Mom and Dad are everywhere

Dad gave Jordie his Tundra last November. 

Jordie and I spent most of yesterday together while he was home for the weekend. The time was special to me because we actually talked quite a bit. We even talked about our grief, and some of the things we have experienced in the past year. (Oct. 16 will mark the beginning of what I truly believe was a traumatic experience for us all.) I also felt like my parents were right there with us, because everything we did and said seemed to circle around, right back to them.

We visited Dale and Connie Blaut at the hospital; it's been two weeks since Dale had a series of heart attacks and then surgery. Hopefully, he will be going home soon (just so he can heal enough to have another surgery in a couple of months). Dad and Dale were tight, tight, tight. If men had BFFs, I would call Dale one of Dad's. They coached, they golfed, they ate foods their wives wouldn't approve of, they drank coffee ... everything. Only God knows what the heck they talked about! And Dale was with Dad almost every day until Dad died. I grew used to seeing Dale in my house every day, as if he were just part of the family. It was the same with Leslie Broadhurst.

I realized when sitting with the Blaut's yesterday that Dad's friends had become family to us. They were always there, both physically and emotionally. I did not know how much I missed those coaching buddies of his — and their wives — until we sat with Dale and Connie yesterday. I loved catching up, and I wanted to hear more. I have really, really missed the Blaut's, the Broadhursts, the Weese's and the Lombards. And yesterday, I saw a post from Ronnie Glenn on Facebook and thought, "Awww, there's Ronnie!" (Facebook has been a great tool for keeping up with people, if only just a little bit.)

Dean Weese celebrated his 80th birthday Saturday with a surprise party. I told Jordie yesterday that I should call Dean and sing him the "Very Merry Unbirthday" song to him, in memory of Dad. Dad's tradition was to call us after our birthdays and sing the song. I loved seeing the pictures of Dean with his family, and his great big smile. I had only seen a very sad and troubled face before.  When the Weese's came to visit us during Dad's illness, one of our caregivers, Barbara, whispered to me, "Mr. Dean is taking this so hard."

Jordie and I had to run to the store yesterday, too. I got some cash and handed it to him. He said, "No! I don't need this!" I told him to take it anyway. He said, "Well, OK. Thanks, Granddad." I told him somebody had to take over! (My dad was notorious for stuffing wads of cash in Jordie's pocket every time he came to visit.)

We talked about Dad's truck and how I've enjoyed driving it, and that I no longer see myself with a BMW instead. I just like the truck. :-)

And I spent a big part of yesterday afternoon hanging out in the yard with Blaze, our newly adopted kitty that my mom adored; Blaze is one of three kitties my parents took care of in their backyard, although one would run off for months at a time, so he almost doesn't count. It was like Mom was there with Blazie and me.

Of course, not all the memories that came back were happy ones, although I'm grateful that now I have the good ones that make me smile and not just cry. I was able to recognize that growth yesterday, too.

When we drove into the BSA parking lot, the same way I always drove in every day for two months after Mom's stroke last year, I felt nauseated. Walking through that hospital, into that elevator, seeing all the healthcare professionals coming in and out of Dale's room, and especially noticing the pullout bed where Connie had been sleeping were enough to send me back to ugliness for awhile. How, other than by God's grace, did we get through that? What a terrible, horrible, awful, traumatic time. There is no other way to describe it.

In spite of that, yesterday was amazing, once again thanks to Jordie and Dad's friends. And I suspect another corner has been rounded in being able to notice and relish the happy times.

I only want to know ...

I have had an emotionally difficult week. I've fallen through whatever protective cloud I've been living in the last few weeks, and I'm back to the reality of sadness. I don't know, did I go through denial again? Did "Moving Day" snap me out of it?

I realized while running the other day that the way I miss my parents is like when I was a kid, and I went away to basketball camp, or to stay with my Mama Lo and PaPa for a week — and even when I was in college and lived in Lubbock for a couple of years.  I would miss my parents terribly, and if I allowed myself to focus on missing them, I would feel horribly sad and homesick. But then I would remind myself that it's only temporary, and I would see them again soon. Much like putting a bandaid on a strawberry burn, I would be all better for a while.

Back then, I could call them, or write them when I missed them. (Back in the Mama Lo and PaPa days, we wrote real, honest-to-goodness, handwritten and mailed letters!!) And, then, I always knew the end date. I had a definitive light at the end of my homesick tunnel.

I'm lost knowing I may not see my parents again for years and years and years. I'm going to feel this void indefinitely. When I have been feeling good about things, I've been able to remind myself I will see them again, and they're all good and happy and all that wonderful stuff. But when I am down, as I have been since Moving Day, I am focused on the forever part of what I don't know.

