Are there Birthday Candles in Gan Eden?

 Herself speaks.

My lovely Daddy would have turned ninety-two today.  

Happy birthday, Daddy. 

I miss you. I don't want to dwell on sad things on your birthday, but I have to say that nothing is the same without you here any more. I miss your calm reliability, your dignified presence, your quiet kindness, your good humor.  I hope that wherever you are now, you are enjoying peace, beautiful music, and love all around you, and that the care that you showed people during your lifetime is returned one hundred-fold to you. 

You were an exemplary human being. If there were more people like you in the world, it would be an infinitely better place. 

On Skunks, Scars, and Boxes of Grief

 Herself speaks.

I think that I should give up on apologizing for taking so long to get back to regular posting. Gentle readers, you know I am sorry. There's just been... a lot in the way. Let's play catch-up, shall we? 

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Fifty-nine.

So, I turned fifty-nine years old early last month.  Fifty-nine isn't in and of itself a bad thing.  It's still in the 50s.  The problem with fifty-nine is that SIXTY looms so ominously on the horizon. How can this be? Surely it's not less than a year until I hit the sixth decade. That's the point when newspapers start referring to us as an elderly woman or an elderly man in articles.  Lord help us.  I'm not ready to think about that yet. The birthday itself was fine, as far as birthdays go -- though (at my choosing) the focus of the day was primarily on a celebration for Offspring the Third, who was leaving town the following day.  Good luck with your endeavor, Offspring the Third! We love you and are incredibly proud! 

Thirty-five.

Beloved Husband and I celebrated our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary in the middle of last month. That's 59% of my entire life that we've been married (a nice coincidence with my 59th birthday).  My Mother, who is still adjusting to the fact that she turned eighty-nine earlier this year, commented, "I can't believe I am old enough to have a child who has been married thirty-five years!" Yes indeed. Where did the time go? 

Beloved Husband and I celebrated with a nice quiet dinner at a new restaurant nearby (and we went on the early side -- because Lord Help Us, we are getting Old), a few gifts (he outdid himself this year in thoughtful and interesting presents), and some time together that did not involve Work. Nice. Who could ask for anything better? 

Scars misbehaving.

I feel at this point that I should be on a first-name basis with everyone at the dermatologist's office, due to the frequency with which I cross their threshold.  While I was there, I had one of my scars -- the one on my chest from a basal cell carcinoma removal -- checked. It's doing something funny. A bit red and raised midline. What does it mean? 

Fortunately, it does not appear to be a recurrence (unlike the most recent precancerous spot, which I had to have frozen again, because who doesn't love a little liquid nitrogen on their face?). It's most likely a suture granuloma, which means that one of the internal stitches hasn't quite dissolved yet, and my immune system doesn't like having it there and is objecting.  We'll have to wait and see what it does -- will it go away on its own? Will it need a steroid injection? Nothing is ever easy.  I don't particularly enjoy having extra-visible scars. Visible, fine. Extra-visible because problematic and possibly inviting questions... notsomuch. 

What's with the boxes?

The boxes are metaphorical. They are boxes of grief: each box contains a person, a concept, a wish that I am letting go and grieving. I am trying so hard to compartmentalize them, so that I can mentally tackle them one at a time. Sometimes the boxes overflow and the bits and pieces get jumbled together and I have to re-sort everything all over again. 

There's one tidy box, and that is my lovely Daddy's grief box. His picture sits on my desk at work, and I say "Hi, Daddy" each day when I sit down. Missing him is not as acute as it once was -- it's the absence of one instrument in the orchestra of life. Every now and then I dream of him, and it's so bittersweet to hear his voice. I hope I never forget what it sounded like. 

There is a box adjacent to Daddy's box: that one is a box of What-Once-Was that I must also let go. In that box are items that remind me about how things used to be. These items surface, for example, when I double-check his email once a month and pay Mom's bills; or when Mom talks about her current activities and friends an busy schedule; or when Offspring the Third is off on his new adventures to places where Daddy once traveled, and Daddy is not there to talk with him about his own adventures in the same places once upon a time. This What-Once-Was box is a messy box, frequently and unexpectedly spilled, oftentimes by something small that someone else says or does in passing. It's taking a lot of time to tidy up. 

There's another box: the I Broke My Rose-Colored Glasses box (we'll call it the Reality Box for short). Since the multitude of terribles of the past few years, I have worked more at looking at my life as an observer, rather than getting caught in the wishful-thinking-inside-place where I'd been living.  It's been very eye opening.  The biggest lesson so far, relates to People: 

People are who they are, and everyone has limitations. No matter what we want, we cannot actually will them to do anything. We must take what is offered, and that is all that we can get. 

