It's been a long time since I've taken the time to write. Not even sure where I would begin to explain all that has taken place since I last sat down to put my thoughts out there.
Yes, my dad is still with us. He's hanging in there and every day that we have him here with us is a blessing.
My father is now in hospice care and has been for a few months. Surprisingly, it's not the ALS that has him there. It's the bladder cancer. It's returned and has become more aggressive. Due to the ALS and what it is has done to his body, he can no longer survive any form of treatment for the cancer so every day it continues to wreak havoc on his system as his body begins to shut down.
But I'm not here to write about my father dying today. I'm here to write about one of my fondest childhood memories that includes him and I.
My oldest son began 3rd grade last week. He started at a new school and has been looking forward to the start of a new year...except for ONE thing...running the mile for PE. We got to talking about his fear today and I told him a story of his grandfather and his mother when she was around his age.
I too had a fear of running in PE when I was Jackson's age. In 4th grade, we had to run the eight eighty (I write it out like that because I have no idea how they would write it when it comes to running)
I DREADED that run and I would often complain about it. I would drag my feet in gym class each and every day as we prepared for it and soon I made the mistake of complaining about it to my father.
Ya see, my dad is kind of a big deal when it comes to running. He was a track star in his youth and still holds track records in Gary, Indiana. In fact, the local paper in Gary recently featured an article about my father and where he is in life today. Boy...what a change there.
Instead of drying my tears about this dreaded run or writing me a note to get out of it, my dad did something a little different.
For WEEKS leading up to that test, he took me out to the school field with a stopwatch in hand and made me run. I would run...and run...and run...and he would stand there and time me. I would run until I hit a time he found acceptable. While all my other friends were out playing in their yards or riding their bikes, I was out running. Saturday and Sunday. Every week. Until the day came for the test.
The day we were set to run the eight eighty, my father showed up at school during my PE class and met the teacher out on the field. He wasn't alone though. No. He brought HIS stopwatch. He didn't trust the PE teacher to time me correctly so he relied on his OWN watch.
I. Was. Mortified.
I had NO idea he was going to show up...let alone time me himself.
The PE teacher blew his whistle and we started running. I looked at my father in the center of the field and knew I better pick up my god damn knees or there was going to be hell to pay...so I started moving.
Keep in mind I'm in 4th grade ok.....
So I'm out running and I'm passing people.
One by one I pass friend after friend...boy after boy.
Soon I start lapping people.
But because I'm a little 4th grade girl, I decide that I need to talk to my friends as I pass them. My father did not like this one bit. My father starts yelling at me, "Don't talk to your friends! RUN!"
I know he means business so I pass my friends and continue on.
I begin to lap the boys in class...and some of the faster ones too. Now my dad is REALLY getting fired up and he's yelling, "That's it!! Move your arms! Move your arms! Don't look back! Move your arms!"
My little feet kick it into high gear as I see my dad means business and I start to haul ass as fast as my little legs can take me. Soon I've passed everyone in the class...including Marc Cohen who is the fastest boy in school.
My dad is out in the middle of the field jumping up and down and yelling at me to "KEEP GOING! DON'T LOOK BACK! MOVE YOUR ARMS!" and I listen to every single word he yells until I hear Mr Schwartz blow the whistle as I cross the finish line. I collapse into a heap and watch all my friends sloooooowly start to cross the finish line as well. No one was there lighting a fire under THEIR asses...just mine.
Once everyone is finished, I see my father talking to Mr Schwartz and comparing their stopwatches...and then he looks at me, smiles and begins to walk home. As I'm laying on the floor near unconsciousness, I watch my father walk away and I think my father is certifiably nuts.
The rest of the day, the kids in school are talking about how there's a new "fastest kid" in school...faster than Marc Cohen or Kevil Coval...and it's a girl. She lives up to her name...Speedy Gonzalez.
I came home from school that day and found my father sitting at the kitchen table with a grin from ear to ear across his face. On the table was his stopwatch.
That is the first time I can remember seeing pride in my father's eyes when he looked at me. I remember it clear as day. I can see the lighting in our kitchen exactly the way it was and I can smell the dinner that was cooking. Even though I thought my dad was completely nuts, I knew in that small moment, I made him incredibly proud.
I told Jackson this story today when we talked about him having to run the mile. His reaction?
"Thank God YOU'RE not like that!"
Sad...I kinda wish I was.
Maybe I'll dust off his old stopwatch and push him out to the field when Jackson does his mile run just to recreate that smile again
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Monday, June 11, 2012
Chicken Scratch
Have you ever been asked the question, "What's the best gift you ever got for your birthday?"
I have on more than one occasion and I never have been able to answer it. I mean, I made out pretty well this year but I can't recall any other gifts that have blown my mind.
No one has ever really done anything big for me on my birthday. There have been no parties or surprises...no decorating...no balloons or confetti. Well...as a kid yeah but not as an adult. As an adult, my birthday has always just been like any another day. Outside of taking Jackson to the zoo every year, there's only one thing that I can remember that every truly made me feel special.
As a kid, we had this white, magnetic board attached to our refrigerator where we would make notes to remind ourselves of various things we needed to buy or places we had to be and at what time. On top of the refrigerator were 3 or 4 dry-erase markers that we would use on that board. There was always one that was barely hanging on with ink and if you used it, you were bound to forget what you had written because it was illegible. That always seemed to be the only marker I could ever reach.
On the morning of June 11th, I would walk into the kitchen and there on that board I would see my father's chicken scratch handwriting. The message was always the same. It was always in capital letters.
It always read 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LISA!!!!!'
My dad would be gone for work by the time I woke up so I wouldn't see him on the morning of my birthday unless it fell on a weekend. Even if I did see him, he'd still scratch that same message across the board. Every year. Never missing a single one. It wasn't until we changed refrigerators and the white board was pitched that the yearly birthday message ended.
Of all the gifts I've received over the years...all the cards, messages or phone calls...the ONLY thing I remember is my dad's handwriting on that little, white board. I remember how it would bring a smile to my face even when I was a jerk teenager. It always made me feel special. It always made me feel loved.
The board is now long gone. Even if it were still around, my father wouldn't be able to write out that simple sentence because of his hands.
