Interpretation of 'Everyone'

I'm quite content with my new job.  I come home mentally exhausted on some days - matching standards to documents to templates to examples.  I'm learning new subjects.  Meeting new people.  Enjoying the sunshine as it streams in my cubicle.

"Hello, Katie," colleagues say as they peek over my chest-high cubicle wall.  I shift my attention from the television screen I use as a monitor and smile at them, amusing myself with the mental image of gophers popping up to say hello.

"Hi, gopher friend!" I chirp in my mind and begin conversations either friendly or professional.

There is additional noise where I sit, but I've purchased a red iPod nano to help mitigate that distraction.  I downloaded a bunch of music from my iTunes account - some songs I've never found time to hear - and fit the now-more-comfortable headphones into my ears.  So I listen and think and work.

I rose from my chair to embrace a colleage as he came around my gopher-proof wall.  I motioned to the table I'd share if anyone sat near me and I cocked my head inquisitively as he sat and opened his computer.

"How are you?" he asked as he glanced up from his screen.

"OK," I replied with a shrug.  "I was home last week and that was difficult.  But overall?  I'm doing better."

We chatted about work and I made notes on certain items.  Projects that had been mine.  Decisions I'd once made.  And I stared at my replacement - the man who'd been awarded the job I'd so wanted - with a mixture of fondness and sympathy.

"So how's it going?" I asked, feeling separate from what once was.  It feels like a different world when I return to that part of campus.  I frown when former colleagues invade my new space - they don't stay against the wall like good gophers but lumber in and take up space, glancing at my photos and shuffling through papers curiously.

He talked about problems and issues and exhaustion and I nodded in response.

"I'm happy here," I noted though he hasn't asked.

"Everyone wonders what you're doing," he replied, shaking his head.  Rather than taking offense, I grinned.

"I've not communicated my new role very clearly yet," I told him.  "I'm getting settled and rumors are settling out - I think people are figuring it out."

"But you were known globally!" he protested.  "And now you're..."

Which made me laugh.

"And now I'm here, sweetheart," I continued to chuckle as I patted his hand.  "I'm still working in R&D.  I feel like I'm doing more good here, actually - making a difference.  I get to travel with my mom rather than catching planes and taking meetings for work.  I listen to music rather than taking endless conference calls."

I paused.  Thought.

"I loved what I did - what we did as a team.  But I had serious frustrations.  I wasn't completely happy.  Obviously.  I needed a change.  And this has been good."

"But everyone," he began and I finally scowled and interrupted.

"There is no 'everyone!'"  I protested.  "It's like saying 'the business feels this is a priority.'  Complete crap.  Someone - who has a name and a life and hopes and dreams - made a decision.  Or wonders what I'm doing.  And I've realized it really doesn't matter.

"Perhaps," I continued, "you're disappointed that I'm not around to do the work you don't like.  And I can say with utmost sincerity that I don't care.  Perhaps certain teams have expressed disappointment that I no longer answer their questions immediately or scramble to meet their needs.  And because I like and respect you - you, not this elusive 'everyone' - I'm telling you that this was the right move for me.

"So if you, and I paused to call him by name, "are wondering if I've regretted my decision to abandon ship, the answer is no.  Not at all.  I don't want to return to academic research.  And I don't want to go back to that level of management.  Not right now.  Probably not ever.  I need my emotional resources for me and my family.  The business - and nobody in it - is allowed to have them to the extent they were once permitted."

He nodded and I waited for him to indicate he missed working with me.  That my contribution was considerable.  But that acknowledgement did not come and I found it barely stung. 

So I'll say this as a reminder to myself - especially as I seem to find myself here repeatedly - consider the goal.  And weigh that against the cost.  Life is full of options and perhaps some appear unattractive until you're forced to examine them more closely. 

"Is God taking care of you?" Mom asked one night as we cried together over the phone and I told her to trust in Him. 

"He is," I replied.  "He does.  It just takes me some time to accept it sometimes."

Oncubiquitous

 "It - by nature - metastasizes."

I remember sitting in an elegant auditorium at my post-doctoral institution, listening to a seminar that I hoped would assist in my aquisition of additional funding.  Instead, I frowned as I listened to him speak - showing elaborate drawings of cells breaking free from the primary tumor and exploiting the body's normal functions in an attempt to find a new site to invade. 

"So you can't win," I remember thinking.  "You either die of cancer or you get lucky and die from something else sooner."

And while my oncology knowledge is outdated at best and perhaps not-exactly-correct at worst, I still have this feeling that cancer is always lurking.  Waiting.  Watching.  Tumbling end over end through the blood stream or lymphatic system, searching for a suitable spot.

Likewise, grief infiltrates - curling threadlike tentacles from the television where commercials urge you to seek better treatment for your specific kind of cancer.  Swat absently at you when everything turns pink in October.  Knock you off balance when an admin's husband dies from the same kind of cancer Dad had.  Pummel your heart when a dear friend who'd been viciously protective of me earlier this year deals with his father's diagnosis, surgery and chemotherapy.  Tug at your attention until you're crying while watching Dancing with the Stars because there's a certain performance on Country Night that's a little too poignant. 

I mostly endure.  Approach each day gently and carefully.  Treasure the moments of happiness and laughter and do my best to guard against the terror and sadness even as I acknowledge the futility.

I prayed on Monday morning, hand on Mom's head as she trembled with dread. 

"Help us," I begged God.  "Blanket us with strength and mercy and comfort as we go back to the cancer center.  To the place Daddy went every Thursday so he could try to stay with us.  We miss him a lot.  And I know you're keeping him safe and that you love him.  So love him extra this morning and love us too."  I gulped, took a breath and continued. 

"Bless those who are there today or any day.  Battle the cancer and the side effects and bring those patients and their families comfort and joy and peace.  Give us those things too - Mom and Brother and me.  Amen."

I felt strong until we got there.   Yet once we climbed the stairs and turned left to Pod C, I began to tremble.  I glanced nervously around in the crowded waiting room.  Popping up from the edge of my seat when we were called, I followed Mom to the same spot Dad would sit as they'd check his blood pressure, weight and temperature. 

And I started to cry. 

We went in the same room we'd visited with Daddy.  And I thought about how I hadn't known he was slipping away from us so fast. But I clung to Mom's hand and stared across the room at Brother, focusing on the inhale and exhale.  Mom prompted me to tell a funny story from our trip north and I was interrupted when the oncologist opened the door.

I went still when I saw him - the doctor my parents decided to share - and felt my eyes go wide and heart race.  He sat for a moment, asked questions I can't recall and I frowned when he had Mom leave my side to sit on the table.

"You're doing great," he told her as she perched on the edge.  We'd had to help Daddy with the small step toward the end.  And he couldn't lie back because of all the pressure in his belly. 

"I don't need to see you for another year," he continued as I was plagued by flashes of memory.  Dad's hat that boasted that he was a veteran.  The way he'd recline in the treatment room as they dripped poison into him for hours.  His cheeks would flush.

"The prognosis is excellent," he concluded, turning when I began to sob, clutching Brother's hand helplessly as the grief drowned me.  Why didn't we help Dad earlier?  Why couldn't he be great?  Skip appointments for a year?  Have an excellent prognosis?  It's not fair.  None of this is right and I hate it and I lost control as my emotions rioted for long moments in Exam Room 1.

I faced away from but next to Brother as we stood at the desk to pay and make Mom's next appointment.  I linked my arm through his and stared out the window, struggling for control.  I watched a train go by.  Gazed at the rustling branches of trees and tried to numb myself to what was happening inside.

"We've been waiting for hours," a young woman said behind me.  "My dad was supposed to see the doctor and get treatment, but we're still waiting."  And I held Brother's arm tighter as they told her they were scheduling an ultrasound for him.  They'd try to remove some of the fluid so they could begin treatment again.  And I clenched my teeth and tried to pray as my younger sibling sobbed into my hair. 

"Mom," I gasped and called her again when she didn't answer.  She finally transferred her gaze from the wall to my face. 