Thus, the Reality Box. The grief inside this box relates to relinquishing hopes that are attached to other people: wishes that they will behave a certain way, or take certain actions under certain circumstances; that they will remember certain things that are important to me but which are practically irrelevant to them. These things will not happen. I need to let go. 

This box is a tricky box because just when I think I have put something away neatly inside the box, I find it again outside the box and need to put it back all over again. A Sisyphean task. 

And so you see, with the juggling of all the boxes, writing ends up being a very low priority. That's not my intention, because I do love to write. Someday, when I have finally gotten a solid grip on my boxes, I will be able to write more. 

There was something about skunks?

On the bright side, I have a new hobby!

About a month ago, one night I looked out the front door and there was a tuxedo cat standing at the end of the walkway, looking at me.  It had something to tell me, though I didn't know what. 

I began putting out a small bowl of kitty food and some water in the back of the house, in case the cat was feral and in need. And I put out one of the cameras I had from years ago to monitor the bunnies, to keep an eye on activity at the kitty bowl. 

And wildlife observation began!

As best we can tell, we have several regulars: tuxedo cat; a spotty tabby cat who is oddly tall; a bunch of birds of assorted sizes and shapes; and (we think) FIVE skunks -- two large adult skunks; two little skunks who always appear together (Frick and Frack); and one small skunk who appeared once or twice with one of the large skunks, and now appears alone.  According to the Googles, at this time of year, juvenile skunks are learning how to forage and starting to go out on their own, so my best guess is, we have two mother skunks, one of whom has Frick and Frack babies, and the other has a singleton baby, and they all live nearby (where, I have no idea). 

It's surprisingly polite at the kitty food bowl. Everyone has their regular time to have a bit of kitty food; there is no fighting (though the birds squawk at one another sometimes); it's tidy and there is no poop. And no skunk smell!  We do not go out when anyone is getting a snack -- they are all feral, and do not need human contact. (Plus skunks are a vector for rabies. No, thanks. Yikes.) The skunks are so cute. And surprisingly small, except for the tails.

We'll see what happens come winter. I may put a kitty house out, up on legs so the kitties can get in safely but the skunks cannot. We don't really want a giant pile of skunks wintering in the yard.

I shall include here, a few representative pictures, and then (hopefully) will be able to entertain you with additional wildlife observation photos in the future. It brings me a few molecules of joy, and that is a delightful thing. 

 

One of Offspring the Third's kitties peeks out the window at the solitary juvenile skunk.

Big skunk having a snack.

Frick and Frack.

Spotty tabby kitty.

The original tuxedo kitty who started it all. 

Happy Father's Day

Today we celebrate Beloved Husband, for his role as patriarch of our little nuclear family and father to the Offspring. Happy Father's Day, Beloved. I know how much you love the Offspring and how you want the best for them, always. They are like you in many ways -- work ethic, kindness toward others, joie de vivre. Eyelashes. Interested in extended family lore. They are Good People, brought to this world with your help. Thank you. 

-----

I also reminisce about my lovely Daddy. Father's Day becomes harder, not easier, as time goes by. Perhaps it is a bell curve, and we have not yet hit the nadir. 

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 I keep four photos on my desk at work: one of Beloved Husband and I, from the week before we were married (ah, so beautiful, the promise of a lifetime together to come); one of the three Offspring, taken at Offspring the Third's high school graduations (my beautiful Offspring, all fledged adults -- what pride I have in them, and what hope for their futures); one small one of Cherished Friend and I together, from my last visit to Oceanside (a small photo, because we both hate having our picture taken, but nevertheless present, because friendship is a sheltering tree, and it is nice to have that reminder when workdays are hard); and front and center, my Daddy and I, smiling together, looking alike, a moment captured in time, never to happen again. 

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The other night, I had a dream: I picked up a phone, and there was a voicemail message. It was from my Daddy, and it was his voice, clear as it ever was, speaking the first four words with which he began every message: Hi (nickname), it's Daddy. I woke up, knowing that the voice was a ghost, and haunted by the clarity with which it was his voice, that I can no longer hear except while sleeping. 

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Some days, I do not know what to do with myself. So much love, and nowhere to put it. Especially for Daddy. I don't think I told him enough how much I appreciated everything he did for me. 

I hope he knew. 

Happy Father's Day, Daddy, wherever you are. 

Catch-up

Herself speaks.

Let's play catch-up, shall we?  