Wait...I take that back. He probably WOULD try to write it but the letters would be illegible to anyone who tried to read it. Anyone but me. I would know what that scribble read and even at the age of 37, it would make my heart smile. It would make me feel special. It would make me feel loved.
So when asked what the best gift was that I've ever received for my birthday, my answer would my father's chicken scratch handwriting. No one would ever understand that answer.
Only my dad I would.
I have on more than one occasion and I never have been able to answer it. I mean, I made out pretty well this year but I can't recall any other gifts that have blown my mind.
No one has ever really done anything big for me on my birthday. There have been no parties or surprises...no decorating...no balloons or confetti. Well...as a kid yeah but not as an adult. As an adult, my birthday has always just been like any another day. Outside of taking Jackson to the zoo every year, there's only one thing that I can remember that every truly made me feel special.
As a kid, we had this white, magnetic board attached to our refrigerator where we would make notes to remind ourselves of various things we needed to buy or places we had to be and at what time. On top of the refrigerator were 3 or 4 dry-erase markers that we would use on that board. There was always one that was barely hanging on with ink and if you used it, you were bound to forget what you had written because it was illegible. That always seemed to be the only marker I could ever reach.
On the morning of June 11th, I would walk into the kitchen and there on that board I would see my father's chicken scratch handwriting. The message was always the same. It was always in capital letters.
It always read 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LISA!!!!!'
My dad would be gone for work by the time I woke up so I wouldn't see him on the morning of my birthday unless it fell on a weekend. Even if I did see him, he'd still scratch that same message across the board. Every year. Never missing a single one. It wasn't until we changed refrigerators and the white board was pitched that the yearly birthday message ended.
Of all the gifts I've received over the years...all the cards, messages or phone calls...the ONLY thing I remember is my dad's handwriting on that little, white board. I remember how it would bring a smile to my face even when I was a jerk teenager. It always made me feel special. It always made me feel loved.
The board is now long gone. Even if it were still around, my father wouldn't be able to write out that simple sentence because of his hands.
Wait...I take that back. He probably WOULD try to write it but the letters would be illegible to anyone who tried to read it. Anyone but me. I would know what that scribble read and even at the age of 37, it would make my heart smile. It would make me feel special. It would make me feel loved.
So when asked what the best gift was that I've ever received for my birthday, my answer would my father's chicken scratch handwriting. No one would ever understand that answer.
Only my dad I would.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
School's In Session
As parents, it's our job to teach our children right from wrong. We pick bits and pieces from what our own parents taught us and try to instill what we believe to be good morals and ethics.
When you really think about it, that's a HUGE job! I mean, what if you screw up? What if you forget something and you send an a$$hole out into the world?!? It's a lot of pressure!
My father was the disciplinarian in our home. My mom need only mention calling my dad at work and I'd stop doing whatever it was I was doing wrong. Immediately. Well...until 7th grade. Then I became a fearless jerk.
My dad wasn't a bad guy though. He was stern, but loving. Even though I was scared of him, I knew he loved me. He kept me in line...but in doing so, he taught me right from wrong. Although I acted like a jacka$$ for a few years there, it's life lessons that he taught me as a child that guided my adult life.
When I was young, there was a girl in my grade named Dana Robin. Outside of my core group of neighborhood friends, I considered Dana to be one of my best friends. But there was a problem...ya see, Dana was a b!#ch.
At school, Dana would decide, based upon the day, if she was going to be nice to me or not. Most of the time she wasn't. She would say mean things, make up lies about me, tease me or run away from me at recess....
There were plenty of days where I would come home crying because of what she had done to me.
Once the school bell rang and there were no other kids around, she suddenly wanted to be my friend. She would call and I would ride my bike over to her house 5 minutes later. It's not even like she was kind when I would go either. She'd still be somewhat mean...but I took it. I tolerated someone being nasty to me...taking advantage of me...hurting my feelings...for whatever reason, I tolerated it.
I'm not sure what exactly prompted it, but one day I was really upset and came home crying. It was at that point that my father had had enough. Even though the school bell had rang hours earlier, a new class was starting. It was called, "The Gonzalez class on how to grow a god damn backbone" and it was taught by my dad.
I'm not sure why I remember this particular class session so well this many years later. Perhaps it was the message...or more likely, it was the fact that it was the first time I heard my father swear. I think it was a little of both.
My father questioned me on why I would tolerate someone treating me like that. I would say, "Because she's my friend, dad." His answer would always be the same..."Someone who cares about you would NEVER EVER treat you like that."
Really? Huh...
Now here's the part that stuck...
He looked me dead in the eye and said, "Lisa, my dad had a saying in Spanish." (He'd then say the Spanish version but there's no way in hell I could write that one out)
"It means, 'Shit on me once...shame on you for doing it. Shit on me twice...shame on me for allowing you to do it to me again.' Do you understand? This isn't about Dana anymore. You allow her to do this to you over and over again. This is now about you. It's your fault because you continue to let it happen. You let her walk all over you. Now you can only blame yourself for putting up with it."
And to drive the point home? He grounded me. Yep...my notes to prep for life's future Dana Robins included a week or two of not being able to play with any of my friends, no phone, and I was forbidden from ever playing with Dana Robin again.
Looking back on it, it was an interesting lesson. While I thought he was horrible and mean back then, as an adult I look back on that moment and see how it forever changed me. It was at that time that I finally grew a god damn backbone. Hell...if I didn't he'd ground me again. It made me look at relationships differently. No longer was I a rug that you could walk all over or wipe your feet on.
Although my father taught many other classes, I think that was the one that impacted me the most. It molded me for future, adult relationships and taught me that I was worth more than that. It taught me that I DESERVED better...and to this day, it stuck.
I found myself teaching this same lesson to Jackson. It played out almost exactly the same. It included a kid who he considered to be his best friend that treated him like crap and him taking it like his mother once did. It included the "My father once told me..." speech. It even featured the grounding...although not as tough as I had gotten years back.
My father is obviously a far better teacher than I am, however. My class with Jackson wasn't as effective. Maybe it's because Jackson isn't as scared of me as I was of my dad. Or maybe it's because he thinks his teacher is full of s##t.