"Please," I begged.  "Let them bill us.  Send an appointment card.  Please?"  She nodded.  The familiar office staff nodded.  And the three of us raced down the steps and out the door, my gasping sobs echoing shamefully through the two-story lobby.

We finished most of a box of Kleenex on the drive home, all trembling and exhausted and so terribly sad.  Mom and I napped, fingers linked, and Brother returned the next day.  We had a nice time on Tuesday - looked for furniture for Mom and laughed and ate and I paid $500 for the repairs on the truck Dad bought Brother. 

But Monday was misery. 

And that misery lurks.  Ever present.  Always waiting. 

And my awareness thereof is excruciating. 

The Cherry on Top

Because I find myself unable to describe my vacation in words. 

Window, Gate & Other Entryways

 "If you miss this light, I'm going to kill you," I threatened my mother in Green Bay.

We'd been driving for hours - having forsaken the very idea of a flight - and traveling steadily north before taking a little detour on our way Lake-Michigan-ward.

"There it is," I noted, pointing at the football stadium as we peered out the windows.  "It looks fairly new - did they rebuild it?"

"I don't know," Mom said.  We looked at each other, shrugged, then sat through every flipping traffic light in the city to get back to the interstate.

She gave me a look - that long-suffering maternal one - as we merged back on 43N.  "I asked if you wanted to stop and you said you didn't care."

"I was trying to be a good travel companion!" I cried.  "I didn't know we'd go upwards of an hour out of the way to look at a stupid stadium that looks like any other big building!  And then only stop at ShopKo to look at t-shirts!  They probably have Packers t-shirts at the ShopKo at home!  And you only bought bottles of water anyway!"

That has been, however, our only squabble thus far.

I paired her phone with her car - the former chirps happily every time we enter the vehicle now.  "It is one with the car," I say and we both grin when we answer a call by pressing a button on the steering wheel.  

I giggled almost incessantly on our ferry ride to Washington Island.  Mom white-knuckled it through, trying to keep the large boat from rocking in the rough waters by sheer force of will.  I held her hand and tried to talk to her but continued to laugh each time she'd jump and glare out the windows.

We had coffee and shared a scone and cinnamon roll in Gilles Bay.  We're sharing a room in Egg Harbor - on that overlooks the water from its perch on a bluff.

"It's freezing in here," Mom decided when we arrived so I dutifully turned up the heat until the room was suitably toasty.  In the meantime, I sat on our balcony with my laptop - revising documents and basking in the cool breeze and lingering sunshine.

When we returned from dinner - at the place that has goats on the roof in the summertime - the room was breathtakingly hot.  I opened the balcony door, sleeping about a foot from the opening to catch as much fresh air as possible.

I awakened from a fitful sleep to find Mom throwing open the doors as much as possible.  "It's so hot in here," she muttered, shuffling back to bed and I murmured my agreement, finally relaxing as the room cooled. 

"It's so pretty," I repeated when we stood on the beach covered with stones.

And it is - the two-lane roads and brilliantly-changing leaves and the water that cuddles the land at every corner.

We stood together in the place where she and Daddy visited a couple of years ago, leaning to smooth the rocks with our thumbs before replacing them on the beach as we stood for another moment in the cold rain.

We waddled back across the beach, losing our balance on the slippery stones a couple of times, and returned to the car once again.

"I'm tired," I decided as I drove from the parking lot and back on to one of the island's roads.  "Where's Main Road?" I asked and grinned as Mom smiled back at me.

She soon grew somber though, knowing we had to battle another boat ride.  But we held hands, giggled and distracted each other until that, too, had passed. 

Dashed Hopes (undashed)

I came home early today, leaving my friendly cubicle before 4 and commuting home, going ever-so-slowly through my neighborhood in search of a shy feline with a stripey coat.

"I kind of hate him," I admitted to Friend the other night.  "It's too cold outside so he's brought a mouse inside so that he can torture the poor thing for longer."  Then Sibling came over, suitcases in tow, and beheld the half-eaten body of a dear-departed mouse. 

"I'm dropping it," I wailed as I hurried to the garbage, rodent corpse clutched in a wad of paper towels, bloody tail dangling from the mass.  "Ew, ew, ew..."  After I finished gagging, I cursed the cat - sending him off with a glare and refusing to make eye contact for a full 24 hours afterward.

I've battled to keep him inside though Chienne has joined Team Sprout-ness, dallying as she wanders out the sliding door so he has adequate time to dart past. 

"Yes," I replied to the woman on the phone.  "He's a short-haired tabby.  6 or 7 years old.  Such pretty green eyes."  She dutifully entered my information in a lost pet form and I sighed as I finished the conversation. 

Sir Sprout would abhor the animal shelter so I was sort of pleased he'd not been injured, captured and taken to our (admittedly excellent) local Humane Society. 

But it's so cold at night.  And he'd been gone since Saturday evening, ignoring my calls and avoiding his typical hiding places all day yesterday and today. 

"He only likes the indoor formula of Cat Chow," I wanted to disclose if he'd found a new family.  "He loves to play dot with the laser.  He doesn't trust men easily.  Enjoys catnip and scratching posts but only if they're in places where he feels safe.  And he likes to sleep in the sunshine."

Far less importantly, I kind of met someone.  Who didn't call.  And though I know cell phones should alleviate that particular torture, I still thought he might have tried my land line.  So maybe I'd return home to a found-cat and left-message. 

But it was not to be. 

So I fretted over the cat, knowing I don't want another.  I'm not really a cat person and had Sprout not selected us by hiding in my flower bed, I would have remained with dogs. 

"Sprout?" I called again, opening the sliding door and peering outside.  "Mr. Sprout-sprout?" 

And just as I began to slide the door closed, I frowned.  Because I thought I'd heard him answer.  Not unlike his reply when I'd called a gentle inquiry when a kitten-version of the cat had hidden in my front bushes, seeking a place to live. 

"Sprout?" I tried again, squinting into the darkness and beaming when he leaped up the stairs to the deck and scampered inside. 

He even let me scoop him up to cuddle, rubbing under his chin and smoothing the dirt from his coat before I bent to fill his dish with kibble. 

"I'm glad you came back," I admitted, leaning to pet him again.  "I do love you, my silly Sproutness."

And now we return to our typical inside vs. outside battle routine. 

Injury Ignored

I know not how I did it.  One moment, I was in my basement, curled on my old couch and reading from the pile of paperbacks littering the floor.  Another, I was dutifully piling said books and loading them on shelves.  Finally, I was frowning down at my ankle, disturbed by the pain it was causing. 

Not wanting my ankle to be sore, I stood on my healthy leg and shook out the sore one.  Rotated it in circles.  Gave a warning glare.  Then cursed at my right ankle when it continued to cause pain to shoot through my leg when asked to bear weight.

Returning to the couch, I propped myself on pillows and blankets, assuming my little nest of healing would work its magic and I'd soon be all better.  However, when trying to climb the stairs, I realized I was decidedly not healed.  And my limping stride up the stairs was surpassed in pace by my elderly, blind canine friend. 

"I'm injured," I explained when she waited for me at the landing.  She wagged her tail sympathetically before wandering to the sliding door and waiting to be let outside.  I hobbled over, shaking my ankle vigorously for good measure, and opened the door, taking a moment to inhale the scents of fall outside. 

I did the same this morning - clipping a leash to Chienne and stepping off the front porch to begin our walk.  I had decided I was going to be all better and my ankle was cooperating beautifully. 

Until it suddenly stopped - a vague ache morphing to sharp pains apropos of nothing.  So I paused for a moment, Chienne obediently glancing backward before sniffing at a tree trunk.

I find myself avoiding those pauses for the most part.  Remaining quietly busy - hosting Sibling before she abandoned the gently rolling hills of the upper Midwest for towering buildings and busy streets in NYC.  Immersing myself in my new team - leading activities to build our interaction skills, drowning in documentation and revisions and lengthy arguments about said changes. 