So in this week of reflection, I've been able to finally pull together in my mind all the things that have randomly floated around like scraps of notepaper since Mom and Dad died. I need — OK, maybe it's more of a want — to know some things to get me through this awfulness.

I want to know what my mother was thinking all those sad, sick months. I want to know how she perceives it all now, from the other side — from a healthy side. I want to know what she was trying to tell us all those times she struggled to communicate. I want to know she understands we did the best we could to take care of her, that we were heartbroken for her condition and her personal suffering.

I want to know whether my mom felt a reconnection with me at the end. Did she know how special that time was to me, even though the circumstance was sad, unfortunate and painful?

I want to see my mom happy, enjoying all the little things she loved. I want her to acknowledge that I recognize I share many of the same enjoyments she did — especially collecting little treasures, piddling in domestic activities, learning new things and taking care of kitties. I recognize we truly weren't that different. Fall is my favorite, too, Mom.

I want to know how my mother felt when she reached heaven and reunited with all three parents. How did she feel about what she learned? How was it to meet the baby?

Does my mother understand how difficult it feels to figure out what to do with all the things she cherished? Is she ok with the decisions we are making?

Does my mother realize how badly I want to know everything she was thinking and feeling during her life? I look at her pictures, and I think, "What was that little girl like?" or "What were you thinking that moment in time?" Mom, I wish you had shared more of your thoughts and feelings with us — more of what you were like growing up.

And, Dad. I wonder the same things about him, yet what he must have been like in his younger days is not as much of a mystery to me — I think because he and I were alike in so many ways and because we've discussed a shared experience many times.

Does my dad now see the story of my life? And does he now have the whole picture of what he meant to other people? He admitted when he was dying and everyone was reaching out that he couldn't wrap his head around it all.

I want to ask Dad if I did ok at the end. Does he know I did my best? Kim took her much needed opportunity to share special times with him at the end; did I waste mine?

Dad, could you hear us talking at the end? What did you think? Did you laugh at us? Did you feel badly for us? Were you trying to tell us everything is ok? What about Kim on your final day with us, when you held her hand?

Do my parents know how empty life feels right now, in spite of all the blessings I have? Do they know how guilty I feel for enjoying myself sometimes? Do they know I feel guilty enjoying their things, and the gifts they left behind?

Do my parents know how blessed I feel that they were my parents, and that I am so grateful, as Winnie the Pooh said, to have loved something (them) so much as to feel such a great loss?

I would really, really appreciate that visit.

Moving day and more changes

Beautiful Blaze has a new home at our home.

We moved furniture from my parents' house over the weekend; we only took the things that Kim and I each will have in our homes. At some point down the road, we will have an estate sale for what is left. 

It's interesting how a person can be stressed out before that knowledge reaches consciousness. That's what happened to me, I guess. I've had a couple of nervous habits since my childhood. Every once in awhile, they reappear, usually under extreme duress. When I find myself engaging in any of those behaviors, I know I'm stressed. I've never been a nail biter, either, but I chewed off every nail on my fingers Saturday.  I cussed like a sailor all day Saturday, too. That's indicative of hidden anger I'm harboring. Why, I don't know. I suppose I'm still just not quite accepting this whole situation ... 

By Sunday, the chronic migraine I've been carrying raged. 

Mom and Dad's house looks sad and empty. I have no words to describe the void I feel. While Kim and I decided we would view taking more treasured pieces of furniture out to have in our own homes as honoring and remembering our parents, the sadness remains. These changes are yet more reminders our parents are gone. 

One piece of furniture I brought home used to be in one of my auntie's houses in Childress. I now have it in my dining room, displaying my parents' china. My mom had the china stored, but I'm bringing it out for two reasons. One, I think it's a beautiful symbol of my parents' long, hard-fought and rewarding love relationship. Two, the china Dorsey and I had — though fine dining rarely occurs in our home anyway — used to belong to him and his ex-wife. I know. Weird. There hasn't really been anything "normal" about our relationship. :-)

The cabinet, the china, crystal and some cut glass pieces.
If you can see the salt and pepper shakers in the front,
those were painted by my great grandmother. 

I also brought home a hope chest that had been in the family, which I will use to store my dad's keepsakes. You know, things like plaques, newspaper articles, awards, memorabilia, objects significant to him ... 

Dorsey and I swapped out our kitchen table and chairs for my parents'. And I brought Chloe's kitty things over, too. 

As you can see, Chloe is happy to have her throne back.

Kim and I divided up the family quilts from my dad's side of the family, and other things, of course. Kim took quite a bit of the furniture from the Childress family. 