Whereas I never saw my dad having to answer to anyone, Jackson has seen me been yelled at at work and has seen me take it. He's seen me do exactly what it is that I tell him not to do. That was never the case with my father.
Perhaps I need to enroll Jackson in class with my dad.
When I look back on my adult relationships, I know that the Dana Robin lesson played a huge part in what I found acceptable. My dad taught me that I was worth more than what I had once thought and it carried over to my relationships...especially with men. The majority of the time, I would walk the minute I felt disrespected...but there were a few instances where I stayed because of what I thought was love. Each time I stayed, I'd think of my dad...how disappointed he'd be...how he taught me better.
I make it a point to teach Jackson to be stronger than I was/am. As a woman, it's hard but I try to teach him how to be a good man. I look back on the lessons my father taught me and those I have had to learn on my own. I stress the importance of being truthful and tell him the worst thing he could be in life is a liar. I teach him to respect others and to always think of their feelings before you act or speak. I teach him how to treat women...well, girls really...7 year old girls...but also the women in his life. I stress the importance of good friends and how to sustain those relationships. I teach him the importance of family. All the lessons I learned from my father...
But when I look back at all the lessons my father taught me...it all comes back to Dana. It all comes back to not allowing people to s##t on you. That was where my schooling really began and that's when I really became Lisa Gonzalez and not Lisa the Doormat.
I may have slipped a few times...I may have sold myself short and let some people treat me like s##t...but deep down I know I deserve more. I know I deserve better. I know right from wrong. I know to think of others before myself. I know the importance of family. I know the importance of being truthful...not only with others but also with myself.
That's more than I can say about other people I know.
I know all these things because my dad taught them to me.
In all my years of school, it turned out that my greatest teacher was not found in a typical classroom.
My greatest teacher...the one who really taught me about life...was my dad.
When you really think about it, that's a HUGE job! I mean, what if you screw up? What if you forget something and you send an a$$hole out into the world?!? It's a lot of pressure!
My father was the disciplinarian in our home. My mom need only mention calling my dad at work and I'd stop doing whatever it was I was doing wrong. Immediately. Well...until 7th grade. Then I became a fearless jerk.
My dad wasn't a bad guy though. He was stern, but loving. Even though I was scared of him, I knew he loved me. He kept me in line...but in doing so, he taught me right from wrong. Although I acted like a jacka$$ for a few years there, it's life lessons that he taught me as a child that guided my adult life.
When I was young, there was a girl in my grade named Dana Robin. Outside of my core group of neighborhood friends, I considered Dana to be one of my best friends. But there was a problem...ya see, Dana was a b!#ch.
At school, Dana would decide, based upon the day, if she was going to be nice to me or not. Most of the time she wasn't. She would say mean things, make up lies about me, tease me or run away from me at recess....
There were plenty of days where I would come home crying because of what she had done to me.
Once the school bell rang and there were no other kids around, she suddenly wanted to be my friend. She would call and I would ride my bike over to her house 5 minutes later. It's not even like she was kind when I would go either. She'd still be somewhat mean...but I took it. I tolerated someone being nasty to me...taking advantage of me...hurting my feelings...for whatever reason, I tolerated it.
I'm not sure what exactly prompted it, but one day I was really upset and came home crying. It was at that point that my father had had enough. Even though the school bell had rang hours earlier, a new class was starting. It was called, "The Gonzalez class on how to grow a god damn backbone" and it was taught by my dad.
I'm not sure why I remember this particular class session so well this many years later. Perhaps it was the message...or more likely, it was the fact that it was the first time I heard my father swear. I think it was a little of both.
My father questioned me on why I would tolerate someone treating me like that. I would say, "Because she's my friend, dad." His answer would always be the same..."Someone who cares about you would NEVER EVER treat you like that."
Really? Huh...
Now here's the part that stuck...
He looked me dead in the eye and said, "Lisa, my dad had a saying in Spanish." (He'd then say the Spanish version but there's no way in hell I could write that one out)
"It means, 'Shit on me once...shame on you for doing it. Shit on me twice...shame on me for allowing you to do it to me again.' Do you understand? This isn't about Dana anymore. You allow her to do this to you over and over again. This is now about you. It's your fault because you continue to let it happen. You let her walk all over you. Now you can only blame yourself for putting up with it."
And to drive the point home? He grounded me. Yep...my notes to prep for life's future Dana Robins included a week or two of not being able to play with any of my friends, no phone, and I was forbidden from ever playing with Dana Robin again.
Looking back on it, it was an interesting lesson. While I thought he was horrible and mean back then, as an adult I look back on that moment and see how it forever changed me. It was at that time that I finally grew a god damn backbone. Hell...if I didn't he'd ground me again. It made me look at relationships differently. No longer was I a rug that you could walk all over or wipe your feet on.
Although my father taught many other classes, I think that was the one that impacted me the most. It molded me for future, adult relationships and taught me that I was worth more than that. It taught me that I DESERVED better...and to this day, it stuck.
I found myself teaching this same lesson to Jackson. It played out almost exactly the same. It included a kid who he considered to be his best friend that treated him like crap and him taking it like his mother once did. It included the "My father once told me..." speech. It even featured the grounding...although not as tough as I had gotten years back.
My father is obviously a far better teacher than I am, however. My class with Jackson wasn't as effective. Maybe it's because Jackson isn't as scared of me as I was of my dad. Or maybe it's because he thinks his teacher is full of s##t.
Whereas I never saw my dad having to answer to anyone, Jackson has seen me been yelled at at work and has seen me take it. He's seen me do exactly what it is that I tell him not to do. That was never the case with my father.
Perhaps I need to enroll Jackson in class with my dad.
When I look back on my adult relationships, I know that the Dana Robin lesson played a huge part in what I found acceptable. My dad taught me that I was worth more than what I had once thought and it carried over to my relationships...especially with men. The majority of the time, I would walk the minute I felt disrespected...but there were a few instances where I stayed because of what I thought was love. Each time I stayed, I'd think of my dad...how disappointed he'd be...how he taught me better.
I make it a point to teach Jackson to be stronger than I was/am. As a woman, it's hard but I try to teach him how to be a good man. I look back on the lessons my father taught me and those I have had to learn on my own. I stress the importance of being truthful and tell him the worst thing he could be in life is a liar. I teach him to respect others and to always think of their feelings before you act or speak. I teach him how to treat women...well, girls really...7 year old girls...but also the women in his life. I stress the importance of good friends and how to sustain those relationships. I teach him the importance of family. All the lessons I learned from my father...
