Stung

I was doing OK today, trudging diligently through the onerous task of combing over my father's credit card statements to identify recurring charges so that I could move, cancel, or otherwise rearrange items that my mother will still use (the Netflix subscription, the cell phone auto-pay) to appropriate places as I tidy up things. I was fine, despite some expected frustrations and complexities, right up until the moment that it came time to cancel his New York Times subscription.  

There was no point to keeping it -- Mom has her own, and so do I. And so, I logged in and clicked through to begin the cancellation process. (It is always easier online than having to talk to a person, especially when the reason for canceling is, because someone is deceased.) The system politely offered my some options instead of full cancellation: did I want to put it on hiatus? Did I want a print copy instead? No, thanks. 

Then it asked: did I want a year's worth of access to just the games, for free? And it showed the little game icons, including the Spelling Bee. And my heart clutched a little bit, because Daddy loved the Spelling Bee, and played it every day.

Thank you, but no, New York Times. He can't play any more.

It let me cancel without further ado. And I put my head on my desk and cried, just a little, for that bee.

Responsibility

 Herself speaks.

With the passing of my lovely father, the responsibility for Family Paperwork has fallen to me. I'm slowly gathering all of the Important Papers - bills, tax-related documents, credit card statements, and so forth - and organizing them as best as possible, trying to ensure that everything is orderly and complete, making sure that Mom doesn't have to deal with anything difficult, ensuring that the well-oiled machine Daddy set up during his lifetime continues. 

Honoring his memory through Paperwork. It's a little odd, I know, but it's what I'm doing. It's all I can do for him now, and it's my privilege to be able to do so. 

With this new responsibility, though, comes a few Feelings. And those Feelings are surfacing in strange ways, about tiny things. 

For example: there's a weird piece of trash in front of the house now. It appeared there -- Thursday? I think? -- and I did not pick it up on my way in to the house, because I spotted it on my way in after work and was carrying my briefcase, purse, lunch bag, Beloved Husband's lunch bag, and my laptop bag (it goes back and forth to the office on days when I have Estate Matters to handle during business hours too), so I had no hands free. I could have gone back out to collect that piece of trash after I'd put my things down inside the house, but I did not. I reasoned: other people live here too. That piece of trash does not have to be my sole responsibility. 

And now I am waiting for someone else to pick it up. Will someone do it? Will it take my asking, would you please get that? for it to happen? 

Once upon a time, the feeling that people relied on me to take care of all things both big and small was a warm fuzzy feeling: it meant that people found me reliable, necessary, needed. Being needed meant so much to me. Such confidence in being the Responsible Person, on whom people relied.

Now in the heart of middle age, being needed sometimes is a too-warm coat: oppressive, exhausting. And being the Responsible-Person-on-whom-people-rely, feels a lot like being-taken-for-granted. 

Not to be needed is frightening, though. What if people don't need me any more? Do I have value if I am not needed? 

Philosophically, I can answer emphatically, of course I do. I would tell any human being who might be struggling, that they have intrinsic value regardless of what they are contributing at the moment. That would include myself. 

But in reality, it feels a little different. If I am not needed, would people communicate with me? Want to spend time with me? Reach out to me at all? 

What if I am the one who needs? Would people support that need? Or would they find me oppressive and exhausting?

The thoughts are too big, and I am tired. 

Maybe I will just go pick up that piece of trash, and go for a walk. 

Places It Would Be Nice To Be

Photogenic

She really is such a photogenic kitty. And a very good pet, too. MEOW MEOW. 

Kindness

 Herself speaks.

The most remarkable thing about Daddy's passing away: the pure kindness from other people.

I couldn't figure out at first why this was somehow so surprising to me. It's not that I expected people to be mean. Perhaps I expected people to be more indifferent? I'm not sure what I was expecting, to be honest. People have reached out to offer condolences, and have said thoughtful and meaningful things. And they don't expect anything from me, as far as I can discern. 

Perhaps that is the strangest part. On the whole, people don't communicate with me, unless they want something from me. So to have someone send an email or a letter solely to express sympathy for my loss, seems very unusual. 

It also brings to mind something that worries me a little bit right now -- I am not particularly able to be giving right now. I am preoccupied, grieving, self-centered. I do not have a lot to offer other people. And there's that teeny little fear way down inside: will the people who are important to me, abandon me because I have so little to give right now? Perhaps this is what Death does: it makes us fear loss more. 

