Reflections on Losing Dad Even Before He Was Gone & After

*Part I

Dad is cold despite the thermostat reading 78 degrees.
I watch my mother help him with his sweatshirt
He is tangled in the heart of the clothing and a little panicked
Mom is patient. Dedicated. Sorrowful. Grieving.
She guides his arm to the sleeve
He unintentionally works against her—the bit of progress they had made is undone as he pulls the sweatshirt back over his head as if to take it off.
A deep breath. And begin again.
This time it’s on.

Part II

The personality is gone
The vanity is gone
The reasoning is gone
The humor is gone
The balance is gone
The connection is gone
The grandfather is gone
The father is gone
The husband is gone
But. he. is. still. here.

Part III

The rabbi says a prayer in front of our family, and tells us how he too, has been through this.
I realize that he is distracting us from what is behind him.
There it is.
They are carrying the box. The coffin. It looks like it is unfinished wood. Light.

There it is. Oh my Dad. My dad is in there. I don’t want him to be in there. I want him to be beside me. Holding my hand maybe at some other occasion. I want him out of there.  Please let him out of there.

They attach the coffin to the straps that will lower it---that will lower him—his body down under the ground. Please. I don’t want this. I don’t want this. Please.

They lower it down. That light-colored box. Everyone is watching.

The service happens. Words are said in Hebrew and English.

~
The burial begins.
It’s my turn for the spade of dirt.

I climb on the boards that frame the enormous yet small hole that swallows the coffin.

I can’t do this. I can’t put this dirt on the box. I see the Jewish star on the coffin.

I balance and scoop the dirt.

I toss it on the box to join the small pile begun by my mother.  My mother who has lost her soulmate.

It is my sister’s turn. This is impossible for her, too. We are his girls.

Part IV

Shiva. 

Now I sit on my mother’s patio…one ear naturally listening for the sound of my dad’s sneakers to signal he will join us with his gin and tonic and his cigar.   May I hear those steps, look up and see him again?  I want to give him a big hug and kiss and tell him, that I love him--that I miss him. I miss him so much it hurts in my heart, my head, my bones. 

I fear that I will only remember the last few years when he was sick for they are seemingly all-consuming. I feel guilty for not wanting to remember those times…it was still him. It was still my father in there. But it was so hard--so much work to connect. I felt I was being condescending to him, so disrespectful to the smartest man I knew.

How will I get through this?  How do people do this?

Dreams

It's more than six years since Dad died.  I have seen him in my dreams several times.  He surprises me there, and he looks so very good each time. Handsome and healthy.  I always say the same thing, “Hi, Daddy!” Like I did when I would welcome him home from work as a little girl. He hugs me tightly and makes me feel that everything is okay even though he does not say a word.   I wake up with tears every time.

My memories of him being sick, being not himself, are mercifully fading.

*My father diagnosed himself from an article in the New England Journal of Medicine with PPA (Primary Progressive Aphasia) which was soon after confirmed by his doctors.  Over the course of a few years, he lost the ability to speak well, then to speak much at all.  Other faculties declined along the way including coordination.  It was a living nightmare for him.  My mother was an incredible wife and caregiver. My sister and I were as strong as we could be.  He passed away in June 2007 at the age of 60.  I wrote these reflections at the time of their context.  Edited for the blog.

"Because the Bunnies Float"

This "Total Change of Subject" is a quick one.  It's primarily a video post in honor of all of us who belt out the words to our favorite songs with loyalty and passion, but are called out by a friend, family member or stranger on the bus because we got the words loyally, passionately, and utterly wrong.

My husband still makes fun of me for my rendition of Billy Joel's, We Didn't Start the Fire that I "mis-sang" about 20 years ago.  Most would grant that reciting the words to this novelty song that rapidly lists 100 headline events would not be the easiest lyrics to nail, but I felt I was holding my own as we blared Billy and cruised down US1 toward the Dadeland Mall in Miami.

He pauses the song.

David: "Whoa.  What did you just sing?"

Me:  "What do you mean?

David: "Trouble in the what?"

Mindy:  Cautious. "The sewers?"

David:  "The sewers."

Mindy:  "Yes, the sewers.  There was trouble in the sewers." Confident now.  That's right, sewers!

David:  "The Suez.  Trouble in the Suez."

I will spare myself the embarrassing conversation that followed where I argued there could be rats in the sewers, and that would be--well--trouble.

So, here is our daughter's first recorded "misunderstood" lyric video.  She justifies hers just like I did mine.  We stand our ground, we Nash girls.