The house refurbishing continues apace. Today I boxed up the last of the rooms that needs boxing -- that was quite the accomplishment.  This one was the study, and so it was quite the archeological dig:  old school pictures of the Offspring, tax forms, Important Papers, ancient defunct laptops, obsolete mobile phones, CD-ROMs of computer games from over a decade ago. I took down my diplomas, and carefully peeled off the pencil drawings made by the Offspring that I'd taped there, along with three photos: Beloved Husband holding an infant Offspring the Third; my Lovely Daddy and I during my college graduation weekend; a rare willingly-taken (toleratingly-taken) photo of Cherished Friend from a camping trip a thousand years ago.  I cleaned off all of my favorite schoolbooks from the shelf -- my Latin and Greek books from high school; organic chemistry; plant biology -- and put them in a box with the classics: The Phantom Tollbooth (Norton Juster), I Am A Bunny (Ole Risom), Anam Cara (John O'Donohue), The Prophet (Kahlil Gibran), When The Tripods Came (John Christopher), and other favorites. I added the books on lichens and mosses, and medicinal plants. A wealth of knowledge, in a single box. 

I finally threw out my review materials for The Task, though. 

I also cleaned out my closet upstairs. I finally gathered all my formal dresses that I will never wear again and donated them.  They were all beautiful in their individual ways -- velvets, sparkles, fringe or shimmer. They felt so lovely under my fingertips as I packed them up. I felt pretty when I wore them (a hundred years ago, now), and I was sad to see them go.  I hope they will each find a good home elsewhere. 

I moved the bunnies to their new room.  It's out of the regular flow of traffic of the household, but is quiet.  It's smaller, but I will get them a little rug so they can hop out and about in the rest of the house more after the refurbishment is done. 

I was concerned that they would find the move upsetting.  They did seem a bit cranky at first.  But they are adjusting. 

We parted ways with our dining room furniture.  It was old, in need of repair and polishing and tender loving care, and someone was willing to give it a good home. I feel sad and a little guilty, but I know that someone will enjoy it more. I did save the hand-embroidered seat cushion covers, though. It was a rhythmic, soothing process, to remove the hundreds of little furniture tacks. I will restore the embroidery and save the works for posterity. 

I rewarded myself for all the hard work, by speaking with Cherished Friend via Zoom this evening.  It's lovely to see him, to talk about ordinary things. I am annoyed he does not live closer -- how delightful that would be. 

When we said goodbye, the tiny grief of knowing I cannot really be a part of his everyday life and he cannot be a part of mine, flared white-hot for a moment. 

There is no point in crying, though. It won't change anything. I'll just put on my brave face and keep going.  

And that, lovely readers, is all the catch-up for now.

Naive

It took me nearly 58 years, but I have finally (finally) learned... the Universe is not fair. 

Oh, my naive younger self. 

I grew up in an era of Girl Power! Girls can do anything! and Be whatever you want to be and If you just try a little harder, you will get the right grades/get into the right school/excel at work. Or even, the subtle and unspoken but nevertheless very clear message, if you try hard enough, if you look the right way and say the right things and don't ask for too much but give your all at the right time and in the right place and in the right ways, you will finally be understood and be loved the way you want to be loved. 

If you failed at any task/job/mission, it was simply because you didn't do enough. Do more. Try more. Use more words. Put in more effort. Achieve more accomplishments. Keep going.  Nothing but success. Don't mention not-successes. Those are a shame not to be disclosed. 

I am proud but not surprised, people would say -- because as everyone kept telling you, it was possible to do anything and be whatever you wanted to be.

But: No. No, it is not. 

I have tried my hardest. Done my best. But sometimes, things don't work out. Because Life is Not Fair.

The Universe is full of entropy, and occasional Badness, and full-on Nonsense at times. Sometimes despite careful deliberation, we make the wrong choices; or we make a seat-of-our-pants decision and then must tackle consequences we did not anticipate. We don't remember the multitude of times everything works out fine. We never forget the times things do not work out at all. 

And there is the compounding problem of People: people are endlessly complex. People live in their own worlds. They don't always understand, or do what we would like them to do, or want what we want. We love people who live at a distance (ah, my Offspring, my family of origin, my Friend), and their absence from our daily lives creates a void that cannot be filled. Sometimes, people are hurtful -- whether through negligence, or deliberately. We need people, want people, love people; cannot bear too many people, have been harmed by people, disappointed by people. People. They are exhausting. 

Perhaps I am lucky that it took me so long to lose my naivete -- for with naivete came optimism and hope, and those have carried me quite far. 

Or perhaps, because I held on to my naivete so long, the pain of the emergent realization that Life is Unfair, is exceptionally Deep and Wide and Encompassing. I am struggling right now with the knowledge that I may never accomplish certain things, may never fulfill particular wants. And that's just How It Is. 