"I'm happy," I replied when someone from my old team asked during an event I'd organized last week.  "I know it happened almost accidentally and I had panicked moments where I wondered if I was taking a professional step back.  But I do like it.  I can do good things here.  I'm sincerely pleased."

It's effective - this 'pretend it's all fine' strategy.  If I'm busily distracted, I don't worry about Mom or long to talk with Dad.  But when the grief startles me - breaks through the flimsy protective barrier I've built - it's overwhelming. 

I returned from a dinner out one evening, already tapping at my laptop to reply to email as I'd drank but one glass of wine and was in fine shape to continue working, I called Mom - as is my now-daily habit - to check in.

And she wouldn't stop crying.  I prayed.  And talked.  And blinked back my own tears.  Cursed the three hour drive that stood between me being present for her.  So I called Aunt and asked her to go.  Once she was en route, I moved to the recliner Dad gave me - the one I never-ever use - and sat on the edge of the seat. 

And I wept.  Unable to push it down or lock it away, the pain escaped in wretching sobs that had me curled in a ball.  Grief escaped, filling the house with violent expulsions I could neither control or pause. 

I slept afterward, swallowing a tiny tablet that eases anxiety before climbing the stairs to bed.  I lapsed into rest with the sounds of my pitiful moans echoing in my ears. 

"It's all so painfully different," I told Friend when I called one night.

"Yes," she said, voice beautifully familiar and soothing.  A reminder that some people who were part of what was good before are still part of what will come and be good again.  "It's all completely different.  And not all that different at all."

Though I've mangled that quote - let's call it artistic license and crappy memory - it helped.  When I'm ready to acknowledge it, I'll note that the changes have occurred.  That some are lovely and others grotesque.  But - whether noted or ignored - it will be OK.

Though my ankle still hurts. 

Goodness List, day 1

1. I awakened early this morning, a Chienne cuddled against the small of my back.  I patted her, squinted at the clock and decided to get up even though it was barely 4:30.
2. I did some work - thinking clearly and cleanly.  Making presentations often helps clarify projects in my mind.  Someone once told me that teachers had the best grasp of the material.  Not that I would ever (ever, ever) want to teach, but it's a fair point.
3. "Oh, look how cute," I murmured, bending to fetch the black-skirt-with-pink-pattern that had fallen behind my drying rack downstairs.  I brushed the dust bunnies free of the hem, struggled into tights and tugged my newfound-treasure over my hips.  
4. When complimented on my outfit, I grinned and offered that I found the skirt behind my dryer!  It's like new!  Except a little dusty!
5. I learned something from a colleague with whom I've had a tense relationship.  She is a bit abrasive, but she's hospiced 3 family members to my 1 Daddy.  So she's being kind to me.  And I in return.  It was one of my reservations about taking this job so it's nice that we're peaceful.
6. I replanted more of Dad's memorial plants.  I finally feel better about all (but 1) of them.  The baskets in which they arrived were (1) not draining properly and I was waterlogging my new flora and (2) sad.  I now have pretty pots shaped like giant tulip blossoms.  They're silly.  But doing an excellent job of guarding the corner of my desk.
7. Oh, and I'm winning in my battle with the desk-stealing-nemesis.  (In all fairness, I stole the desk.  But he took it back!  And NEVER sits there!  So when he stopped by to introduce himself and ask about his stupid belongings, I sighed, walked 5 steps and pointed to the stuff obviously sitting just across the hall.  I may or may not have muttered 'idiot' under my breath when moving back to my new cubicle home.  He left shortly thereafter.  I believe this means I'm winning.  
8. I went to lunch when invited today, sitting with my new team.  Adam walked by and waved - I lifted my hand, a little wistful over the easy camaraderie I shared with my former colleagues.  My new group manages a number of loosely-if-at-all-related projects so they don't have the 'all for one' mentality I used to enjoy.  But they're lovely women.  And I can perhaps contribute to building our sense of team.  
9. I avoided dinner with my former team.  I had brunch with them yesterday and grow weary of saying good-bye to a team which disbanded some time ago.  Yes, I loved working with them.  Yes, I do miss them.  But no, I am not good at keeping in touch.  So let's just make a break and move on, yes?
10. Instead, I finished some work (and felt proud for not procrastinating) and stopped at Qdoba.  And it was free queso day!  How lovely of Qdoba to give the gift of cheese dip!  They appreciate me. You know who I appreciate?  Qdoba.  With their cilantro and guacamole and free queso.  And friendly employees who are ever-so-efficient.  And consistently high-quality burritos.  

Now I'm exhausted.  I'm still sad.  And a little slow.  And when I looked up at my calendar to check the fiscal week, I saw the photo of my dad and my heart broke a little more.  Because I miss him.  A lot.  

But I'm really (really) trying (very hard) to find the positive.  And - unless you don't count #7 - I didn't even have to use the way the setting sunlight filtered through the red maple leaves as I drove home!

The disjointed, not OK post

I so rarely open my laptop.  Poor, old Nick comes unplugged and goes dead as he rests near the couch, forsaken in favor of iPad or work computer.

In addition, I am loathe to think.  Because life seems painful - new miseries just waiting to be acknowledged.

"Does it bother you?" Pretty Hair asked as we talked over wine after work one day.  I'd disclosed that I lost the promotion not terribly long before Dad died.  That some of my dwindling moments with him were spent weeping over professional crap.

"That he knew?  No.  I believe he knows now - that it's OK and that in the future it will be OK.  I just miss him - want to talk to him to make sure he's doing well in Heaven.  That he likes it there."  Then I crumbled my drink napkin - now sodden with tears - in my trembling hand.

Pretty Hair dabbed at her eyes as well before Sibling arrived, offering hugs and distracting photos of her Jersey condo.

"We did pretty well," Pretty Hair commented.  "I'm in Bern.  Sibling in NYC.  Other friend in LA.  Katie... here."  So I laughed and indicated I don't want to move.  I'm fine where I am.

I did, however, have to move my desk.  Adding insult to injury, someone had already claimed the cubicle I wanted by placing boxes-full-of-binders on the edge of the desk.  I'd moved them with some help from my new team, then apologized when I realized he'd wanted to sit there.

He insisted I move.

Which I guess is fair.  Not a big deal.  That I pretty much hate him is a response out of proportion with the situation.

That he emailed me to ask me to move again yesterday - after I'd relocated a week ago already - made me write a response that replied 'Fuck off, you stupid son of a bitch' to his 'Have an awesome day!' signature.  (I didn't send it.  But I look forward to being obviously bitchy when I do meet him.)

I must regroup.  Bounce back.  Find some sense of happiness and well-being.

But I'm failing miserably.

I sleep until I ache - head and muscles - from lack of use.  I keep buying books I don't finish.  I don't have to travel anymore so there's no break in the monotony.  There is just existing as the weather grows cooler.  Flip a switch from air conditioning to heat.  Revise documents and schedule redundant discussions.  And try to find some modicum of energy to pretend I care.

Sibling needs a place to stay right before her move so I was cleaning up clutter yesterday.  I found a bag, began to empty it, and found myself clutching Dad's Batman pajama pants to my chest, unable to breathe past the grief.

I am not OK.

I know there's a good chance I will be again, but the rush of memories keeps knocking me off balance. Holding his hand at the hospital and whispering that I was scared.  How he'd rest his forehead on my shoulder - exhausted - as we'd help him up to use the bathroom.  Holding Mom's hand as we tried to sleep the night that we lost him.

From my favorite spot on the couch - now littered with extra pillows and fluffy blankets as I rarely move from here - I can see an enlarged photo of Venice at sunrise.  The pastel hues of dawn with the ornate street lamps perched on cobblestones looking out over the lagoon.

I like to think I was happy then - and I was - but there were moments of inexplicable sadness there too. Perhaps I should just accept that I'm a depressed and depressing person.

I answered the phone Mom handed me last time I was home.  "Hello, Aunt," I said.

