least, thanks to all the family distractions, and I found my coworker still able to smile at me and not claw my face off. I feel about five inches tall, and it took everything for me not to fall onto myself blubbering out of utter humiliation.

But I confess; it was good to be back. I guess, if you spend eight hours a day with the same people, every day, that you sort of get used to being around them. I hadn’t been good about keeping them in the loop while I was away dealing with all this craziness… and I realized that oddly, I feel more at peace today. The sound of them puttering about their offices or of Sherry warming up her stroganoff… it was really unexpectedly comforting. I wanted to run into their offices and tell them I missed and loved them, but I didn’t because it’s weird.

My other co-worker Kris made the mistake of coming wordlessly into my office, and putting her arm around my neck. Any show of sympathy just makes me lose it. I am in this persistent state of fugue where I am at the precipice of tears—and the mere drop of a hat could set me off. I ended up blubbering on her; and it felt very nice, honestly. I’m not used to doing that… just being free with tears with people—but with these ladies, after five years in close quarters, I’m more comfortable doing it. Most of the time, I have this mindset that emotional outbursts are an imposition; and that it’s best to retrench and retreat when you feel it coming rather than soak someone’s shoulder. But in the past years, I’ve been learning otherwise. It felt good just to cry a bit. I’ve had some moments of weakness; but all mostly with my husband at the wee hours of the morning. Seeing how they and my boss were so understanding makes me want to cry all over again. I’m so lucky, and I don’t even know how to begin to thank them. I’ll think of some way. Especially to Sherry, who deserves cake and puppies for what she’s done.

I have the shakes today. Anxiety I’m guessing… I saw Tag on Saturday, but I am going to see him today. I felt myself sort of just forgetting on Saturday, and it was nice to just feel normal even for a little bit.

I’ve been sorting through family photos lately. My family was never one for documenting every moment of the family’s development and putting them on walls… in fact, I would be jealous of my friends whose homes had walls crammed full of photographed moments hanging in frames all over their house. We never did. But my family did have some albums of snapshots taken here and there. My youngest brother however, ever the Doctor Destructo of the family, got hold of them, and many photos were torn or destroyed with little to no intervention from the parental units. So back in the early nineties, when I was still living with them, I started taking pictures and trying to rescue them. My mother pitched a crazy-fit when she came to my house for the wedding and found out that I had all these pictures; but frankly, if I hadn’t taken them, they probably wouldn’t exist today.

This scrap was among some of the salvaged pictures… that’s Daddy in his signature orange boots and that’s me clinging to him in tears in sorrow that he might ski away. I loved my daddy. I still do.

Monday, when we were at the funeral home looking at urns, they had a casket showroom. They had this casket displayed, the top door open, with a military uniform draped over the silken padding, and the uniform’s hat propped on the closed bottom half. I felt faint and nauseous the moment I saw it. My knees went weak and I had to go sit down. I felt as if there was something horrible about displaying the whole thing like a Sears retail display… Your loved one could be here! I nearly barfed.

Luckily, Hubby was there. He's always been here, through all of this. I am glad to finally be doing things that feel normal... my sisters arrive this afternoon, so it won't be normal for quite a while... but there's comfort in the familiarity of work. Hopefully I'll be able to focus a bit.

Letting go is, simply put, not anything close to moving on...

My dad, crawling with dogs.

My father passed away less than two hours ago. Seeing how horrible he looked these past few days, I have a strange sense of relief for him--even through the painful ache of tears pressing on my eyes as I try to keep it together long enough to tell family and help make arrangements.

Last week, when I was sitting in his hospital room, I decided to write down the things I loved most about him. Here they are... it's not even close to summarizing who my father was... but it is a start. I have to go now.