The hope that remains, is that one day a greater Hope will come back to me again, and I will find my inner warmth once more. Life is Unfair, yes. But perhaps I can, through Grace, make it a little better where I am. That's the best I can do. 

The Club No One Wants To Join

It's Father's Day. Happy Father's Day, Daddy, wherever you may be.

-----

No one wants to belong to the Dead Dads Club on a day dedicated to celebrating fatherhood. The difficulty of the day snuck up on me: I did not contemplate in advance, the multitude of extra factors that would add to the complexity of Feelings of today. 

Perhaps I had subconsciously/purposefully not thought about them. Or perhaps I had simply overestimated my ability to march through the day unscathed. 

I did manage to get a few useful tasks done around the house, but there was no accomplishing anything truly substantive. I feel Bad about that. I will try again tomorrow. 

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There is a kernel of childlike desire that still dwells deep within my heart, and it is never more apparent than it is on Father's Day. It is a primordial longing: take my hand, tell me that you are happy to be here with me, that I am doing a good job, and that it will all be OK. Ask nothing of me, but love me as I am, without condition. 

And I would be healed. 

Tax Season

 Herself speaks.

It's tax season. With the assistance of the tax preparer (who is awesome), all the tax returns are completed. There are a bunch for which I'm responsible - multiple trusts, extended family members, and the nuclear family itself - and each required gathering of appropriate papers, review, and the occasional state as well as federal returns. I still need to mail a couple of checks today.  But then it will be Done.

Tax season always makes me think of my Dad. Taxes used to be his job, and he no doubt was methodical and prompt in all of his tax return preparation requirements.  

I wonder: did he feel a sense of satisfaction when he completed this tax task -- or his other myriad behind-the-scenes tasks that he took care of every day? Did he ever feel oppressed by his responsibilities? Did he feel Taken For Granted? Or was he happy to see that everything was Done, and his loved ones had what they needed, without worry?

I think: all of the above. 

I am so in awe of you, Daddy. How did you move forward every day, uncomplaining, quietly competent, thorough and methodical and caring, without fanfare or even sufficient gratitude given to you?  The soul of a saint. So much given. You must have been Tired. 

I am sorry I did not express in words, how much I appreciated your efforts, Daddy. Perhaps I did not truly understand everything you did until you were gone, and I spent more time thinking about you, and I became You in even more ways. 

Be at peace, Daddy. 

I miss you. I am glad that you can have some well-deserved rest now.  

The Things We Carry

 Herself speaks.

Offspring the First and her charming husband were in town over the weekend, and we were able to see them briefly for a bit. It was lovely, as always, to see her and her smiling face. Offspring the Third was there as well, and it was reassuring to see him too, as always, and delightful to have the two of them in the same room together. There was an Offspring the Second-shaped hole in the room; I have missed his presence so much, and am trying to walk the line of respecting his independence and freedom, while still wanting to reach out and encourage him to come home for a bit to ease the ache of his absence. 

I don't know when I will have all three of the Offspring together in the same room at the same time again. I try not to think about it. The weight of that unknown future can be a heavy grief for me if I allow it to grow in my heart, but I will not do so. It is important to be glad for the Offspring as they move forward with their unique lives, and not to try to hold them back out of any sort of obligation. 

I will not ask the Offspring to help me carry my own feelings. That would be unfair to them. They should be Free.

Fly, Offspring, fly.

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you. 

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. 

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

-Kahlil Gibran, On Children

All Squares are Rectangles (But Not All Rectangles Are Squares)

 Do you remember the expression: all squares are rectangles, but not all rectangles are squares? It's such a great turn of phrase. I like it for its literal correctness -- few things more satisfying than a specific mirror-image definition like this. 

It occurred to me today that it could also potentially be used metaphorically. (Yes, I'm slow sometimes.)  I contemplated this morning, how it could be applied. (I was doing so, to avoid thinking about current events. Because they are all horrible. THE HORROR. Ironically, it was through mulling over current events that I ultimately came up with a situation that is analogous.) It goes like this:

When someone hurts another person through actions, an apology made through words can help.  But when an injury is caused by words, an attempt to make reparations through actions is not always successful. Even when actions are intended to show remorse or repentance or a change of heart, there will always be those previous words lingering in the background, and the thought that they may resurface again. Words can only be negated by words, not by deeds. 

Perhaps only I place so much emphasis on the value and import of words. (And perhaps that is why I spend so much time trying to explain myself with a hundred billion words.) Am I alone here? Give me the words, peoples. 