"I know she's not talking to me," Aunt replied of my mom and I giggled.  "She thinks I don't know that I pissed her off.  But I do know.  I was just trying to help."

"I know," I soothed.  "And I don't think she's angry.  Just tired.  We don't want grief counseling.  Or therapy.  Or suggestions on how to do this, really."

"But she said she's ready to die, Katie," Aunt argued and I shrugged, not mentioning that I'm not sure I disagree with that stance.

"But she's not hastening the process," I replied gently.  "We're not suicidal.  We're sad.  We pray and work and are trying to figure this out.  It's just really very hard right now."

The Tale of the Not-So-Good Birthday

"Use this to score two points - or 3 if you're distant.
 Your next clue is there as if you had wished it!"

Per the request I'd received - in writing, no less - from my eldest niece, I developed a treasure hunt that rhymed - as did Smallest's on her recent 5th birthday - but that was "harder." 

And harder it was - it required the puzzle of riddles and obscure but clever hiding spots.  I worked diligently on that project and made the trek to my parents' house to attend an 8th birthday party. 

It started going wrong before I even arrived. 

Mom was ill and while it sounded like a stomach bug to me, I am now shocked from my previous view of health - the 'it'll be fine...' perspective - to the 'Oh, Dear Lord, this could be the end of it all' paranoia that invades oh-so-many of my thoughts.  So I fretted through the drive and coaxed her to take medicine and drink something and rest. 

And then I stood trembling in the hallway, miserably afraid.

The girls arrived just after 6PM, fresh from tumbling class.  Brother had placed a new bicycle on the front porch to greet Little One and he looked shaken and sick as well.  As they came in, he sat in Dad's recliner, leaning back and elevating his feet, neatly exposing the culmination of my treasure hunt with the Stuffies hiding under the chair. 

"Dammit," I muttered when Smallest One scampered over to cuddle her new turtle Stuffie when she saw it.  But I was struggling with a days-old headache and months-old worry.  Little One, sweetheart that she is, decided to tackle the treasure hunt straightaway as the end had just been ruined. 

We'd made it to the tire swing out back and encyclopedias downstairs and the dishwasher soap under the sink.  I left her there - on the floor of the kitchen - as the next clue lead to the recliner that had already been revealed. 

I was speaking softly to Mom as she lay curled in bed, asking if I could bring anything to her, when I heard Little One crying.  So I hurried back down the hall to find her utterly discouraged, unable to decipher the last clue and weeping as if her heart were broken. 

We finished the treasure hunt and I made pigs in blankets per her request.  Mom, unable to get out of bed, ignored Smallest when she demanded Grandma get up and make her pink milk and lay down with her!  Little One curled up quietly in her room, disappointed that Grandma, Aunt and Uncle missed her birthday party.  That the happy birthday song was a bit weak.  The decorations sparse.  The treasure hunt damnably difficult. 

And sometimes I suppose it goes that way. 

"How's work?" Brother asked as we sat together, looking at the photo-topped cake that required an odd-but-edible film atop the frosting. 

"Not great," I replied.

"Me, too," he agreed.  "What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing," I replied, still staring at the cake that bore a photo of Little One amidst One Direction that I'd created myself. 

"Me neither," he offered.  I glanced up at him and nodded, watching him mimic the gesture. 

And when asked recently for a happy story - in a terribly sweet gesture, really - I blinked back tears.  Because I don't really remember being happy lately.  I cope.  Endure the moments where I must be awake.  Battle back from panic and despair. 

But happiness?  It seems like a distant memory, honestly. 

But at least it's almost bedtime again.

"Welcome Home, Katie."

"Did I hear you were moving?" a colleague asked outside my office yesterday.  I glanced up, brushing dust from the front of my dress and tucking a lock of hair back in my ponytail.  Nodded and gestured to the recycle bin I was filling with unwanted papers.

"Congratulations on the new job," he offered and I raised my eyebrows while thanking him.  He grinned.  Shrugged.  "It's congratulations or sympathy - which do you want?"

"Neither?" I replied, gesturing him into a chair not covered with the rubble of my former routine.  "No need for more sympathy - thought it's terribly sweet, it's not really helpful.  And I guess congratulations are fine, though this doesn't feel right.  It's just the best choice in a bad situation, I suppose."

He offered his consoling felicitations once again and left me to my work.

It is perhaps not the best of times to clean one's former office when one is feeling somewhat devoid of hope or purpose.  Read: I threw most everything out.

Files and forms.  Notebooks and legal pads.  Folders and binders and receipts and messages scrawled on post-its.  It was time to move and everything-must-go and go quickly, disappearing into the giant blue recycle bin standing sentry at my door.  I didn't read though 99% of the material - I'd not recently used it and had no plans to need it again.  So indiscriminately into the bin it sailed.

Mostly finished, I looked around and sighed.  Then I straightened my spine from its habitual slump of late and picked up a couple of bags and made my way across campus.  I put magnets and photos and random bits of adorable around my new cubicle, located in a bright corner of a huge open space filled with people I don't know.

I returned home early and curled on the couch across the room from Mom.  We mindlessly watched television until 6:00 when I asked if she would accompany me to the office to finish moving my things.

"I hate this halfway point," I complained.  "Life is changing and this isn't what I wanted.  But since I can't stop it, I want to finish the process and adjust."

So in we went, dutifully packing pound upon pound of textbooks and computer peripherals and what was left in the one drawer I'd not cleaned that afternoon.  

We pushed carts across the parking lot, pausing to help each other balance across a couple of the rough spots.  Upon arriving at my new desk, we started to unload, piling certain items on freshly-cleaned shelves and in newly-opened drawers.  We tacked posters and the 8x10 photos I print after trips.  Mom placed a photo of Daddy on the front of an enclosed shelf, positioning a magnet in the corner so he could watch over me while I worked.

"I'll connect everything tomorrow," I decided, tossing monitor, keyboard and mouse into a haphazard pile before turning to watch Mom wipe her brow and nod.

"There's just this stuff left," she informed me and I wiped my brow and nodded in return.  I scooped it up and settled items in their places.

Until there were just two more.  I shook my head over a tiny notepad - an old friend had given it to me and I waited to feel nostalgic or wistful or something.   But I was blank and told Mom she could have thrown it away.

I glanced at the last notepad - a top-bound medium-sized white tablet with faint black lines onto which I'd jotted various items I should remember.  I tapped it on the table at the corner of my cubicle, looking around in growing panic at what had become of me.  No more flurry of global management floors for Katie - I'd rejected 2 offers to stay there in favor of coming here.  To strange people and projects.

Wait, I wanted to cry to the mostly empty room while Mom stacked books I'd decided to bring home.

This isn't how it was supposed to be.

Blinking back tears, I flipped back the pages of the notebook I still clutched and moved to toss it in a nearby recycle bin, pausing when I noticed the message printed neatly on the first sheet of paper.

I nodded at it, clutching it to my chest before placing it carefully on my desk and pressing my hand atop it for a moment of prayer - of thanksgiving and love and hope.

"May I tell you something sad?" I asked Mom about an hour after we returned home, sitting up from where I'd once again curled on the couch.  She nodded and I gulped back tears before starting to speak.

"I threw everything away today," I began.  "Old or new.  Used or not.  Into the recycling bin.  I just wanted to...  I don't know.  Not think about it.  Finish.

"So the only things I saved to write on were spiral notebooks from Barnes & Noble with the colored edges."

I paused to breathe and swallow against tears.  "Right before we left, I was feeling alone and afraid."  I confessed.  "I know I could have stayed where I was but I feel undervalued and ashamed of failing.  So I was looking around at the choice I made and almost couldn't breathe.  And then I found that white notepad.  You must have packed it," I told her and Mom shrugged.

"I flipped it closed right before we left and there was a note from Daddy.  It said 'Welcome Home, Katie.' in his handwriting."  I paused to let a sob escape before I took a breath and continued. "I think he sees us, Mom," I tried to conclude, no longer battling the inevitable tears.  "I think God's letting him tell us that he loves us and is still proud of me."