Everything we left is still in the house. Everyone has said, "Don't get rid of anything. You might regret it later." Anyone who has been in our position has advised us to wait until much later to make final decisions.

We will. The rest of the things will remain so that if we change our minds about something, it's still there. No hurries yet. 

Last but not least, I finally brought Blaze over to our house. Blaze is the beautiful orange kitty my parents had been feeding outside for several years. I didn't want to disrupt his little life, but decided it was time because he had to be lonely. When Socks reappears, I will bring him over, too. Yes, I truly do fit criteria for Crazy Cat Lady. 

So the journey continues. I'm still hoping and praying God will allow Mom and Dad to pay me a visit. 

Still rounding the corner

If I stop and look at myself and my behavior from far away, I can see I'm progressing in the grieving process. It's been just about four months since Mom and Dad died, and I continue to notice new things. (But first I have to say I can't believe it's been four months; it still seems like yesterday because they are always right there with me.)

I shared in my last post that our trip to Sandpoint allowed me to truly take a step forward in enjoying life again. I didn't know whether being home would set me back, or whether I would continue to move forward.

I think I'm still rounding the corner. I say that because now I can look at the pictures we took after Mom had her stroke in October of last year. I can look at them. I still feel the pain, but I don't avoid them anymore. And when I see some of those pictures, especially those of my parents in those last days, I have reposted them on Facebook. Yes, I know you've seen them all before. But I need them to be right where they are at this time. Facebook friends, bear with me.

I've also posted memes about missing moms and dads.

Some might say I'm stuck on Mom and Dad. I might even have said that about myself if I were actually observing someone else.

I can now see it's simply a matter of revisiting these things with a new pair of glasses. The pain is not so raw I have to avoid them. I can see now I'm moving toward viewing pictures of that time as sweet memories.  Not yet, but I'm getting there.

I also came home from that trip and worked in the yard — in the bird garden we created for my mom. I hadn't touched it since she died. I had simply lost interest in the yard and stopped spending time in it or on the patio. But last week, I pulled weeds, refilled the bird feeders and the bird bath, cleaned up the patio furniture and the grill, and have spent nearly every day on the patio, reading a book or playing with the cats.  I've felt "normal" again.

I also repurposed the "little room" that's part of our master room and bath. That room has been several things since it was first created by Mary and Dick, Dorsey's parents. They used it as a small office. When we bought the house, we also used it as Dorsey's office. A couple of years ago, I made it into more closet space. When Dad moved in last year, I cleared it out to make it his space, if he wanted it. (Turns out, he didn't.) When Mom moved in, we made it her space; it just fit her bed and her belongings.

When Mom and Dad died, I made that space my "mom cave." I put the recliner we had bought for Mom's room at Good Life in it, and the space became my hideaway.

When I returned from Sandpoint, I no longer felt the need to hide away. I realized I have our bedroom, the couch, and a pretty space in the living room in which I could either nap or do my morning study routine.

Panorama of my closet addition.

I gave the recliner to another family member and turned the area into holding more closet shelf space again.

We have some sad times still left on our to-do list with my parents' things. Oct. 16 is a month away ... the day this all began. We have Mom's birthday, Dad's birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas ... they're all coming.

But like everything else, I must confront these things and move through them. As I've learned from others who have been through the loss of parents, though, no matter what steps I take forward, the loss will always feel new and surreal.

I miss my parents more today than ever.

Potatoes, huckleberries and bling

City Beach, Sandpoint, Idaho

My time in amazing Sandpoint, Idaho, ended yesterday. Dorsey and I had been in Northwest Idaho for 9 days, most of that in Sandpoint, although I spent a day and way too much money in beautiful Coeur d' Alene.  But I did my part to support the Sandpoint economy, as well. I'm sure they cried when I left. (I did get some hugs, though.)

While Sandpoint is only a relatively short distance from Canada, I didn't go because I had so many things to see and do in the potato state — yummy french fries at Mack Duff's. I'll save Canada for at least a four-year stay in the unfortunate event that either Donald Trump or Kanye West becomes President of the United States. (I shudder to think about these two outrageous, attention-seeking, egomaniacs in that role.)

Dorsey has had work in the northwest for months; he's already done the Coeur d' Alene thing several times. I wasn't able to go on those trips — or any other for more than a year in order to be with my parents.  In fact, this is the first work trip since before my parents got sick that I have traveled with Dorsey. I didn't realize how much I'd missed it until a sense of normalcy seemed to settle upon me while there.

Like Bend, Oregon (still my fave), I could easily see myself living in Sandpoint. It's pretty. It's small. It's a physically active town — you can walk just about anywhere. I love the clothing styles (except maybe the overuse of Birkenstocks), it's laid-back personality, and my political beliefs fit more naturally with this part of the country. (I have no idea how that happened, but it did, and I am grateful ... but that is a post for another time.)