But perhaps not. Surely I am not the only person horrified by the words being used in public arenas right now. When our current President says the VERY TERRIBLE things he says, so flippantly, so carelessly, it is shocking and appalling and I cannot watch because the words stick in my head and I immediately want to argue and yet I cannot, because what good would that serve? What kind of terrible timeline are we living in, that the leader of our nation spews forth such cruel and crass verbal garbage? And it's not just him, either.  But surely I am not alone in my horror. 

Could amends be made through actions at this point? No. Absolutely not. The words need to be denounced. Better words need to be put forth. Only with Good Words, can we truly move forward. 

Find Me A Zookeeper

 Herself speaks.

As I have alluded before, one of the side effects of antidepressants has been more time to Think, and  also, to Feel. Parsing regular Feelings from depression is tricky. But when I sit back and look objectively at the whole picture, I understand that a regular person in my shoes would feel these Feelings. That's natural and expected. Life ebbs and flows. 

Right now, I am at a stage of midlife Grief that is hard to process: face to face with the realizations that there are things that I want, that will never come to pass; that my needs will not always be met; that the Universe requires each of us to find our own way in solitude, to prepare us for the possibility that those nearest to our hearts will not be there at a time when we yearn for them. 

Sometimes I want to say, No Thank You. This grief is so much. But if I can walk through this fire and come through the other side, there will be peace to be found. I just need to get there. 

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I had an annual visit with the cardiologist yesterday. He's a lovely tiny little man, so cheerful, so upbeat.  My heart is in good health, and he'll see me in a year. 

And I think to myself, it's broken, but it works just fine. 

-----

Between feeling the Feelings, and my many Responsibilities, though, I am having trouble accomplishing Routine Self-Maintenance. Things like exercising and eating right and looking after myself. I just... can't. It's the very last priority and completely uninteresting. 

This is why I need a Zookeeper. 

I need someone who will treat me like a cranky, middle-aged, slightly overweight, uncertain rescue chihuahua: provide me with a warm place to sleep, offer me nutritious meals to slowly slim me down to the right shape, take me for walks, make sure I have a spot to hide when I feel overwhelmed. Sit on the couch with me and watch TV, and partake in other forms of quiet enrichment together. Stuff me in a crate and take me to the vet when I need to go. Praise me when I do something right. And be happy to see me.

Maybe this is why I adopt medically needy/elderly pets: I want to give them the life I would like to have. 

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The challenge, of course, is to be my own Zookeeper. Can I do it? 

I can try. Can I? 

Two

 It's been two years since my lovely Daddy died. 

I worked at home today. I didn't want it to be just an ordinary day yet. Even though it is. Because it still isn't. 

I'm fine, in that I am not grieving any more than usual. Beloved Husband and my very sweet Mother-in-law are being kind and remembering him. That's thoughtful. The Living do like to acknowledge the Dead, because they are still very much part of our hearts. 

The Dead are only gone when no one thinks of them any longer. 

-----

I'm weirdly uncomfortable when people are nice to me. 

I almost would prefer that they... not. 

Because then I don't have to wonder why they are being nice, what their ulterior motive is, what they really want from me. Or why they like me in the first place, to warrant being nice.

My general feeling is, people don't interact with me unless they want something from me. That's most of my interactions -- people need me to do something for them, and that's why they reach out in the first place. They wouldn't otherwise. And they generally don't. No one is nice just to be nice. That doesn't happen. 

I might be a little jaded. 

I'm a tiny bit sad for myself that I feel this way.

-----

Today also happened to be the inauguration. I don't want to talk about that much. 

I will say only this: I am glad that my lovely Daddy did not have to witness it.

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Rest in peace, Daddy. I miss your wit, your quiet calm and your wisdom. I miss your precise memory about all kinds of details, and the way you would weave those details into your stories. I miss your love of math and Sudoku and word puzzles. I miss the way you would take a walk around the block with your walking stick. I miss feeling that someone was looking out for me from afar - it was a warm fuzzy feeling, like your plaid flannel shirts in winter. I miss your presence. 

I miss your phone messages. "Hi [nickname], it's Daddy."  The one I had saved was automatically deleted over time, and I don't have it any more. That's a tragedy. Although I don't know if I could bear to listen to it again, anyway. 

Thank you for everything, Daddy. 

I am doing the best I can. I hope you are proud of me. 

Poster Girl

 Herself speaks.

It's the most ordinary of things that make us overthink sometimes.

I went in for a routine dental cleaning earlier this week. We always begin with the briefest of health updates: the hygienist takes my blood pressure (which was good -- pop quiz passed!), and asks, "any surgeries since the last visit? Any new medications?"

No surgeries, thank goodness. New medications: eight hundred thousand thoughts, in a millisecond, before responding. 