And then we cried together.

And then today, when I returned to my desk, I carefully removed that sheet from the notepad and pinned it to the wall of my new cubicle.  Smiled at it.  And got to work.

Surreality

"Fine," is the word I have chosen to apply when people inquire after my well-being.  And I am - I sleep and eat and laugh at times.  I work when necessary - scooping my laptop from the floor and tapping out replies to emails.  Using Daddy's phone with its stronger signal to make conference calls that can't be postponed.

But everything feels different. 

Wrong.

Surreal.

My mom had friends when I was little - even before I was born, actually.  Two of them came to visit last week, bringing photos of a 1-year-old Katie in cars and trying to walk and playing with toys and snuggling with her mom.  My favorite, of course, is above - staring at my Daddy in delight.  (Which is now making me cry.  I miss him a whole lot.)

"What?" I asked from the back patio this morning.  Adam had called - as I'd requested - at 6AM on Labor Day to answer an urgent question.  He'd just returned to his hotel in Japan and we'd asked and answered questions about this mess of a project. 

"Are you sure this is what you want?  Moving into a more operational role?"

"Yes," I replied. 

"Because it's not too late.  I can get you out of it.  Or I can continue to push to make it happen.  But you were so good and this is so different..."

I nodded, staring out at Daddy's garages across the humid morning.  This is not what I wanted, I thought silently.  Given my way, my day today would look quite different.  Do I want to abandon global travel?  Work more on execution than owning the strategy?  Will I miss the attention? 

"I'm positive," I stated.  "It's time to do something different."

And different my life has been - I've lived with Mom and my parents' house for the last week.  Yesterday I used a majority of my mental power to help Smallest One make 2s.  She'd been doing them backward so we practiced and cheered and giggled while she grinned with pride.  We made it through the number 10 - quite an accomplishment. 

And perhaps I'll someday return to some sort of accomplishment of my own. 

Life after Death

"I don't know where to start," one small pupil assigned to my row reported, his eyes meeting mine as I stood behind him.  I cocked my head and considered him for a moment.

"Well," I finally replied, "why don't you start here?" I pointed to a spot on his dry-erase board.  "Then we'll see what happens and go from there?"

***

I haven't the heart to tell stories of late.  I compose posts as I move through my days - sometimes happy, often sad - but I find I'm just holding it together and fear that if I examine anything too closely, I'll see that it's ragged around the edges with cracks spreading rapidly through the interior.  And having not the strength to repair it, my hope is to ignore - inasmuch as that's possible - until I regain my balance.

"Will you hold my hand?" I asked Little One as we sat on the bleachers at the drag races and I began to cry.  She nodded worriedly, lacing her fingers through mine and leaning against my side, our sweat-slick arms sticking together as grief wafted over me like smoke from tires. 

"You dad loved everything about this," Mom had said quietly.  And because I hadn't liked much of anything about it, I didn't really remember it well.  But - sitting there in the bright sunshine and sparing breeze on that Saturday afternoon - I listened to the engines rev and roar, inhaled the fumes of burning rubber, gasoline and nitrous fuels and watched the cars speed in straight lines.  And the urge to turn to my dad and comment - to watch his rapt attention and easy grin - was so powerful that I was lost in a pain so intense that I can't find words to describe it. 

We left his ashes along the return strip.  The cars turn around at the end after racing one way and either drive or are towed back home for rest and repair and the next round.  So we walked to a spot outside the fence and in sight of the finish line and I handed out the small bags I'd filled that morning. 

Brother went first before Smallest asked for her turn.  I filled the gap between their lines of pale powder, taking deep breaths while Little One carefully placed hers, insisting that Mom take the final bag and pour it so that we formed a line there at the grass.  We stood for a moment, staring downward, before returning to the car and moving back toward my house.

***

 "But you love customer presentations," people have protested as I made noises about changing teams and doing something different.

"I really don't," I finally noted, tiring of my nodding in absent agreement and hoping discussions would end faster.  "I loved my job and presentations were part of that.  So I did enjoy them and I tried hard to deliver good ones.  But it's not breaking my heart to walk away."

In a funny twist though, what could be my last major presentation was done via webcast in a studio - with teleprompters and three cameras and all the lighting and sound personnel.  It was a little bizarre, but a nice distraction for that particular day.  It didn't hurt to be concerned with what camera to speak to rather than what in the world I was trying to do with my life now. 

I had discussions with the three potential bosses and picked the one that's most different.  It's still not completely clear that I'll get what I want, but Adam has pulled some strings and tried to clear the way for my escape.  But until then, I'm trying to find energy to do what I've done in my current - somewhat nebulous role. 

It's unpleasant.  But not painfully so.

***

Smallest One turned 5 today - an event in which I fully participated thanks to spending the week at my parents' house.  Mom and I delivered snacks to her classroom.  I wrote out rhyming clues for a treasure hunt so that she could collect presents throughout the house and yard.  We selected a Dora cake (white cake with whipped cream icing) and made dinner for Aunt, Uncle, Brother, Useless Girlfriend and the girls.  We sang and laughed and took photos.  Bought balloons and wore pointy hats and retaped the 'happy birthday' banner when it grew lopsided.

It was lovely - they're charming and beautiful and I'm so glad they're around.  And it feels like home to have a small family party - to grill and smell the lemon Ajax as we do dishes.

"The house smells wrong," Mom told me tearfully when we arrived back here last Sunday though.  Brother had moved in and had parties, made messes, ruined items that weren't his.  But we've cleaned up and taken turns lecturing and trying to offer some understanding.  And I've made it perhaps-too-clear that he is not living here or staying here or driving Dad's cars.

Admittedly though, in trying to help, I've crossed the line as well.  I wept while cleaning out one of Daddy's drawers in an attempt to put away his Army medals.  Mom frowned in disapproval.  I reorganized the linen closet after removing some of his clutter.  Mom snapped at me - just a little - when I lost her toothpaste.  So I'm leaving things alone - trying to create a stable, safe place - until she's ready for something different.

***

"I can't do it," Ethan said after I'd suggested he try something - anything - with his little red marker.  I made my most thoughtful face and tried fruitlessly to remember how I'd learned to write the number 2.

"Aunt Katie?" Smallest One's teacher called from her position in the front of the room.  "Put your hand over his and show him."

"Oh," I breathed, leaning down over little Ethan and curling my fingers around his smaller hand.  "Let's start here," I said softly, "and curve around and down and then come back."

He grinned up at me, ridiculously proud and I cuddled him for a second.

I sighed when we left, admiring a lunchbox with a Nickelodeon boy band on it and waving at some children and offering my hand for too-hard high fives to others.  We gathered up the birthday treat trash and made our retreat while I wished I had someone to take my hand and show me how to do this.  How to go on while making Dad's memory matter but not being incapacitated by grief.

In the absence of that, however, I'll just keep trying something and going from there.  

Fines (and stars)

"I don't think they fine you," I noted when I blew past another toll plaza without stopping to pay.  It was - I'll admit - rather hit and miss as to whether I'd go online and remember to pay afterward. But I did like saving time by not stopping.  And time went on while I drove home and back - all the while a certain state calculated my crimes and I ended up paying a rather hefty (in the hundreds, not thousands) amount to account for my sins.

I couldn't even get all that upset about it.  I knew the rule.  Broke it with said knowledge.  And hoped I'd somehow avoid getting caught. 

I applied a remarkably similar approach to my professional life for most of 2011.  I was frustrated.  Nothing was changing.  We were all talk and so much of that talk felt like lies that I wanted to escape.  So I did.  I "worked" from home.  I took naps.  Did the bare minimum necessary and when even that became onerous, started working on only the projects I wanted, responding to Adam's pleas and threats with stark apathy.

I remember shaking my head at those silly managers one day last summer - I was walking to my car before lunch, having worked a couple or three hours, and was heading home to work no more for the day.  And they weren't doing a single thing to stop me.