But when I look back at all the lessons my father taught me...it all comes back to Dana. It all comes back to not allowing people to s##t on you. That was where my schooling really began and that's when I really became Lisa Gonzalez and not Lisa the Doormat.
I may have slipped a few times...I may have sold myself short and let some people treat me like s##t...but deep down I know I deserve more. I know I deserve better. I know right from wrong. I know to think of others before myself. I know the importance of family. I know the importance of being truthful...not only with others but also with myself.
That's more than I can say about other people I know.
I know all these things because my dad taught them to me.
In all my years of school, it turned out that my greatest teacher was not found in a typical classroom.
My greatest teacher...the one who really taught me about life...was my dad.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Rolling Down the Hill
I'm not sure how old I was the first time I was asked, "What's your earliest childhood memory?"
I remember thinking, 'How the hell do you do that? How do you know what came first?
I was never able to give an answer and to this day, I still cannot.
Memories, for me, come in snippets. I'll be driving by something or will hear or smell something and a memory will come flooding back. Most of these memories are from my teen years and on. I can't ever remember years...to this day, I still don't know what year my grandmother died but I remember the event like it was yesterday...but I have another way of measuring when things happened. Get ready for it...boyfriends. That's right, I can't remember the year things take place but I can remember which doofus I was dating and I piece it together from there. How pathetic. It's not my fault though. Jay got all the math and numbers brains so by the time I came around, there was nothing left.
Most of my childhood memories include my neighborhood friends: Allison, Chrissy, Jenny, and Andrea. I can still feel the twigs smacking me across the face as we ran through the trees and bushes where the Shabonee School parking lot now sits. I remember games we would play and how we would be out together from 9:00 in the morning until our moms called out the back door to let us know it was time for dinner. I remember holding fake dancing competitions and arguing over who got to sing which Kenny Loggins song from Footloose. Oh, the drama.
I've got plenty of those type memories. What I don't really have or are at least unable to access in my brain are memories of time spent with my family. Sure I remember family vacations in bits and pieces and I certainly remember all the trouble I got in...however, I have very few memories of me with my siblings or with my parents.
Keep in mind that my sister is 11 years older than I am and my brother is 14 years older. That's a huge difference. At a certain point, I felt more like an only child because they were gone away at college. I don't think Carla ever really came back after that. See...I can't remember.
Both of my parents worked. My dad held a typical 9 to 5 job at The Sears Tower. He'd take the train there and back and would then take a bus that would drop him off at White Mountain...the street behind ours. I DO remember sometimes running to the bus stop to meet him so that I could walk home with him. I didn't get to spend much time with him during the weekdays and on weekends, I was off with my friends.
My mom had an unusual job...but one that kept me very popular in town. She worked with chocolate out of our basement. Imagine how many people wanted to come to MY house for playdates!
With HER job, however, there was a lot of travel involved. She would be gone for what seemed like weeks on end since some of the trips backed up to others. If she WAS home, she would be down in what we call "the dungeon" working away. When she began writing her first book...well, forget it. None of us saw her at all then.
So since my parents were busy working, many of my childhood family memories revolved around my grandmother. Most include her apartment in Indiana or going to my Auntie Margie's house. Many of these memories included me being spoiled rotten...which is probably why they stand out the way they do.
On Easter, as the kids went running down the huge hill in my brother's front yard looking for eggs, a memory came and smacked me across the face. Clear as day...like I was standing in the memory itself. It's one of my fondest childhood memories...and it includes my dad...
In the Fall, when I was little, my father would drive me over to Wood Oaks park and we'd walk up what seemed to me back then, a mountain. When we got to the top, he would take me to the west side of the hill and we would lean against the gate in silence. He brought me here to witness the beauty of nature as the trees from the forest preserve began to change color. No words...just silence. No work...just a dad and his daughter.
We'd always go right before dusk so as we were quietly staring at the trees, the sun would begin to set. I can still see some of those sunsets and how the sun reflected off the leaves. As the sky changed colors behind the multi-colored trees, you couldn't help but realize just how beautiful some things God does really are.
As the sun began to set, he'd let me play a bit before heading back to the car and on to our next stop; Baskin Robbins...the one that USED to be next to the McDonalds that USED to be in Sanders Court.
Bubble Gum ice cream, please!
But back to the hill...
I remember the thrill of running down that thing at full force while my dad was shouting behind me "SLOW DOWN!!!" After a few trots down, there was no way you could possibly stop yourself. You either face planted, or you made it to the end of the hill. Virtually impossible to stop midway.
If I wasn't running like an idiot asking for a neck injury, I was rolling down the hill. The thought of this now makes me sick to my stomach. How I was able to do that without throwing up is beyond me. But back then...it was fun.
I liked running more though. As you caught speed, your strides became longer and each time your foot hit the Earth, it would take your breath away. You were just going so damn fast...wind whipping in your face, hair blowing everywhere, a trail of grass and dust left behind you, having absolutely no control...it was awesome.
And then I grew up.
When I see my son doing the same thing I did as a child, I'm screaming at the top of my lungs, "SLOOOOOOWWWWW DOOOOOOOWWWWWN!!!!!" just like my father once did. All I can picture is him face planting and losing all of his teeth...or worse. As an adult, I now see the danger in running full speed down a hill...but not back then. I see myself in Jackson each time he's running down a hill laughing or yelling with delight. I see what my father saw when he watched me run like an idiot way back when.
I miss those evening trips out to see the leaves changing with my dad. I miss standing in silence with him, not knowing what he's thinking, but knowing it isn't anything like his thoughts now. I miss the innocence of that time...not yet realizing that your parents would get sick one day and that this would be one of those moments that brings tears to your eyes. Such a trivial experience but yet it's the one that makes my heart hurt the most.
I would give anything to have just ONE of those nights with him now. If I could just wheel him up there and park him on the west side of the hill and watch the sun set over the deep red and bright yellow tree tops... I would give anything to sit up there in silence with him and not be thinking that I'm losing him. I'd give anything to have the mind of a child and not know what the reality is here. I'd give anything to WALK up that hill with him and hold a hand that hasn't been touched by ALS. The strong hand...that's the one I want to hold.