PS: We all know the common mis-heard lyrics, "Excuse me while I kiss this guy!" (...Kiss the sky) and "Wrapped up like a douc#e..." (revved up like a deuce).  Do you have a good one that really got you?  Would love to hear about it!

"Obliviate!" And Other Kid Solutions to Terrorism

“Mommy, wouldn’t it be cool if I could have used “Expelliarmus” against them?” (see Harry Potter’s magic spells for disarming your opponent.)

When faced with discussing formidable topics with children such as birth, puberty, adoption, death, illness, (or as I did on this particular morning: terrorism), it may be difficult to predict what their initial reactions and questions will be.  The decision of whether or not to broach a topic like September 11th is possibly a tender one for parents.  Will your child understand?  Will he have anxiety?  Will she become fearful when she was not before?  Or, will he want to use the "confundus" charm so the bad guys will get confused about what they were doing and the day will be saved?

On the morning of 9/11/13, I decided to chat with my almost seven-year old about the terrible events this anniversary represents.  I did this to honor the memories of those who died and to do my part of "never forget."

As my child exhausted the Harry Potter spells he would conjure to rid the planet of malice, he glommed on to the date itself and derived that he was not alive twelve years ago.  Was I surprised that he was trying to find some small ways to relate this event to himself?  Not at all.  How many of us think about where we were when the first tower fell? (Office of Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, a stone's throw from Miami International Airport).

He continued even more emphatically, “My SISTER wasn’t born then.  My COUSIN was ONE!  Mommy, how old were you?” (almost 26).

I showed him my Facebook feed which I had pre-screened. One after another, Facebook friends had posted, “Never Forget” with tribute images of the Twin Towers.  Some images had the towers standing tall; others showed the towers as reflections. A little more conversation followed.

A bit of the enormity began to sink in for him.

The possibility that evil could be real was working its way through a child’s filter where his family, his home, his school and his country swaddled him in love, comfort, protection and freedom.  As of yet, his sheltered lens had been marred only by movies that were assured to be fantasy, occasional nightmares that were shooed away by kisses and snuggles, or a bad day--no true evil in his radar.

He says, “Why were they so bad? Why would they do that? They killed themselves when they killed everyone. That’s stupid, isn’t it, Mommy? Why would they do that?”

We continue to chat. I do not have any real answers. I tell him he is safe.

He and I try to think, what it could possibly feel like for the families of the victims today. We agreed that during his moment of silence at school that day, he would think of them.  I would too.

I tell him that I say “never forget,” with heaviness, seriousness and sadness, about two historical events: the Holocaust (he remembers a previous discussion we had about Hitler and the loss of 6 million Jews) and on September 11th when the United States of America was attacked on her own soil.

In the afternoon, I pick my son up from school. “You were right, Mommy.  We all had our moment of silence for the nine-eleven people.” 

“Mommy, if I were on the plane I would use my karate on them.”

“Okay, honey.  That's a good plan, because I don't think they would let you bring your wand on the plane."

At the Core

It’s Rosh Hashanah, and to those who celebrate, L’Shanah Tova, (for a good year.)

A custom during Rosh Hashanah is to dip apples in honey for a sweet new year. My kids love the idea, but in reality they are not huge honey fans. For me, a little honey goes a long way, but I do appreciate the sentiment and ritual.

Speaking of apples and family, my husband pokes a bit of fun at me for how I eat a whole apple. Admittedly, I follow a specific pattern as I bite around the apple. The only other food for which I do this is a Kit Kat, but who doesn’t, right?

Back to apples, this note is not about my apple habit, but about his.

You think you know a guy.

Years of munching away at my apples, and I felt his mocking yet probably affectionate stares as we watched television, played a board game or chatted. Then, after three years into marriage, (eight years being side-by-side with this man), I happened to take pause while I observed him finishing his apple.

I will not draw this out. The man eats the entire apple—core, seeds and all. Okay, he leaves the stem.

Turns out his uncle and brother also eat the entire apple. How did not know this? Was he hiding it? Am I that unobservant? Yes I am, I have come to learn, although I still wonder how I missed it for eight years.

Razzing me about my apple-patterned eating proclivity is less permissible now, especially because low and behold without coaching, our youngest appears to have adopted a similar style as his mother. (Resisting an apple and tree reference.)

On this Jewish New Year I take time for deeper introspection than apple eating strategies, however I will also do what I can to appreciate sweet and simple moments of eating apples and laughing with the ones I love.