Yes, antidepressant is a new medication since my last visit. BUT, the hygienist is related to someone I work with, who does not know that I take antidepressants. I would tell my coworker about the antidepressants if it came up in conversation, but I do not want them to find out through the grapevine. The hygienist is bound by HIPAA, so technically she should not discuss it outside of the dental office, but you never know. Also, the dental office is open enough that the people in the cubicles next door will be able to listen, so other patients may hear what I say and I don't particularly want strangers to know. Because Stigma. How relevant is antidepressant use to dental health? I know some people in the depths of depression have trouble maintaining oral health, but that particular issue doesn't apply to me. So, is it irrelevant in this situation? Do I want to be the Poster Girl for being upfront about mental health issues and just mention it casually, as if it were no different from thyroid meds or other routine meds? No. No, I do not. Not today. 

"No new meds," I said.

-----

I feel a little bit as if I am doing a disservice to the mental health community by not being forward about my own personal struggle.  At the same time, it is my own personal struggle.  I don't want to talk about it a lot of the time. Nor should I feel obligated to do so, if it does not affect my health care. I have good days. I have bad days. A lot of times, I have days where there are good moments and bad moments. I am doing better. But not so much better that I can be an open representative of Better Mental Health Through Pharmaceuticals. 

I do want to help other people who might be struggling similarly. But right now, I'm putting my own oxygen mask on first. And that means that I might not say anything publicly.

That's OK.

Legacy

 Herself speaks.

My lovely Daddy left me a small amount of money. It was thoughtful, and kind, and helpful - just like Daddy.  

Because of the way the money was left, I need to take out a little bit of it every year from where it is, and move it elsewhere. It's up to me to figure out what to do with the slice of the money each time. That's surprisingly harder than one might think. Right now, it has very much been on my mind since the end of the year (and money-withdrawal-time) is nigh. 

One the one hand, the sensible thing to do would be to pay off a few debts. Or invest it in another place to save for retirement. Practical. 

On the other hand, though: it's an unexpected gift. I did not have this money in mind when accepting responsibility for debt or for building my retirement plan, so it's somehow free money, if that makes sense. I would like so much to take this gift, to use it in a way to make a difference somewhere, somehow. It's not enough to make a dramatic difference -- we're not remotely talking Bill or Melinda Gates here -- but I could perhaps make a teeny impact for the people who are important to me. 

Daddy was always so generous, and so quiet about it. I only learned in passing about all the ways he financially helped other people, because he never mentioned it. It was always someone else who brought it up -- someone to whom money was more important, or who felt it was necessary to give Daddy  recognition for his acts -- and Daddy always deflected, changed the subject, moved the spotlight elsewhere.

When I think of him, I am reminded of Kahlil Gibran's On Giving: 

There are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;
They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.
Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.

I remember Daddy, and I want to carry his legacy on, in this small but meaningful way, however I can.

It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding;
And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving.

Jewel: My Father's Daughter.

Holidays Past

 For the first time, none of the Offspring will be home for Thanksgiving. It's like the end of an era. 

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I so miss having company in the kitchen.  Offspring the Third particularly enjoyed cooking; Offspring the First and Offspring the Second also joined in on occasion, though it was more their presence than their participation that was there (and presence was just as welcome).  There were a few years when Cherished Friend would be facilitate cooking, too. It was lovely. 

Now, we do not even hold Thanksgiving at our house - although I suppose that is just as well this year, because we have not yet recovered and repaired from The Flood. At any rate, this year all the Offspring (and Cherished Friend, too, for that matter) are hundreds and hundreds of miles away. I miss all their faces more than I can say. 

I don't know where to put up a Christmas tree: there is nowhere to do so, given the Flood-related Disarray. My house, my brain, and my heart are all disheveled. 

-----

I miss simple pleasures. A little Christmas music, the tree, the festive linens on the dining room table. Finding just the right gift for someone. The undivided attention of a kitchen compatriot. A chihuahua, looking for crumbs. One of the offspring, feet up on the couch, providing commentary. The Peanuts Christmas special. 

What do I want? 

I want to wedge myself on the couch right next to someone, just to sit, maybe even to read, to watch a movie. Casual physical proximity, with love. But alas, I am out of chihuahuas and the bunnies are not inclined. The cats, when they are here, want either to stuff themselves up my nose, or to perch on the windowsill and stare longingly at birds outside the window. Beloved Husband is busy, and everyone else is too far away. 

Alas. 

Someone hold me. My heart aches for what has been and will never be again.