But while I miss the quiet moments at the top of the hill and would die to relive those now, I still feel as if I'm running down Wood Oaks hill...at full speed....but this time I'm not having fun. This time, I can't stop. This time, my legs are moving faster than the rest of my body. This time, the lack of control is different. It's scaring me.
Because in reality, my life now feels like running down a hill. Things are moving so fast and just when you think you gain some control over your movement, you lose it again. Your feet feel as if there are wheels attached to them. Full speed ahead...no squealing with delight.
Now it's not my father who I hear screaming, "SLOW DOWN!"...it's me.
"Make it stop! Make this slow down! Not so fast! I can't control this! DAD!!! HELP ME!!!!!"
But it doesn't stop...it doesn't slow down. In fact, it seems like every day you pick up more and more steam. You have no control and you're scared of how it's going to feel when you fall...when he's gone.
I wish I had a picture of us at the top of that hill. I wish I had something that I could hold in my hand to remind me of those nights. I wish that instead of running down that hill, I am rolling. Even if it makes me puke, I'd rather be rolling.
If I was rolling, it wouldn't hurt as bad at the end of the hill.
If I was rolling, I'd have more time.
I remember thinking, 'How the hell do you do that? How do you know what came first?
I was never able to give an answer and to this day, I still cannot.
Memories, for me, come in snippets. I'll be driving by something or will hear or smell something and a memory will come flooding back. Most of these memories are from my teen years and on. I can't ever remember years...to this day, I still don't know what year my grandmother died but I remember the event like it was yesterday...but I have another way of measuring when things happened. Get ready for it...boyfriends. That's right, I can't remember the year things take place but I can remember which doofus I was dating and I piece it together from there. How pathetic. It's not my fault though. Jay got all the math and numbers brains so by the time I came around, there was nothing left.
Most of my childhood memories include my neighborhood friends: Allison, Chrissy, Jenny, and Andrea. I can still feel the twigs smacking me across the face as we ran through the trees and bushes where the Shabonee School parking lot now sits. I remember games we would play and how we would be out together from 9:00 in the morning until our moms called out the back door to let us know it was time for dinner. I remember holding fake dancing competitions and arguing over who got to sing which Kenny Loggins song from Footloose. Oh, the drama.
I've got plenty of those type memories. What I don't really have or are at least unable to access in my brain are memories of time spent with my family. Sure I remember family vacations in bits and pieces and I certainly remember all the trouble I got in...however, I have very few memories of me with my siblings or with my parents.
Keep in mind that my sister is 11 years older than I am and my brother is 14 years older. That's a huge difference. At a certain point, I felt more like an only child because they were gone away at college. I don't think Carla ever really came back after that. See...I can't remember.
Both of my parents worked. My dad held a typical 9 to 5 job at The Sears Tower. He'd take the train there and back and would then take a bus that would drop him off at White Mountain...the street behind ours. I DO remember sometimes running to the bus stop to meet him so that I could walk home with him. I didn't get to spend much time with him during the weekdays and on weekends, I was off with my friends.
My mom had an unusual job...but one that kept me very popular in town. She worked with chocolate out of our basement. Imagine how many people wanted to come to MY house for playdates!
With HER job, however, there was a lot of travel involved. She would be gone for what seemed like weeks on end since some of the trips backed up to others. If she WAS home, she would be down in what we call "the dungeon" working away. When she began writing her first book...well, forget it. None of us saw her at all then.
So since my parents were busy working, many of my childhood family memories revolved around my grandmother. Most include her apartment in Indiana or going to my Auntie Margie's house. Many of these memories included me being spoiled rotten...which is probably why they stand out the way they do.
On Easter, as the kids went running down the huge hill in my brother's front yard looking for eggs, a memory came and smacked me across the face. Clear as day...like I was standing in the memory itself. It's one of my fondest childhood memories...and it includes my dad...
In the Fall, when I was little, my father would drive me over to Wood Oaks park and we'd walk up what seemed to me back then, a mountain. When we got to the top, he would take me to the west side of the hill and we would lean against the gate in silence. He brought me here to witness the beauty of nature as the trees from the forest preserve began to change color. No words...just silence. No work...just a dad and his daughter.
We'd always go right before dusk so as we were quietly staring at the trees, the sun would begin to set. I can still see some of those sunsets and how the sun reflected off the leaves. As the sky changed colors behind the multi-colored trees, you couldn't help but realize just how beautiful some things God does really are.
As the sun began to set, he'd let me play a bit before heading back to the car and on to our next stop; Baskin Robbins...the one that USED to be next to the McDonalds that USED to be in Sanders Court.
But back to the hill...
I remember the thrill of running down that thing at full force while my dad was shouting behind me "SLOW DOWN!!!" After a few trots down, there was no way you could possibly stop yourself. You either face planted, or you made it to the end of the hill. Virtually impossible to stop midway.
If I wasn't running like an idiot asking for a neck injury, I was rolling down the hill. The thought of this now makes me sick to my stomach. How I was able to do that without throwing up is beyond me. But back then...it was fun.
I liked running more though. As you caught speed, your strides became longer and each time your foot hit the Earth, it would take your breath away. You were just going so damn fast...wind whipping in your face, hair blowing everywhere, a trail of grass and dust left behind you, having absolutely no control...it was awesome.
And then I grew up.
When I see my son doing the same thing I did as a child, I'm screaming at the top of my lungs, "SLOOOOOOWWWWW DOOOOOOOWWWWWN!!!!!" just like my father once did. All I can picture is him face planting and losing all of his teeth...or worse. As an adult, I now see the danger in running full speed down a hill...but not back then. I see myself in Jackson each time he's running down a hill laughing or yelling with delight. I see what my father saw when he watched me run like an idiot way back when.
I miss those evening trips out to see the leaves changing with my dad. I miss standing in silence with him, not knowing what he's thinking, but knowing it isn't anything like his thoughts now. I miss the innocence of that time...not yet realizing that your parents would get sick one day and that this would be one of those moments that brings tears to your eyes. Such a trivial experience but yet it's the one that makes my heart hurt the most.
