Long Days, Short Years, Stiff Drinks

I know what you're thinking.  Thank goodness!  It's about time that girl got herself in therapy.  She sure as hell needs it. But alas, you are wrong. Per usual, I'm self therapizing, but this time, it's in a super healthy and wonderful way. On Saturday I leave for a much awaited, excessively needed, and very exciting week long solo trip to Mexico for rest, relaxation, reflection, and healing.  Twice daily yoga, spa treatments, the beach. In short, my personal heaven. I originally had this trip booked for September 19.  That didn't work out.  So I rebooked for post holidays when I anticipated being more able to reflect, more willing to truly enjoy myself, more capable of having a quiet mind, and more ready to receive all of the healing benefits of salt, sweat, and sun. I'm ready, friends.  I.  Am.  Ready. I haven't felt this optimistic in quite some time.  Since before you know what. I catch glimpses of this optimism i...

Today is a special day.  And an especially hard day.   Harder than I anticipated, but how could I know?   It is the next of many firsts.   First Thanksgiving, on which we spread some of his remains into Lake Houston and cried and laughed as the wind spread them back on the boys and they delighted in being dirty.   First Christmas, when I returned to the last place I’d been before my life changed forever, to a spot where we swung from the bridge above and smiled at the simplicity of watching cousins make mud pies.   First New Year’s Day, watching football and slurping my husband’s homemade pho, a tradition that he enjoyed with us the last few years since relocating to Houston.   And now the first birthday, his, without him.  He would have been 67.  I hate that he didn’t make it.   I filled my day with appointments and tasks, hoping to avoid a downpour, hoping to hide from the inevitable, hoping to keep my hopes up, ...

I chose a table out of sight.  Not exactly a corner, but behind the beverage station and as quiet as could be found in a lively place.  It wasn't crowded or anything, being eleven AM on a Thursday, but I was there to get some work done and needed little distraction.  Maybe also, I knew it was coming.  And I was drawn to a bit of privacy in a public setting. The tidal wave had been building all week.  Vivid dreams.  Strange things keeping me from real rest. An active sleeping period that's left me drained in the morning, even when falling into an exhausted heap at nine the night before.  Moments of intense anxiety.  A scratching feeling on my gut and the desire to scream that I didn't want this to be this way.  I wasn't ready.  I don't accept this.  I can't really get this. I nestle into my semiprivate kind-of-corner cozy spot and flip open my notebook to start clicking away and a Simon & Garfunkel tune floats over the air...

Through those life changing and foggy (not even) few months from my dad's diagnosis to his death, I experienced every emotion in the human spectrum of feelings, some of them for longer periods than others.  Some of them I hope to never feel again.  Some of them I feel today.  Some of them I will always feel. There was one that I actively pursued, though.  A feeling that I sought out and brought to my attention in dark and light hours alike. That feeling is gratitude. I was so incredibly grateful that even though we had a shockingly short amount of time left with him, we had SOME.  We could talk, share, ask, and care for one another in a way that is unique to knowing the end is near. I was so incredibly grateful for my current position as a stay-at-home mom so that I could be there and do what needed to be done without worry of lost income, time off, or leave policies. I was so incredibly grateful that the timing worked out in such a way that my brot...

My dad was really, really funny.  Whether you'd known him your entire life or for a few short moments, he had you in stitches.  Blushing, likely, too.  It was one of his many innate gifts.  I've finally cried enough in all of this to be able to do something else.  Laugh. In addition to the humor gene he thankfully passed along to us, my brother and I were lucky enough to have received years of training in timing and delivery.  But his humor was not for the faint of heart.  It was crude and crass and his comedy, as well as his everyday language, was peppered with profanity.  I'm unashamed to say that the not so subtle art of swearing was passed along to us as well. Ah, fuck it.  It's just the Sears way. He loved to tell the story of a family trip over Christmas to New England when I was about ten.  We'd gone snow skiing for the first time ever and being completely unexperienced with skiing (and snow for that matter) I became rat...

That's right.  I said it.  The weekends are the worst. In my experience with loss thus far, the weekends seem like this vast expanse of time I have in front of me with nothing to do but deal with my thoughts and feelings.  Absent are the routines and busy schedules that fill our weekdays and make time march efficiently forward with less space to think and feel the absence of him. With looser schedules and lazier days come quiet times to reflect.  The very qualities that I used to relish about our weekends together as a family are the qualities that now leave me anxious, restless, and longing for Monday for the first time in memory. With nothing pressing to do and heavy feelings pinning me down, I inevitably turn to distractions that make the weight easier to bear.  Sitting outside on game day, playing with our kids, having quality, relaxed family time is a healthy distraction and I couldn't get through this without my husband's steady love and support n...

I'm a creature of habit. I enjoy structure, routine, and getting things done, one check list item at a time.  Like my dad did, I find comfort in knowing what will happen next, what I need to do, and what my day/week/month will look like. This personality trait and way in which I manage my life left me feeling extremely disconcerted when I found myself in the position of not knowing what the hell to do with myself.  When my dad was first diagnosed, I'd spend what seemed like long periods of time doing nothing.  I was stuck, paralyzed with the news and unable to manage much of anything, much less lead a productive life. But day by day, out of sheer necessity, I started getting things done.  It started with the most simple tasks, like:  Get out of bed.  Put food in your body.  Brush your son's teeth.  Take a shower. A shift occurred when we moved in with Dad.  Things needed doing and we were there to do them.  I remember every meal ...