I felt true happiness for the first time since my parents became ill. It's as if my little spirit came alive and said, "OK, fly." And so it did.

Tierra Madre, my twice daily
juice stop.

While Dorsey worked during the days, I developed a little morning routine of coffee on the deck at Starbucks, walking around the beach and the town's walking trail, and then heading over to the juice bar for breakfast.

Yes, I kept up my juicing while in Sandpoint. At least I could feel somewhat healthy in the middle of enjoying things like chocolate mousse, key lime pie, ice cream and oatmeal cookies. (It's definitely time for a three-day reboot.)

And sort of as an aside, I would so like to open a juice bar kind of like Tierra Madre, my favorite Sandpoint juice joint, but I don't believe Amarillo would support it.

Resident kitty

After I had gotten ready for the day and loved on the hotel's resident kitty, I explored Sandpoint, shopped, browsed the town's massive used book store, read lazily (I found a new author I liked that I pulled from my mother's bookshelf!), and made myself a few friends from Sandpoint.

I spent much of my time conversing with the locals about their town, about Idaho and about mutual interests. I've never really done that in my travels before, but now I know I've short-changed myself all this time. Or maybe it was just that Sandpoint people are friendly? (OK, not the witch at the laundromat; there are a few bad potatoes in every sack.) I don't know. I do know I had a nice experience and learned many interesting little facts.

For example, Lake Pend Oreille — pronounced Ponderay — is the eighth largest in the U.S., — Tahoe is sixth — and it was formed from an ice glacier thousands of years ago. I also learned about sweet and amazing ospreys and asshole bald eagles. Really, bald eagles may look majestic, but they aren't very nice. I compare them to human sociopaths. And huckleberries abound! Huckleberry jam, huckleberry syrup, huckleberry ice cream, huckleberry sauce, huckleberry chocolate, huckleberry tea ... probably even huckleberry beer.  I even learned that the reason the Philly Cheesesteak Sandwiches at Joe's AUTHENTIC Philly Cheesesteaks are authentic is because the ingredients, such as meat and rolls, come from Philadelphia.

First night dinner on the lake.

Dorsey and I headed out every night to try nearly all of Sandpoint's restaurants. For a town of not quite 8,000 people, the number of excellent restaurants surprised us. Everything we tried was good, either because of food, atmosphere or both. Several restaurants also featured local live music, which I'm always good for.

As I always do when I travel, I wondered in amazement at the quirky, different,  special, beautiful and even annoying things about the town and culture. For example, driving in Idaho sucked because speed limits are no higher than 65, at best. And apparently, people don't understand the concept of slow traffic confining itself to the right lane. One girl gave me a special wave out the window after I made an honest driving mistake — I didn't know the highway well enough to know two lanes were about to merge into one ... Geez.

It struck me yet again about how, growing up in Texas, I somehow internalized an overly exaggerated sense of pride in the state of Texas ... so much so that I never considered or imagined other parts of the country could be more amazing or offer anything special. Crazy and snobbish, I know. Now all I want to do is visit every part of the United States ... and other countries, too, of course. I believe I have developed a bad case of "the greener grass syndrome."  I always come home to Amarillo wanting to move. Someday maybe we can, but not yet.  (Give me a break, OK? I have lived in Amarillo for more than 40 years. Change is warranted.)

Weekends and summer days.

When I have an extra mil or two.

So pretty.

I think a final thing I noticed on this trip is my love of bling. It's back! When Mom and Dad were sick, I cared only about getting dressed in my yoga pants and t-shirts, and throwing my hair up in a big ponytail clip. Unlike me, I often went days without makeup. I just didn't care. When Dad moved in, I went through my closet and got rid of bag after bag of clothing and jewelry, and what I didn't get rid of then, I tried again after they died. I didn't care about my shiny stuff much. I got rid of lots of fashion jewelry, which I used to crazily adore. I didn't care anymore. I figured I was just getting old and had completely outgrown my midlife crisis of a few years back.

But Idaho ... particularly Coeur d'Alene ... changed that.

Not only does the shiny, blingy stuff rule again, I have created a new wardrobe.

I'm home now, and I have no idea whether my apparent turn of a corner will last. I still grieve. I will never get used to being an orphan. I think of my parents every day, and I worry that the further away their deaths get from me, the further away they get from me. I am now back around familiar things, and we still have their homes and belongings to take care of.  It's still early in this grief game, I think.

I just know that I liked feeling good again, if at least for a little while.

I'm truly grateful for the experience and hope to return to Idaho someday.