I would give anything to have just ONE of those nights with him now. If I could just wheel him up there and park him on the west side of the hill and watch the sun set over the deep red and bright yellow tree tops... I would give anything to sit up there in silence with him and not be thinking that I'm losing him. I'd give anything to have the mind of a child and not know what the reality is here. I'd give anything to WALK up that hill with him and hold a hand that hasn't been touched by ALS. The strong hand...that's the one I want to hold.
But while I miss the quiet moments at the top of the hill and would die to relive those now, I still feel as if I'm running down Wood Oaks hill...at full speed....but this time I'm not having fun. This time, I can't stop. This time, my legs are moving faster than the rest of my body. This time, the lack of control is different. It's scaring me.
Because in reality, my life now feels like running down a hill. Things are moving so fast and just when you think you gain some control over your movement, you lose it again. Your feet feel as if there are wheels attached to them. Full speed ahead...no squealing with delight.
Now it's not my father who I hear screaming, "SLOW DOWN!"...it's me.
"Make it stop! Make this slow down! Not so fast! I can't control this! DAD!!! HELP ME!!!!!"
But it doesn't stop...it doesn't slow down. In fact, it seems like every day you pick up more and more steam. You have no control and you're scared of how it's going to feel when you fall...when he's gone.
I wish I had a picture of us at the top of that hill. I wish I had something that I could hold in my hand to remind me of those nights. I wish that instead of running down that hill, I am rolling. Even if it makes me puke, I'd rather be rolling.
If I was rolling, it wouldn't hurt as bad at the end of the hill.
If I was rolling, I'd have more time.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Happy Holidays??
Holidays are supposed to be a joyful time. I mean, it's right there in what we say:
"Happy Easter!"
"Happy Mother's Day!"
"Happy New Year!"
The only one that's really different is "Merry Christmas!" but come on...it's the same thing.
So if holidays are supposed to be so joyful and are supposed to fill me with the spirit and all that crap, why do I feel like such s##t each time one rolls around? Holidays aren't fun for me right now...so don't ask me how my Easter was!
Instead of focusing on what we're celebrating and why we're celebrating it, I instead focus on one thing alone...Is this the last _____ (insert holiday name here) that I get to spend with my father? In my heart, it feels like when it comes to this year, the answer is yes.
Thanksgiving of 2011 was quite possibly the worst I've had thus far. I think what it really boils down to is that Thanksgiving is a cursed holiday for me...end of story. The year before, I was up in a dark, cold room at my in-laws' house with a colicky baby who wouldn't stop screaming. This year, I was on the phone most of the time fielding calls from my sister who was on 'Dad Duty'...and when I was not on the phone, I was worried about what was going on with my father instead of what was going on where I was at physically. That night, I was answering questions about death from my 7 year old and listening to my 1 year old scream bloody murder from an infection he had suddenly contracted. It just sucked. No other way to describe it.
What really pissed me off was reading about all the wonderful things my friends were doing on Facebook and how much they enjoyed their Thanksgiving.
Pictures, "Happy Thanksgivings!"...it was all so happy and la dee dee da that it infuriated me! And the month leading up to the holiday? If I had to read one more post about "Today, I am thankful for _______" I was gonna throw up. Everyone else's happiness made my sadness that much more intense. And my sadness was quickly turning into hatred.
While everyone else was sitting around a table saying why they were thankful and all that crap, I was sitting at the table looking at my father and wondering if he would be in his usual seat next year or if instead I would be crying at the hole that will be left by his absence. How are you thankful for that? It's bulls##t!
As I read all the happy Facebook status updates, I made one of my own. It read something to the extent of "What a s##ty Thanksgiving." Boy, did that cause an uproar! People who I had spent the holiday with were upset because they felt as if I was implying that I didn't like being with them. They couldn't see what my reality now was. I actually had to explain why my Thanksgiving sucked...and it went a little something like this:
"My Thanksgiving was nothing like your Thanksgiving. While your Thanksgiving included talk of Black Friday deals and the latest gossip, mine included talk about my father's living will and his impending death. While you were surrounded by healthy family and friends, I was struggling with my father's battle with ALS. While you guys talked about who's making what next year, I was asking God if this was the last year I would spend Thanksgiving with my father. While you engaged in funny conversations, I was on the phone with my sister wondering if we had to go back to the hospital yet again. While you guys laughed away, you had no idea that just around the corner, I was in the bathroom crying. While you guys were still sitting around drinking after we left, I was talking about my father's death with my seven year old son. And when you laid down to go to bed that night and drifted off in a turkey induced coma-like sleep, I was up all night with a sick, screaming baby.
So while we might physically have been in the same room and what you were experiencing was joyful, my experience was not. I may have been there physically, but I certainly wasn't there with you mentally because of one simple fact...MY DAD IS DYING! Excuse me if I don't feel thankful for that.
So I stand behind my status post...Thanksgiving was s##ty!"
Each holiday thereafter was the same...looking at my father at the head of the table wondering if this is it...is this the last time I get to say "Merry Christmas" to my dad? Is this the last time I serve him a piece of ham on Easter? Is this the last time he'll see my children searching for Easter eggs? How do you bottle up the time and memories spent with him now so that you can cherish it in the future? When your heart is breaking, how do you be Happy or Merry? How do you not hate everyone else who is so joyful and lucky?
Some might say, "Lisa, you should be thankful for this time you have with him now." Believe me...I've heard it 1000 times. My response? "God forbid your parent contracts such a disease and the tables are turned and I make such a comment to you...do you think you'd be able to do that? Can you turn off heartbreak? Can you turn off the fear of losing someone as important as your father? If you can, please teach me how. I'd be happy to be thankful then...but for right now, piss off!"
See, it's easy to say things to someone in my shoes...especially if you've never lived such an experience. If you've never watched someone you love so deeply deteriorate right in front of you from a disease such as ALS, it's easy to judge me and my inability to find happiness in certain situations. The reality is that there is nothing to be thankful for or happy about when it comes to ALS.