Except the annual review of 2011 performance was hardly permissive.  They had to call my year 'uneven' because even when I'm not trying, I do pretty good work.  But I was no longer the passionately dedicated Katie I once was.  And I'd become so annoyed and superior that I wanted them to notice.  And though I'd begged them to notice in so many ways, I was horrified when it became official.  Ashamed and miserable and so very hurt. 

Which is - of course - wildly irrational but pretty predictable if you know me well at all.

So I walked into the reorganization at a distinct disadvantage.  Though I've successfully completed my probationary punishment with flying colors (my parents being unwell and having a clearly-defined goal really helped my focus), I should have realized that my chances at promotion were low.

Brother threatened to beat up the man who rejected me.  And I thanked him and cried while he got increasingly angry, Dad in the process of dying beside us.  That will likely go down as the worst few hours in my life.  And though the job stuff was miniscule in comparison and I was the one who called and insisted on the news, I am angry. 

Not livid.  Just a cold, stern anger.  As I can't find any of the emotion for Dad for leaving me or God for taking him, Mom for needing me and Brother for doing the best he could, I find I'm focusing that rage in the professional context. 

Mom and I came home yesterday and I went to work this afternoon.  I was embraced and soothed and patted comfortingly.  Then I went to take a meeting about what I should do next.

"What do you want to do?" my new pseudo-manager asked (I'm in a sort of limbo right now as my former job no longer exists and I didn't get the new job).  And I opened my mouth, closed it again and stared into space while I considered it.

"I feel devalued," I wanted to say.  "I recognize why you might have chosen who you did - and he's fantastic - but I'm still insulted and unsettled by it for various reasons.  So I want to walk away - to force the realization that I was valuable to this team and you miss what I brought to Industry."

Since I didn't say any of that, he finally mentioned a couple of jobs that he thought might fit.  I nodded and said I'd consider it.  Then he mentioned another job, but said he didn't think I'd like it.  That he didn't want me to take it anyway as he'd rather I stay on his team.  But that manager had said he'd take me in a second if I became available.

So - obviously - that's what I want.  To leave my current team and learn something new.  Change buildings on campus.  Meet new people.  Grow in another direction.  Take advantage of some perks and embrace the disadvantages as completely worthwhile in context.

Plus - perhaps most importantly - there's enough of Daddy in me to want to say 'fuck it' and move on.  Not very far and not moving backward, but making it clear that they have displeased the Katie (and her family).  The thought makes me feel peaceful.  So I'll take a couple days to think and then see what magic I can work.

The last time I felt this peaceful?  Last night - just before dawn when I woke myself coughing.  There was the brightest of stars shining in the window at the head of my bed.  I paused while adjusting my pillows and stared at it, smiling when I recalled Mom asking Dad if he was picking out a star from which to watch over us. 

She came in at that moment, crawling in the other side of the bed with Chienne close behind her. 

"Look, Mom," I said and lifted my hand to point.  "I think I see Daddy's star."  And we smiled at it for a moment before going to sleep. 

So we're going to be fine.  I'm pretty confident. 

Dad's Eulogy

I have a PhD.  Dad would have wanted you to know that if you didn’t already.  Then he would have taken his wallet out to show you pictures of me and my dog.  Brother and his girls, Little and Smallest One.  He probably didn’t disclose that I struggled a little at the end of my studies and finished my doctorate four months later than I’d planned.  That he and Mom came to bring me presents and buy me dinner for my originally scheduled defense date in July.  That he drove me to Madison and back over Thanksgiving break so I didn’t have to turn in my thesis alone.  Then – after he stood beside me to pay my final fees and hand in hundreds of printed pages – we stopped for a cheeseburger on the drive home.  He said he wanted to go somewhere nicer, but I thought it was perfect – sitting across from my dad – who was so proud of me and loved me so much -  in a booth at a Culver’s on the back roads.    

He drove that trip – as he did most times when he was with me.  I wasn’t great at following all Dad’s driving rules.  Like not driving in the left lane unless you were passing.  Not jerking the wheel when the road curves.  I should follow gravel trucks at a safe distance so as not to risk cracking the windshield.  Not sit so close to the steering wheel in case the airbag went off.  Don’t park too close to the entrance because people can be idiots and open their doors right into the side of your car. 

Despite calling people idiots, Dad had a gentle soul – was protective and kind and funny and smart.  But he’d also shoot at squirrels out back.  Served in Vietnam.  Guarded Mom against any of the people she thought might get her.  He was a car guy and liked doing car stuff that I never really embraced or understood.  I remember being so bored – in garages or at cruise ins or taking a ride just to look around.  Walking through lots at car dealers.  Going to car museums.  And the races – so many races.  I’d look at my mom and think – my goodness, she must love him a lot.  In all honesty, she loved him more than I can begin to understand – and Dad would tell you that I’m pretty smart.  They’ve been married 43 years and she was as devoted to that man – and he to her – as it was possible to be.  They made a home together – at old address here in the Heights then at current address, where Brother and I grew up.

Whenever we’d lose something in that house, we’d go get Dad.  He had this deliberate nature that kept him searching – for my keys, Smallest’s iPod, Brother’s hat.  Little and Smallest both went through a Webkinz phase – those little stuffed animals that linked to an online cartoon version for which you could buy online toys and furniture.  Mom and I started dutifully playing Webkinz games to earn KinzCash for these online animals and when we didn’t earn enough, Dad would go in and play Eager Beaver Adventure Park.  You were supposed to make words from these stacks of letters – a little like Scrabble – but you could only use adjacent letters.  Mom and I could only find words that were too short and the little cartoon beavers would get so mad.  I’d rarely last more than one level.  But Dad would sit and click and think, reporting his earnings and number of letters in his longest word when he’d return from the office.  He was always good at thinking and planning and thinking some more.  And he would have moved Heaven and Earth for his granddaughters – one letter at a time.

Daddy loved Brother and I know they were closer than we were.  Dad worked from home while Brother was small – pouring cereal while we sat at the counter, waving from the front door as we walked to school, working in the garage, running errands.  He and Mom coached sports and beamed with pride at graduation ceremonies and sat in the front pew for Brother’s wedding.  They did projects – Dad and Brother – and my goodness does he love that kid.  When it came time to go for chemotherapy every week, he asked that Brother take him.  I think Daddy drew strength from their bond and defended his youngest child when Mom and I were mean to him.  We'll try to be nicer - we love you lots.

Thanks for coming.  For loving us and loving my dad.  When hospice came last Thursday, Dad sat in his chair and when the pastor asked what she should pray for, Dad said ‘comfort.’  We miss him tremendously right now so I’d ask that you pray we find comfort in knowing how much he loves us.  That he was the most supreme comfort while dwelling with the Lord.  

And clean your cars when you go home tonight – Dad would have liked that. 

Deathbed

Yesterday was remarkably peaceful.  I could feel the prayers - love and support and comfort - whisper around me, like fingers against my forehead or arms around my shoulders. 

So I rested.  We gave Dad morphine in the morning after a restless night and we all - Mom, Brother, me, Dad - lapsed into this gentle sleep. 

"Mom's worried that he hasn't moved since we gave him the medicine," Brother said when I awakened this morning.  I nodded and paused to brush my teeth, then moving to the living room to have Mom express her concern directly to me. 

"They'll bring the hospital bed today," I said, settling next to her on the couch in front of the window.  "We'll move him then." 

I joined a teleconference, hopeful that my efforts would assist in landing me the job I covet.  The bed was delivered while I was talking and I finished up my portion and came back inside to look at the adjustable contraption. 

I rested on it when Mom asked if it was comfortable, squirming a bit and pronouncing it fine. 

"Should we give morphine?" I asked before the transport team arrived to help move him.  But we debated, deciding he was so peaceful and the last dose seemed to last for so long, and decided to wait. 

Dad groaned in pain when Mom moved his leg.  He'd let it dangle to the floor from the couch and the adjustment hurt.  But it was nothing compared to the coming onslaught.  Five or six people arrived to help move him onto a 'transport sheet' which would then be used to shift him from couch to bed. 

