Mending

Ow

The Othering of May

 Every May, I remember anew: May is always terrible. 

May is always a full of change: the end of a school year. The Unmooring. Add to that the abundance of social gatherings associated with the various changes, and Otherings become more obvious than usual during this time. 

What are Otherings? They are those moments when I am acutely aware that I Do Not Belong. 

I am an Other, an Outsider. I have always been one. I am relatively comfortable being one. Every now and then, though, it makes me sad, because every now and then, I would like to Belong. 

It's hard to give examples, because they are little things. Things like -- when a group carpools, who is invited to ride with whom (when I become the afterthought-invitee as I get into my car by myself); conversations centering around things about which I have no experience or interest, such as gel manicures, or wine, or that yoga class which everyone else is attending but to which I was not invited; the omnipresent, low-grade language barrier when I am the only individual who does not have a solid grasp of conversational Spanish (that is my fault, though, I know). 

And upcoming, too, is a college reunion that Beloved Husband and I will be attending. On the one hand, I am looking forward to it a little bit, in a "returning to one's roots" sort of way. I loved school, in that school has always been one of the things I have been good at. (Math! Science! Concrete answers! The best!) On the other hand, college was also a very isolating and Othering time. I didn't really know how to make friends. (It was always hard to figure out with whom to sit in the dining hall or in class.) Socializing? Complex and nuanced beyond comprehension. So much people-ing. So many things I did not understand. So much loneliness. Reunions is a microcosm of that -- who remembers whom? Who wants to talk to whom? 

Compounding the difficulty at the moment, is my current sense of Self. I'm a middle-aged, chunky, nothing-special-to-look-at woman: nothing to see here. I've lost that one edge I had in college -- my physical form as "the person most wanted to spend five minutes in the closet with" (a silly vote among my peer group at the time, a weirdly bittersweet memory now). I don't want to be perceived.  But how can I Belong, if I am not Perceived? It's a quandary. 

I don't think my People understand. Beloved Husband, eternally cheerful, eminently sociable, ever Belonging -- I cannot explain to him. Cherished Friend is too literally and perhaps metaphorically distant right now to have the conversation to explain. My siblings are extroverts with friend lists as long as my arms. They are not Others. I am the Other. 

I need to come to term with my Other-ness. I will never be anything other than Other, I know. Right now, though, I would love, for a few minutes, to feel as though I Belong. 

Oh Deer

At the park, this week. 

Delightful.

Lessons from Daddy

These are my remarks from Daddy's memorial service/celebration of life. It was the best I could do, to try to honor him, with words. 

Daddy was a man of few words. And because he was so quiet, it was important to watch and to listen carefully, to learn his lessons. I’d like to talk about a few of his most important lessons, that I carry with me and try to use in my own life every day.

Lesson One: be kind.

Daddy never said an unkind word about other people, and he looked for the good in everyone. He always spoke kindly to our friends, and about our friends to us. One of the best examples of his kindness to others, is how Daddy was especially kind to my husband even before we got married – when he and I were still engaged and living in separate cities, Daddy would take him out to places like Woolworths to make sure he had everything he needed for graduate school. Daddy made sure that he felt welcome in the family from the very beginning, and I am so grateful for that. The lesson: be kind to others, always.

Lesson Two: be patient.

Daddy was endlessly patient, both in thought and in action. He thought everything through carefully and methodically, and then took action. He was always patient with us, and with other people too – I rarely heard him raise his voice toward anyone. Toward the end of his life, I was most struck by his patience with himself. He took his time to do what he could, to enjoy small pleasures like the Sudoku or the word puzzles in the newspaper, and to patiently accept help as needed. I am so grateful that we were able to help Daddy toward the end, the way he had helped us for so long. The lesson: take your time and be patient, with others, and with yourself.

Lesson Three: be yourself.

Daddy was always supportive and encouraging of the things we liked, even if they were a little silly or unusual. When we were little, if asked, he would always sing us a song goodnight. He would write out math problems on napkins for us to solve while we were waiting in restaurants. When I took up taekwondo in my 40s, he came to my black belt test. If something was interesting or meaningful to us, it was interesting and meaningful to him, and he would remember and ask about it. I am so grateful that the things that were important to me, were also important to Daddy. The lesson: be yourself, because that is the way to find happiness.

The most vital lesson of all: Make sure people have what they need.

Daddy was, most of all, a caretaker. In high school, if we were going out to lunch with friends, he would slip us some extra money. He would make sure the car was always full of gas. He paid endless tuition bills without blinking, and made sure we had the best educational opportunities. All kinds of things were magically taken care of in the background, without us having to worry about a single thing.

He continued to be that way when we all entered into adulthood. He made sure we knew how to get a good interest rate to buy our first houses, he changed light bulbs or bought a new toaster oven when he visited. All things large and small, he would see what was needed and would quietly help to take care of it.

And every year for the past twenty years or so, Daddy would send us an updated copy of what he called the “Death” letter – in one of our regular phone calls, he’d mention cheerfully, “I’m going to send you an updated Death letter!” “OK, thanks Daddy!” He was so practical. When the time came to finally actually dive into the Death letter, it contained everything we could possibly need for probating his estate and settling his affairs. He wanted to make absolutely sure that even after he was gone, he would still be taking care of all of us. Thanks, Daddy.

Daddy always ended every phone conversation with, “Do you need anything?” And even though I don’t really need anything, if I could ask for one thing now, it would be for one more opportunity to say, thank you, Daddy, for your lessons, and for everything.

I'm Fine

 Herself speaks.

I'm back in my corner of the southwest, after having traveled for my Daddy's memorial service/celebration of life.  It was a very nice event, but it was a Lot to process. It's slow-going, mentally.

The easy part was welcoming people to the service: my parents' old friends; Dad's colleagues and coworkers; relatives I hadn't seen for decades. So lovely to see you. Thank you all so much for being here. I'm so glad you could come. 

The hard part, apparently, was a week later when my primary care doctor -- who knew about the service because it came up while she was taking recent medical history -- asked me how I'm doing with Dad's death. 

That's a difficult question to answer. 

I'm fine, all things considered. But nothing is fine. I have new ongoing responsibilities, and there are things that happened in the last stages of Daddy's illness and around his death that I would like to forget but cannot, and Grief is constantly beside me and sits in the passenger seat of the car wherever I go and is oftentimes like Sisyphus' rock before me as I move through each day. 

The things I want: A reprieve from the sorrow. To have all weight lifted, just momentarily. To be enfolded in a way that makes me feel protected. To be cared for in a way that does not make me feel like I am a burden. Intangibles -- safety, warmth, tenderness. Peace. These are hard asks in Life. Will I find them? 

One day at a time. 

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