• Whenever he got excited about something, his bushy brows would arch up, his eyes would glisten and he’d wring his hands in delight.
• His laughter was ebullient and raucous.
• When he talked about flying, he could barely contain his passion. It would simmer just below the surface as he described the experience. On commercial flights, an unconscious grin would spread across his face on takeoff, and he always leaned into it with bright eyes.
• His hands, knuckly and dexterous, always moved with a mechanical precision when he was working on something.
• Methodical and precise, he did nothing without thorough process and analysis. I often wonder how I came from that, because I am as fly-by-the-seat-of-the-pants as they come.
• He built HeathKits and other tech. I would sit with him on ‘doodad-duty’ separating all the little tiny resistors by colour and handing him each appropriate one as needed. The smell of solder always brings thoughts of Daddy to me.
• His affection was awkward and harumphy, but it was there nonetheless.
• He loved chess and technology; he liked to watch boring things like C-Span and Snooker—and he hated Fox News with a passion—saying it was drivel for the ignorant. He loved to fly; and missed it a lot. He would play the Microsoft Flight Simulator, and also played a simulated air tower control game. He spent hours on the HAM radio every weekend rattling away in Hungarian to his circle of friends all over the country—the transmissions interfering with phone and TV; infuriating everyone. He also loved Links LS golf.
• He played a number of brass instruments very badly—accompanied by howling dogs. His passion for music frustrated him; because he never could play as beautifully as he wished he could.
• His whistle was amazing; a powerful trill, always perfectly on key, with vibrato.
• He ate apples as if they were ambrosia of the gods. He devoured every bit of it, except the stem. The seeds, he would set aside as he ate, and when the apple was gone, he’d carefully strip the seeds of their papery shell, and nibble each seed with relish.
• He always protested about being served too much food—but his plate was always spotless in the end.
• He loved crunchy things—and he passed this onto us; making crunchy-nabbing a competitive sport in our household.
• A gift of pistachios would last forever… he’d winnow the ferreted stash down 5-6 nuts at a time.
• He was a notorious book thief. You could never leave a book anywhere, even if you were in the middle of reading it, because it would vanish, and you’d discover him three chapters in and unwilling to relinquish it until he was done.
• He loved British humour. Fawlty Towers, Monty Python, Not The Nine-O’Clock’News; he also loved James Herriot books, and I, Claudius and other BBC dramas. We spent a lot of time watching BBC 1 and Open University on BBC2.
• He ate bread with just about everything, even fruit.
• His sweet tooth was one to be rivaled. He loved cake.
• He would eat in snippets, all day, roving and munching, crinkling plastic and eating off of dessert plates.
• He loved classical music, and hence we all do now.
• Loved BBC World Radio and NPR.
• Could hold a conversation in Morse code.
• Was an excellent driver.
• He shuffled in his slippers.
• He could beat the computer at chess.
• His eyes would well up when he heard the Hungarian Anthem.
• Was a tremendous skier. He was skiing on Mount Hood when he was 72. He had these super-long skis and his trademark orange boots… whenever he came to visit Oregon, they were duly packaged up and hauled along, because he could never come to Oregon without hitting the Mile.
• Wrote computer programs and applications well into his seventies. Was an avid computer geek, something he and I shared for years.
• Looked at the world through the eyes of an engineer. Meticulous problem solver.
• Extremely intelligent; almost to a fault.
• Always homesick for Hungary.

Istvan P. Peteranecz

March 8, 1930 – May 5, 2010

Goodbye Daddy. I miss you.

The Familiar and the Difficult.

It’s strange how people can just fade away if they’re forgotten. Looking around the senior rehab where my father is, there are lots of forgotten souls there. He shares a room with a man who communicates with thumbs-up or thumbs-down, who understands everything but who cannot speak. He continually tries to leave his bed, but his limbs are so twisted he can barely move. They have a mat on the side of his bed to catch him if he manages an escape. On the other side of my father’s bed is a man with no legs who lies and watches Spanish-language television all day. In the days we were there morning, noon and evening, not a single person came to visit them. Some seniors have single rooms that are decorated with furniture and pictures from home, one had a stereo blasting Journey while he lay in bed prostrate, staring at the stained ceiling tiles.