And my kind, gentle father - rendered even more so by his current condition - called out in misery.  'Ow ow ow,' and 'you're hurting me' and I tried to speak soothingly until I broke down in the face of such suffering. 

"I'm so sorry, Daddy," I sobbed.  "They're almost done - it's almost over."  But I lied - over and over in that 3 minutes - as they continued to roll and nudge and arrange his diseased body.  "Oh, God, help us," I begged and sagged when they finally finished, shivering with reaction and weeping at the side of the bed, holding to the siderails and begging forgiveness from my dad. 

I let them hurt him. 

This man who always protected me - who drove me to turn in my thesis after my committee delayed my defense.  Who drove 6 hours to deliver a snowblower when I called - exasperated - and said I could not clear my sidewalks.  Who held me when I was scolded at my first retail job for sitting down instead of straightening.  Who cheered me on and beamed with pride and loved me too much to leave me in the nursery when I was born.  And ever since. 

Aunt and Cousin came afterward - I had Mom call as I was falling to pieces and had nothing left to comfort her after the trauma of our afternoon.  They came and prayed and cleaned and hugged and patted.  Brother came back from work.  And we all gathered around this bed in the center of the living room and took turns talking softly and crying hard.  Because the end seems to be coming more quickly now.

The evening has turned to shit - literally.  Changing pads and hurting him more as we roll and clean him.  Brother says 'I love you' before we begin each time and it makes me physically ill.  This is not the love you speak of, is it?  The kind that is elemental and disgusting and viciously loyal? 

Trembling once again, I went to the front porch to sit on the steps, Blackberry in hand.  I scrolled through new emails and called the head interviewer when I saw a request for us to speak tomorrow.  He returned my call and I asked him to just tell me the results - 3 good candidates but only 1 job. 

And he didn't pick me.

So I took a breath and gathered my bruised pride and broken heart and returned to the house, the sounds of Dad's restless mumbling emerging from open windows.  I told Mom and Brother and saw Dad frown as he listened.  Then we had to change the linens once more.

I sat to write this post, tapping lightly on the keyboard as I sat in Dad's chair above the head of his deathbed.  I was nearly finished - having finished the first sentence of that last paragraph - when Mom said my name and that Dad was going.

"No," I replied, in my typical state of denial.  "He's just resting."  Still, I rose and sat by his head and prayed yet again.  I've done little but pray and cry today, honestly.

"I think he's gone," Brother whispered after we said Amen.  But I thought I heard him breathing - shallow but peaceful.  But then I couldn't find a pulse.  And even after turning off the waterfall noise we had in the background, I couldn't hear him breathe.

"Is he gone, Katie?" Mom asked, covering him with another prayer shawl.

And I nodded and bent my head to grieve. 



"I'm fine," I said, gulping back tears.  "I prayed about it and it's really OK.  I understand. 

Levels of Difficulty

"This will," Friend told me, "be the easiest and hardest thing you've ever done."  And - as she is so much of the time - she's right. 

The love flows - clean and smooth and constant - and there's this acknowledgement of the goodness in the world.  When I link my fingers - stubby fingers on wide palms - with Dad's and note the similarities.  Mom and Brian have more elegant appendages - longer fingers and less pudgy palms - but mine are like Dad's.  And - unlike my younger brother and mother, I don't hurt him when I lift or nudge.  And though I'd always wished for prettier hands, I'm somehow proud of these that I have now - so like my dad's.

"You know that phone commercial?" I asked Dad's sister when she came to see him yesterday.  "It gets terrible signal but is a dog whistle and tells you if your family members are birds?  I get miserable call quality on my phone so Dad's started asking me if he's a bird when I can hear him again."  And a ghost of a smile touched Dad's lips though his eyes remained closed while he sat next to my aunt. 

The girls came yesterday, talking to Brother and his ex-wife on the back porch before moving into the living room on small, quiet feet.  The photos I'd ordered of them with a horse they'd visited on their last trip to me (a post I drafted but didn't publish) had arrived so they each took their envelope and flipped through images. 

Brother had coaxed Dad awake before they entered but he'd fallen asleep again so Mom approached, rubbing arms bruised from his recent hospital stay and asking if the girls could give hugs.  Little One went first, bending at the waist and resting her head on Dad's chest while he wrapped one arm around her.  "I love you," she said when her mother prompted it and Dad immediately murmured he loved her too. 

Smallest One paused in her examination of the new items in the room to scamper over and embrace her grandpa.  Strands of her blonde hair touched his chin as she cuddled for a moment, happy little voice reminding him she loved him as he returned the sentiment.  I watched alone, Brother needing to walk outside and Mom down the hall to gather their composure. 

"Grandma's crying," Smallest told me when I scooped her up and gulped back my own grief. 

"That's OK," I replied.  "She's a little sad right now."  She nodded and considered it for a moment before smiling and lifting her hand from my shoulder to point at the oxygen in the corner and inquiring over its purpose.

"That's in case Grandpa has trouble breathing," I explained and glanced around at the wheelchair and commode, walker and bags of supplies for wounds and the spots on his leg that have opened to leak fluid and wipes and blankets and pillows and cushions. 

I walked in my parents' bedroom - the one I used while growing up - and thought it smelled like death.  But the weather cooled and we opened the windows, blessedly fresh air and sounds of birds and bugs and life streaming inside. 

We sleep and cry and laugh and struggle.  And there are moments where it's almost impossible - clinging to Brother and saying that I absolutely cannot do this after we've taken Dad to the bathroom and he was too weak to stand, sagging in my arms and resting his head on my shoulder. 

But then there's peace - sitting next to him as he perched on the side of the bed, lifting his head to speak to someone and reaching my hand to him, palm cupped to take whatever imaginary items he's offering me.  I brought my hand to my chest afterward, feeling the echo of his fingertips brushing my palm and fought to release him - to allow him to move on from the discomfort and sadness that's here.

But then we giggle - awaken in the morning and gather in the living room - the four of us - and tease Brother about his inability to kill the fly we'd assigned him. 

"I'm like a ninja - lying in wait," he reports then I scoff when the fly lands on his chest and taunts him.  He did eventually get it, not long after I told my mother than Obama is not the anti-Christ.  Dad opened his eyes to frown at Brother and me for not being impressed with Romney and his new VP partner. 

"I won't vote," Brother assured him and he closed his eyes again. 

Thank you for the prayers - in whatever form they take - or thoughts if prayers aren't possible.  This is both startlingly easy and impossibly hard for me and I do deeply appreciate your responses to what I'd written here. 

Comfort

There's nothing more they can do for my dad. 

That's what I said when people asked - as I either wept when embraced by colleagues or trembled as I composed an email before leaving for home.  It turns out that my job was eliminated in a reorganization.  So I was interviewing last week, which was either a good distraction or a gross misprioritization as I stayed to talk about myself rather than rushing home to the hospital when Dad was admitted on Monday. 

I instead returned on Wednesday - the planned trip south being replaced with a more urgent one.  My bag containing a black dress and shoes that I certainly hadn't been planning to bring.  I've stuffed them in a drawer in the wardrobe that stands in the corner of the back bedroom.  But the time when we can pretend this situation is better than it is - remain in blissful denial and daily distractions - has passed.

We brought him home yesterday, all of us relieved that he insisted on leaving the hospital.  It would have been very un-Daddy-like to stay. 

Hospice came yesterday and I scrawled my signature under his on the consent and no-CPR forms.  Brother was closer - steadying the clipboard and pointing to the appropriate line for our father, but he handed the forms to me instead of signing them.  So I did, our brown eyes meeting in the saddest of gazes while Dad sat in his chair and Mom took a much-needed nap down the hall.

Dad's eyes are blue - a pretty, pale shade.  He's not in pain - we keep asking and medicating - but he murmurs and reaches while he rests.  Sometimes his eyes are open and glazed.  Others they are wide and sharp - with some mixture of fear or demand or inquiry. 