And so I'm grateful for these kindnesses, because they are reassurances that perhaps I do have some value to others, independent of my ability to do anything for other people right now. 

Thank you, kind people. 

Just Saying

Haus

The buns do enjoy a new cardboard house to chew upon. 

Aster

I decided I needed something to wear to honor my Daddy after the time period for the kriah ribbon is over. I have chosen an aster flower. I found a lovely small pin in a shop called The Divine Iguana (what a delightful name) on Etsy. 

Why an aster? The symbolism of the aster varies, depending on source. It is commonly known as a flower of September, the month of Daddy's birth. The aster is widely associated with wisdom (which seems eminently appropriate for him). And patience. Faith. "I won't forget you." Love. 

That's a lot for one flower to do. Still, Daddy accomplished a lot for one man. So it fits. 

https://www.etsy.com/shop/TheDivineIguana

Feed Thyself

Herself speaks.

I have not yet found my footing in this post-Daddy world. I have returned to my regular life, more or less, in that I have gone back to work and my usual activities. It's a little bit of auto-pilot; I know I haven't felt all the Feelings yet. That will take time. Though I am regularly reminded of a meme I saw on Facebook once, that commented: I underestimated how much car crying I would do as an adult. Indeed.

I have also added new obligations: Daddy entrusted certain tasks to me, having faith that I would carry on diligently and carefully in his absence, and it is my honor to do these last tasks for him now. I am his personal representative (executor) of his will, and I must ensure that all is handled properly and in an orderly fashion. I am also helping Mom with payment of bills and related issues, to make sure that she does not worry/have anxiety over financial matters. Daddy always took care of such things. It's my turn now. 

The one thing I am having a great deal of difficulty doing, is taking care of myself. Things like finding time to exercise; making sure there is an abundance of easy non-headache-inducing foods handy for me to eat; giving myself time to feel Feelings -- I am not doing these things well. I am not sure why it is so difficult. 

Perhaps it is the loss of one of the few people in my life who I consider to be a Caregiving soul, that is rendering it difficult for me to find the Caregiver within me at the moment, too. 

I tried harder this weekend. I used the treadmill both yesterday and today. I included some specific items in the grocery pick-up yesterday evening that I knew I could eat, and today, I made myself an egg salad sandwich (gluten free bread and safe salad dressing instead of mayonnaise) and had some berries, even though they were a little expensive since they are off season. 

One step at a time. Daddy would be proud of me for trying. 

I Feel Ancient

Good gravy. 

Brass Rat

My father left me a giant model (a souvenir from one reinion year) of his class ring. It's Most Excellent, and I shall treasure it. 

Burial

 Herself speaks.

It's been two weeks now since Daddy left this earth. 

My mother, my brother and his wife, my sister and her husband, and Beloved Husband and I gathered to lay him to rest. 

We buried his physical shell in a plain pine box, as was his wish, on an overcast New England day, in a snow-dusted, appropriately-named Wildwood Cemetery. The rabbi, a thoughtful, middle-aged woman, spoke kind words of his long life, his family, his accomplishments, his service to the scientific community. The Hebrew prayers, unfamiliar to my ears, were rhythmic and comforting. Because there was no minyan, we instead recited the twenty-third psalm:

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures
He leadeth me beside the still waters
He restoreth my soul
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for though art with me,
Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies
Thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

At the conclusion of the graveside service, we each tossed handfuls of soil into his grave -- one handful from the cemetery, and one from the Holy Land -- to formally lay him to rest in the earth. 

Rest easy, Daddy. Your work is done. 

-----

We all spent another day and a half together before we once more scattered to our respective corners of the word. Life has resumed more or less as 'normal' -- everyone around me is going about their usual activities. I am trying to do so as well, with my kriah ribbon pinned on to my shirt. This mourning practice is foreign to me, but I cling to it for comfort, as sign of respect for my father's Jewish roots and as an outward, visible symbol of the invisible Void that I now sense in the world. 

I don't know what to do with myself. I don't know what I am feeling. I yearn, but I do not know for what. 

I need to go out into nature, alone, and listen. Perhaps I will be able to hear Daddy there. It will sound just like every voicemail he ever left for me, which always began: 

Hi Missy, it's Daddy....