If he were to suddenly pass away in his sleep, then I'd be thankful. Thankful that he wouldn't have to suffer what's coming. Thankful that it was quick and painless instead of long and drawn out. Thankful that his loss of dignity had finally come to an end. Thankful he could leave this Earth with what little independence he still had left. Thankful that where he's going, there is no ALS. Thankful that when he goes meets his maker, his brother will be standing there waiting for him holding a pair of running shoes so he can run to the gates of Heaven instead of steering his wheelchair.
Yes...then I'd be thankful. Then it would be a happy holiday.
How f##ked up is that?
Until then...until this is over...while I'll be smiling on the outside for the sake of my children, I'll be crying on the inside for my father. So stop asking me how my holiday went. The answer will always be the same..."It was ok"...but what I really mean to say is, "It sucked. My dad is dying. Why do you keep asking me such a stupid question?"
Happy holidays...yeah right. Not so much.
Maybe one day...
"Happy Easter!"
"Happy Mother's Day!"
"Happy New Year!"
The only one that's really different is "Merry Christmas!" but come on...it's the same thing.
So if holidays are supposed to be so joyful and are supposed to fill me with the spirit and all that crap, why do I feel like such s##t each time one rolls around? Holidays aren't fun for me right now...so don't ask me how my Easter was!
Instead of focusing on what we're celebrating and why we're celebrating it, I instead focus on one thing alone...Is this the last _____ (insert holiday name here) that I get to spend with my father? In my heart, it feels like when it comes to this year, the answer is yes.
Thanksgiving of 2011 was quite possibly the worst I've had thus far. I think what it really boils down to is that Thanksgiving is a cursed holiday for me...end of story. The year before, I was up in a dark, cold room at my in-laws' house with a colicky baby who wouldn't stop screaming. This year, I was on the phone most of the time fielding calls from my sister who was on 'Dad Duty'...and when I was not on the phone, I was worried about what was going on with my father instead of what was going on where I was at physically. That night, I was answering questions about death from my 7 year old and listening to my 1 year old scream bloody murder from an infection he had suddenly contracted. It just sucked. No other way to describe it.
What really pissed me off was reading about all the wonderful things my friends were doing on Facebook and how much they enjoyed their Thanksgiving.
Pictures, "Happy Thanksgivings!"...it was all so happy and la dee dee da that it infuriated me! And the month leading up to the holiday? If I had to read one more post about "Today, I am thankful for _______" I was gonna throw up. Everyone else's happiness made my sadness that much more intense. And my sadness was quickly turning into hatred.
While everyone else was sitting around a table saying why they were thankful and all that crap, I was sitting at the table looking at my father and wondering if he would be in his usual seat next year or if instead I would be crying at the hole that will be left by his absence. How are you thankful for that? It's bulls##t!
As I read all the happy Facebook status updates, I made one of my own. It read something to the extent of "What a s##ty Thanksgiving." Boy, did that cause an uproar! People who I had spent the holiday with were upset because they felt as if I was implying that I didn't like being with them. They couldn't see what my reality now was. I actually had to explain why my Thanksgiving sucked...and it went a little something like this:
"My Thanksgiving was nothing like your Thanksgiving. While your Thanksgiving included talk of Black Friday deals and the latest gossip, mine included talk about my father's living will and his impending death. While you were surrounded by healthy family and friends, I was struggling with my father's battle with ALS. While you guys talked about who's making what next year, I was asking God if this was the last year I would spend Thanksgiving with my father. While you engaged in funny conversations, I was on the phone with my sister wondering if we had to go back to the hospital yet again. While you guys laughed away, you had no idea that just around the corner, I was in the bathroom crying. While you guys were still sitting around drinking after we left, I was talking about my father's death with my seven year old son. And when you laid down to go to bed that night and drifted off in a turkey induced coma-like sleep, I was up all night with a sick, screaming baby.
So while we might physically have been in the same room and what you were experiencing was joyful, my experience was not. I may have been there physically, but I certainly wasn't there with you mentally because of one simple fact...MY DAD IS DYING! Excuse me if I don't feel thankful for that.
So I stand behind my status post...Thanksgiving was s##ty!"
Each holiday thereafter was the same...looking at my father at the head of the table wondering if this is it...is this the last time I get to say "Merry Christmas" to my dad? Is this the last time I serve him a piece of ham on Easter? Is this the last time he'll see my children searching for Easter eggs? How do you bottle up the time and memories spent with him now so that you can cherish it in the future? When your heart is breaking, how do you be Happy or Merry? How do you not hate everyone else who is so joyful and lucky?
Some might say, "Lisa, you should be thankful for this time you have with him now." Believe me...I've heard it 1000 times. My response? "God forbid your parent contracts such a disease and the tables are turned and I make such a comment to you...do you think you'd be able to do that? Can you turn off heartbreak? Can you turn off the fear of losing someone as important as your father? If you can, please teach me how. I'd be happy to be thankful then...but for right now, piss off!"
See, it's easy to say things to someone in my shoes...especially if you've never lived such an experience. If you've never watched someone you love so deeply deteriorate right in front of you from a disease such as ALS, it's easy to judge me and my inability to find happiness in certain situations. The reality is that there is nothing to be thankful for or happy about when it comes to ALS.
If he were to suddenly pass away in his sleep, then I'd be thankful. Thankful that he wouldn't have to suffer what's coming. Thankful that it was quick and painless instead of long and drawn out. Thankful that his loss of dignity had finally come to an end. Thankful he could leave this Earth with what little independence he still had left. Thankful that where he's going, there is no ALS. Thankful that when he goes meets his maker, his brother will be standing there waiting for him holding a pair of running shoes so he can run to the gates of Heaven instead of steering his wheelchair.
Yes...then I'd be thankful. Then it would be a happy holiday.
How f##ked up is that?
Until then...until this is over...while I'll be smiling on the outside for the sake of my children, I'll be crying on the inside for my father. So stop asking me how my holiday went. The answer will always be the same..."It was ok"...but what I really mean to say is, "It sucked. My dad is dying. Why do you keep asking me such a stupid question?"
Happy holidays...yeah right. Not so much.
Maybe one day...
Friday, April 6, 2012
The Girl With the Weight of the World in Her Hands
In 1999, my brother met a girl named Lisa. He hadn't dated much previously so when he brought her home, it was a big deal. We had to make sure everything was right so we didn't scare her off.