The first night - Wednesday - I told him that I was scared.  He replied that everyone is.

This morning I prayed, kneeling on the floor beside his swollen legs and curling my fingers around his pinkie and ring finger of his bruised and battered hand.  I reached for Mom and she stretched over him as they sat together on the couch with its extra cushions to provide height and softness.  And we asked for comfort and peace and readiness.

"What am I praying for?" the pastoral care lady asked and I started to cry, clinging to Brother's hand, and we turned to look at Dad.

"Comfort," he said, eyes barely open as he sat unsteadily in the recliner.  And I nodded, apologizing for my lack of composure as I waved my hands and tried desperately to explain that I didn't want him to be afraid or in pain.  I wanted God's will to be done in terms of timing, but for Him to prepare my daddy for the next part of his journey.

It's such a strange process - the mixture of profound emotional matters with figuring out how to go to the bathroom and why he's cramping (beyond the liver/kidney failure that's taking him from us). 

I therefore have moments of peace and clarity and those where I can't catch my breath beyond the sobbing.  Sympathy makes me cry more but I'd ask that you pray if you do such things.  I'd also ask that you do something kind today - buy someone coffee, adopt a puppy (and name him Jim), give extra to charity, call a member of your family.  Just something to make the world a little bit better for Dad's last days in it. 

Of Note (or Not)

• As of tomorrow, I am officially finished with my probationary punishment, in terms of both time and tasks.  I'm relieved.  And pleased.  
• I have been growing depressed - I felt myself withdraw.  Grow anxious.  Get viciously defensive.  Push people away who hadn't been swayed by the initial withdrawal.  I grew increasingly sad and hopeless.
• "Take more pills," Mom advised when I spoke to her this weekend.  I nodded in agreement and upped my dosage, slipping into happy/encouraging mode when talking to Dad.  
• He does the same for me - the happy/encouraging act that can only be sustained for minutes.  
• "Pray," I requested yesterday.  "The only time I feel anything less that miserable is when I'm praying."
• And today - by the grace of God - was better.  Not in that it was less busy or stressful.  But I was less exhausted and despairing.  I felt peaceful.  Settled.  Ready.  
• "Could you pray?" I request now because Dad's been off of chemotherapy for 4 weeks now.  Abdominal swelling.  Leg swelling.  Kidney function.  Excessive Potassium. 
• But he and Mom continue to run errands.  Watch the girls.  Talk to me by phone each day.  I want them to be peaceful and settled and happy.  So very much.
• This weekend, I write the cover letter to apply for a new job.  
• I need to find an old version on this laptop before writing said cover letter - I'm not sure I remember how.
• It's rained!  Chienne hides downstairs.  My weedy lawn grows once again.
• Nobody won American Ninja Warrior.  Did you see it?  Were you as disappointed as I?
• Who's excited about the Olympics?  (Me.  I am.)
• I'm now longer very excited about this post though. 

Proximal

For what could be the last time - for the end is nigh - I'm traveling with Sibling.  We've grown up together in our current roles - slipping into competitive patterns that blended gently into a genuine affection and respect.  We are not the very best of friends, but we are close.

She selected our off-day activities, wandering through a market before selecting a place for a late lunch.  Eschewing outdoor activities (as anyone who knows me is aware of my extreme distaste for being hot) for a local museum, we waited in line for tickets and wandered over gleaming wood floors to stare at paintings and sculptures, ceramics and furniture.

We were scolded for taking certain photos - traveling exhibits pose copyright infringements, I'm given to understand from a suited/headsetted guard.  But just because I took a photo does not mean I created it - I did, not after, build Amsterdam or Versailles.  Still, the artist certainly deserves credit - her touring pieces were undeniably compelling.

But as we wandered, Sibling and I talked.  How I was not offered the job for which I interviewed.  But how she, in contrast, was.  She was beginning to pack, preparing to move, looking over places to rent near New York City.

"You'll come visit?" she asked again and I shrugged and smiled.

"It's not my favorite place," I said, motioning to the Midwestern city we currently occupy that I actually like more.  "Busy, intense, overwhelming.  But, yes - I'll come visit."

 It looks as though I'll be completing some interviews here within my current company.  Not related to the probation period, actually - that should end next week - but because of some managerial changes that are altering our infrastructure.

"Just keep swimming," I murmured, thinking that it's what I tell myself when I'm tired and achy and not near a stopping point.  And I stared a bit too long into Dory's painted gaze and  hoped that life doesn't always favor the wise or prepared or deserving.  That sometimes kindness and mercy arrive from unexpected places.

I reminded Mom of this when I returned to the hotel and called home.  She'd forgotten to change Dad's pain patch on schedule and was consumed with guilt that he'd had such a difficult day today.

"It happens," I soothed.  "You're doing an amazing job taking care of him.  Everyone makes mistakes.  We all love you anyway, just like you love us."

"It seems like you could do that," Sibling said as we stood in front of the large pieces of art created from pins.  I smiled and shook my head, reminding her that I'm too impatient to make a single circle with tiny pins, let alone a bunch of them.

"It's very pretty though," I commented as we walked away, wishing I could take a photo.  (I did so from the floor above, but with a guilty feeling.)  "A conglomeration of small decisions and overall planning.  It makes me want to say something profound about God's plan and being present and doing the best I can with this moment." I told her.

But all I really had was the wisdom of Pixar - Just Keep Swimming.

Raining & Pouring

"I no longer hope for miracles," Mom said.  "It seems that time has passed."

Dad hadn't answered when I called this evening so I tried Mom, finding her en route from delivering the girls to Brother's house.  We chatted - prayer chains and Aunt's broken phone and mothers who don't feed or bathe The Ones in favor of passing the chore to over-burdened grandparents.

"I need you to stay on until I get home," she noted when there was a pause in the conversation and I nodded, telling her I understood.  "Hold on," she directed and I heard her draw a breath before opening the door, both of us exhaling in relief when Dad called out a greeting.

I did the same today when I got home from work and Chienne didn't race to welcome me.  I called.  And called again.  And once more before she crept from the basement, ears perked cautiously to listen for thunder.

"It stopped storming," I informed her, smoothing her coat and scratching her head.  "Pretty unsatisfying overall," I continued of the rain that sputters and stops, attempting to cool the Midwest and deposit some desperately-needed moisture to our crops before seeming to sigh quietly in defeat and make way for more sunshine and incessant heat.

There is so much oscillation - a merciless give and take that offers hope and yanks it back with a cruel giggle.

I should not write that - God is good and loving and I'm praying.  I appreciate any prayers you may have sent.  We are immeasurably blessed and while my current situation can be excruciating - desperately miserable - it is not constantly so.

I laughed with Dad when he indicated he liked a certain commercial - sparing a moment's gratitude for the agency which designed it and offered a moment of lightness.

"I'm alligator man," he noted and I looked up to gaze at the reddened, wrinkled skin on his feet and lower legs, propped as they were on extra couch cushions.

"It's finally draining," I said encouragingly, rising to wash my hands and smooth the sore skin that has been stretched around massive edema for weeks.

But they refill when he lowers his legs to sit.  And he's developing sores from sitting so much.

Mom sobs when she tells me - multiple times - of how he struggled to gag down some medication because his Potassium levels were elevated.

I beg him to eat, saying I know he's not hungry but he has to intake some calories.

Mom wept when I left yesterday, capturing the ever-elusive Mr. Sprout as he hissed and struggled and giving good-bye kisses through a small opening in my rolled-down window.

I returned to my house - its blessedly cool temperature and gentle quiet and access to solitude.  And to a job that is uncertain in more ways than I can bring myself to explain.

I, like the rain, ebb and flow with my interest in these goings-on.  I sometimes care deeply, my ambitious side emerging with vicious glee and manipulating everyone she can find.  But those storms are brief and useless - my overall attitude to endure and reserve strength for what horror comes next.

But it's raining now - a sustained and heavy deluge.  I'm left to hope that the shift with weather will do something for my mood as well.