Let Us Try

Every time I have one of those infrequent opportunities to spend concentrated leisure time with one of my Important People, I am very conscious of the rarity both of the moment, and of the feeling of peace that accompanies the occasion. It is not at all often that my brain, so constantly full of Work and Volunteer Commitments and Ordinary Obligations, is able to relax and unwind enough to feel unhurried and at peace. I am so grateful to have had one such opportunity this past weekend, and it was Lovely.

Now, as I sit in limbo in an airport in the pre-dawn hours, I am trying to adjust to the inevitability of re-entering the hustle and bustle of my Ordinary Life, while simultaneously holding on to  the Intangible Joy of the time of the past weekend. I am trying, too, not to let Grief creep in - although I know that is inevitable.  As Kahlil Gibran reminds us in The Prophet, Joy and Sorrow are inseparable:

Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

They are, in fact, opposite sides of the same coin:

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

The hardest part, is knowing that Sorrow is necessary, in order to have Joy.

-----

I'll do my best to focus on the mundane for now. I'll go get an overpriced airport snack, continue my DuoLingo streak, and then I'll be boarding the plane back to my desert homeland soon. I will be glad to be back there. Even though I leave a piece of myself behind here. 

We will do our best to move forward, day by day. 

As the French say: Essayons. 

You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart always will be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place. ― Miriam Adeney

La Llorona

Today's earworm: La Llorona (Carmen Goett). 

It's almost Dia de los Muertos.

One of these years, I might set up an ofrenda.

Awkward Calls

 Herself speaks.

It's the beginning of the month, and so I do my lovely-Daddy-related tasks: I take care of Mom's regular bills, and I check Daddy's emails to be sure no unusual bills or other correspondence have come through. These are quiet little tasks that do not take long, but allow me to ensure that lovely Daddy rests in peace. Don't worry, Daddy, I'm taking care of things. You can rest easy. 

This month, he had a reminder about a doctor's appointment. (It's not as unusual as one might think for this to happen; this was for a routine appointment that would have been made far in advance.) Out of courtesy to the doctor, I made That Call, to let them know that Daddy wouldn't make the appointment. Or any other appointments, ever. 

People are always so very kind when I tell them that Daddy is Gone. As awkward as it is to have to be the bearer of sad news, it is always a moment when strangers appear to be genuinely sympathetic. 

In this hard world, I'll take those few seconds of compassion. Even though it invariably, momentarily, softens the walls I have built to protect myself. 

I miss you, Daddy.  

Question, and Answer

 Herself speaks.

One of the things I miss most about my lovely Daddy, is how, every now and then, when we had that ever-so-rare moment to ourselves, he would ask, "How are you doing?" 

I would always be caught off guard by the question. It's as if he somehow knew that there was something else, something deeper and perhaps more painful, behind the deliberately bland/benignly cheerful/otherwise quiet persona that I carry around with me. 

I was never completely honest with him. Primarily because I didn't want him to worry. (Or secondarily, to share anything too private with anything else.) And what could he do, anyway, if I told him that I was Tired or burnt out or worried about all the small things? 

Perhaps I was doing him a disservice by not letting him in. He would have gladly helped me to carry my burden -- whatever it was -- for a little while, if it could have brought me some peace. This I know.

I wonder if I could be more honest now, if he were still alive. Or perhaps, it is the freedom of knowing that he is both Nowhere and Everywhere all at once, that I can at last talk to him in my head instead, and tell him the Truth. 

Perhaps that is why I miss the question: because I am finally ready to answer. 

And that is just one reason why I miss my lovely Daddy: because he is the only one who ever asked the question.  

Well, Well, Well... Wellbutrin

Herself speaks.

I've been a bit quiet, because I've been thinking about something that needed my full inner attention. Something small, and yet big. A tiny thing, and yet a Big Thing. A miniscule request, with potentially rippling consequences (some potentially negative, many potentially positive). I thought, and thought, and then decided. 

I looked out over the past six years, all the way back to The Task (since that was monumental enough to be a solid landmark in time), and then looked forward again, and made myself a list of all the Happenings in that interval that were difficult, or required some form of life adjustment or adaptation, or needed a period of time of a month (or more) to get used to/get over/come to terms with the event or change. And I stopped adding to the list after I could reliably identify twenty-five different items -- and none of them were even ordinary daily items like Work or Chronic Migraine or Ordinary Stuff. 

All of them were varying levels of Big: the loss of the Tiniest and Fiercest of Warriors, of my very fine fur friend Mr. Uncle Tio, and of the very fine New Old Dog; the Divergence; minor surgeries and medical events of various levels of annoyance; the loss of my lovely father in law, and of my lovely Daddy (which, in addition to being heartrending, also came with a new set of responsibilities, which I undertook with love to honor my Daddy); the Pandemic and how terrible People behaved, and having COVID -- twice! -- with virtually no support system to help me during that time; the Inflection Point and the arduous recovery from it; and other events of similar degrees of size and shape. 