On the other end of the spectrum, there was a man named Tony who spent the entire day there. I thought at first he was a senior volunteer from the RSVP program or something, but it turns out he is the husband of a patient, and spends the whole day with her, but also contributes to the rehab, helping the nurses care for patients, feed them, clean up after them. He loves his wife so much he hardly spends any time at home. There is a married couple where the wife comes in dressed to the nines every day, and simply wheels her ever-silent, lost husband around, talks to him and feeds him. My mother can barely be convinced to bring my father clothes. It’s so strange indeed.

We went out and bought some clothes for Papa. This T-shirt seemed quite appropriate.
Left, my eldest sister Anna--right, my middle sister Helen. We all sport curls.

Some seniors are more engaged than others. They thought my dad was completely disengaged. He was combative and incoherent. He was withdrawn and morose. And then we got there; and the staff was astonished. He lit up. And with each passing day the fog of confusion and drugs took a back seat—he had a willing, invited audience of his three daughters… he could discuss his concerns with people willing to address them for him, he had new clothes brought to him, and a box of his favourite treats ferreted away for his enjoyment. He was healing—because of us. He was embarrassed by his state, and wanted out of there. I am working to bring him here to stay with me. I believe he deserves to enjoy his days being loved and fussed over; not sitting alone in a rehab with other abandoned souls. It’s not fair and it’s not right. Not when there are people who want him home and who love him.

We obviously found a few free moments to goof off.
Laughter was imperative. It kept us all from crumbling.

We didn’t get much time to visit. I lived in New England for twelve years—and I have a core of friends there that I would have loved to see; but I didn’t have time. The only time I had free was a two-hour lunch period on Monday where my sister and I left my dad to his physical therapy and we drove around some of my old haunting grounds to look at some very New England buildings and try to catch some early changing of the colours. The full foliage that the Northeast is famous for isn’t in full blaze yet… probably early to mid-October, but it was already well into a beautiful New England Indian Summer… crisp, dry, sunny, just beautiful. We stopped to have a nice lunch of lobster rolls and lobster bisque. I love lobster; but here in Oregon, it’s roundabout $21 a pound… frozen. I haven’t had lobster in years. So lobster was a pretty important objective on my selfish-list. So we hit a place I love, it’s called ‘Boston Chowda’—a little place in the town of North Andover. They sell chowder, naturally, but also offer a number of other soups including deliciously thick, lobstery lobster bisque. I am addicted to the bisque, it’s amazing. So we did the double-whammy, a cup of bisque and the lobster roll crammed with plump, juicy claw meat. Delicious. It was a special treat.

Some of the sights from my old stomping grounds:

The town of Methuen sports some lovely rock walls with sharp granite on top.
A whole neighborhood of these walls divide the properties from the sidewalk.

The Merrimack River spanned by the 125 bridge; separating Bradford from Haverhill.

This house makes me long for things antiquated.
The leaded glass and brick make me homesick. It overlooks the Merrimack River.
It is in Haverhill, Massachusetts.

Large masonry churches... swoon. This was in Bradford, Massachusetts.

The Ayer Mill clock tower in Lawrence, Massachusetts.
It is attached to an old wool mill against the canal.

These old mill buildings are slowly being converted into high-end loft apartments.

We flew out on Tuesday. I had to get up at 1 AM Oregon time to catch our early flight out of Manchester. I got back into Portland at 10:40AM. I was never more delighted to see my mountain; Mount Hood, majestic and welcoming as our plane lined itself up over the Columbia and prepared itself for a smooth landing in Portland.

It was a hectic week. Painful. To say goodbye to my father was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do—especially when he reached out and brushed my face with his hand and told me he loved me. I nearly lost it. But I kept my tears fast—he didn’t need to know I was sad to see him so faded. I let those go last night, when I got home; I had a massive meltdown that soaked my pillow and Hubby’s shoulder. I wept out all my horrid fears and my sorrows. I feel spent and exhausted. I don’t want him to fade now that we’re gone. I want him to stay strong until I can get him here.

But I’m back now. Time to get back to life as usual. For now.