(I have not included specific mention in the listing here, of events that belong primarily to the Offspring or to Beloved Husband, in which I was a tangential player, for those are their stories; nevertheless, I play a supporting character in their lives, and what affects them, impacts me in certain ways, too.)

As we can see, though, there has been rather a lot. 

I'm Tired. Tired through and through, to the very core of my soul.  And you can read it, too, if you look through the Blog. 

This level of Tired means that my own personal wellbeing became such a low priority, that I could see that I wasn't really taking adequate care of myself -- not finding the time to exercise, not putting in the effort to ensure I was following the best migraine-free diet, not finding activities to do that I enjoyed. Because I enjoyed nothing. There has been no joy. Only Obligation, Numbness, and marching forward, doing the things that must be done. With a little despair thrown in here and there. 

So I gathered all of this, held it all carefully in my hands, and when I went to my annual physical yesterday, said to my lovely doctor: 

Let's talk about anti-depressants, please. 

And she was ever so kind about it. 

We ran through the standard depression and anxiety questionnaires. I inwardly chuckled a bit at the depression questionnaire because the timeframe it asks about is, "In the past two weeks...." Two weeks?! Hell, I can do ANYTHING for two weeks. For two months. For two years, even. And she also asked me what the biggest stressors were, and I told her a few of the twenty-five things, and though I couldn't quite look at her when I mentioned the worst of them, it was pretty clear that what I said was somehow clearly... enough for one person to be dealing with. 

I passed (failed?) the depression questionnaire, though I have virtually no anxiety -- which does not surprise me. Things are going to happen, whether I worry about them or not; at this point, I just hitch up my pants and do what needs doing next.  We agreed on which antidepressant I should try, and it's one that is least likely to have weight gain as a side effect, since one of my side goals is to lose weight. (I probably will, if I can feel my feelings rather than eat them.) The prescription was called into the pharmacy even before the end of the visit. She gave me a hug before I left, and I felt embarrassed that someone actually cares. And her assistant told me, when she walked me to the exit, that it would get better. 

I want to believe that they were being genuine and kind. I am unused to spontaneous kindness from other people. Especially people who don't want something from me. 

It was a tough choice to decide to ask for help.  I spent a lot of time thinking about the ramifications of what it would mean to have a diagnosis of clinical depression in my medical records. Will medical professionals take me less seriously in the future? "Oh, your symptoms are because you're depressed."  Well, it's possible I'll get that. But is that any worse than "It's because you're fat"?  Because we all know that's a standard "diagnosis" for women, too. 

Maybe, with the antidepressant, I'll eventually be able to be less fat, because I'll have the wherewithal to take better care of myself. Really, that's my goal: a few store-bought neurotransmitters, to take the edge off of the level of Terrible, so I can do better for myself.  Someone needs to take care of me. I am that Someone. 

I'm trying not to look at the whole situation as a personal failure. I can only Power Through so much. When I can no longer reach my own bootstraps to power through everything, though, it's time to get some assistance. Even though I would rather chew off my own leg than ask for help, it was definitely Time. 

I debated for a long time about whether I would write here about this issue. The stigma associated with Depression is, as always, very high, and I realize it's a risk to say certain things out loud. (Though I do want to give Kudos to the younger generations for being much more open about mental health and wellness than my generation and older generations.) But perhaps, that's all the more reason to say something. 

If there's a chance that, by reading my story, you can look at your own life and say to yourself, "I have plenty of Terrible and would like something to take the edge off, too", and you can then go ask your own doctor for help, then this is a story well told. 

I will -- either literally, or metaphorically -- be there to hold your hand while you ask for help, too. 

Anniversary/Lens

 Herself speaks.

My calendar reminded me that today is the wedding anniversary of my Daddy's brother and his wife, Uncle S. and Aunt M., who have both passed on. I hope that somewhere, somehow, their spirits are celebrating together. Such kind, gentle, and thoughtful people. Good souls. 

Thinking of them makes me think even more of my lovely Daddy. I have been thinking of him a lot lately.  There are things I wish I could say to him: things I didn't know I wanted to say -- until I had over a year of his absence from this world, and had time to reflect on all I have learned from his being gone.

Sometimes, Daddy, I think I understand you even better now. Or perhaps, I just understand myself better, through the lens of what I perceive parts of your life to have been like.

I miss you, Daddy. 

Rest easy. 

Thank you.