When I first met Lee (one of the two names she goes by with us) I was first struck by her eyes. Big, blue eyes that can smile all on their own. I'd never seen eyes like that before. They were captivating. They sucked you in like the cartoons where one animal's eyes are swirling and the animal looking into those eyes goes into a blank state and then gets eaten by the other animal. That's Lisa's eyes...minus cannibalism.
The second thing I noticed was her hand shake. I HATE it when a woman has a weak hand shake...like they're not confident enough to grasp another hand strongly. It drives me crazy...especially when they use just their thumb, pointer and middle finger...and it's not even the full fingers either...it's just a light touch like they're scared you're gonna ruin their manicure. Pathetic.
Not Lisa though. Damn! She could shake a hand. Strong. Firm. She even shook the hand up and down after she grabbed on. Now that's a hand shake!! I could see that my brother hadn't found himself a wall flower who was quiet and reserved like he was. This girl was strong and confident and could own a room when she entered it. If they stayed together, she'd be the one wearing the pants in the relationship for sure.
He had the good sense to snatch her up and soon there were two Lisa Gonzalez's in my family. In order to prevent any confusion, she's Lisa Beth or Lee and I'm Lisa or Lisa Marie...but it's still confusing. You call out our name and we both say, "Yeah?" And for the record, if one more person says to us, "Lisa, Lisa and the Cult Jam!" I'm gonna poke em in the eye! (How sad that some people reading this right now who are younger than me will have no idea about that reference. Ugh...I'm gettin' old) But I digress...
In the beginning of their relationship, I didn't really get to know Lisa that well. There are 14 years difference between my brother and I so he and I don't even know each other that well. What we do know about each other is that we couldn't be more different. He and I don't talk on the phone or exchange emails. It's not like we spontaneously get together for some brother and sister bonding time. It was hard to get to know his partner when I didn't even know him.
Even though I didn't know her well, Lisa was there for me during my depression in 2002 and she was there to help pull me out of it. I remember one day in particular where we all went on a trip to the zoo together. It was the first time I had smiled in a very long time.
Lisa was also there for Jackson's birth. Some of the funniest moments of that day, and believe me...there weren't that many, included Lisa. I had terrible back labor and Lisa volunteered to rub my back to help ease the pain. After I got the epidural and was waiting for it to kick in, she resumed her job. As she was rubbing my back, she was growing more and more tired and her head was bent forward right by my lower back. At this point, the epidural kicked in and I could no longer feel the lower half of my body. I couldn't tell what was going on from my chest down...and then it happened.
As my poor, unsuspecting sister-in-law was so kindly massaging my back, I literally farted right in her face. I couldn't feel it coming so there was no way I could hold it in and it was LOUD. She flew back, almost completely out of her chair, and had this look of total horror on her face. We immediately burst out in hysterical laughter...to the point where we were laughing so hard that noise was coming out but for an occasional snort or two. At some point between giggles and tears she managed to cry out, "You scared the hell out of me!!" and then we lost it again. I needed that comic relief...(I can't believe I'm putting that out there for all to read. Oh well...when you give birth, you lose your dignity so who cares?!?)
As Jackson got older, he and I would make more and more trips out to the city to see them both together or just Lisa if it was during the week. I wanted Jackson to know his aunt and uncle. It was during this time that I started to get to know her a little better. If I had to speak with my brother about something, it was Lisa who I called. She was and still is the communicator between my brother and me. If it's just Jay and I on the phone, there's awkward silence. With Lisa, there's a conversation.
What I loved most about this woman who entered our family was her personality and the way she carried herself. She had such a spark...full of life and energy...full of smiles and laughter. I realized that I liked this girl not because she was married to my brother and because I had to like her...but because she was actually really cool and fun to hang out with. Through her eyes, I began to see things differently as well. She changed how I looked at things. I began seeing things that you wouldn't normally see because of her photography. I became more observant.
But with the ability to see things, I then began to notice a difference in that smile that could once stop you dead in your tracks. The blueness of her eyes no longer seemed a bright blue like the Caribbean Ocean...but more like the dark blue before a storm. Initially it was just little things that I would see. Minuscule really. If you didn't know her beforehand, you would never catch it with your own eyes...but I could see sadness starting to fill those beautiful eyes.
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When Warren was diagnosed with ALS, life for Lisa changed. As an outsider looking in, she seemed obsessed with his diagnosis and taking care of him. It began to consume her. The changes that were once so minuscule were now more and more obvious. She lost her brother Paul years before and the idea of losing another brother was just too much. Even when she was smiling...she wasn't.
We started to see them less and less because all of their time was spent with Warren and his family...understandably so. Holidays were the toughest because there would always be the initial talk of them not coming at all and then when they did come, you could tell her heart wasn't there with us. Her body was there but the rest of her was with her brother. In response to that, Jay was always tense as well...worried about his wife.
Since this is my therapy chair, I'll be honest and admit that at first I was upset about holidays. I felt like my son was missing out on getting to know his aunt and his uncle. He wasn't experiencing Christmas like I did when I was a child...fully surrounded by family and by laughter. Suddenly, Christmas was over at 3:00 in the afternoon. I felt that my son was being cheated. I guess when you have kids, you look at holidays differently. You see the magic in their eyes and you want everything to be "perfect." After Warren's diagnosis, it never was. She just couldn't do it. She couldn't physically fake it anymore. ALS was taking her brother and it was taking her down with him.
Then my dad got diagnosed. That first night that I called them to tell them the news, they were both adamant that it was not ALS. They knew all about ALS and dad didn't have it.
When the appointment for our first trip to clinic was made, I found myself struggling internally. Lisa had become so sad and hardened by this disease that part of me didn't want her there with us. Even though she knew more about this than any one of us, I didn't know if I could emotionally handle her sadness that sometimes presented itself as what she calls "pushy." Warren's ALS and my father's ALS were so dramatically different that I wasn't sure if she could make out the difference herself. Looking back at it now, I think that I was so consumed with fear that the idea of listening to what Lisa knew or had to say meant that this was really real. Looking at Lisa was now like looking in a crystal ball for my future and that was threatening in my mind. I didn't want to see that so I shut my eyes and I looked away from her. I began to shut her out. I know...I'm a horrible person...but don't think I haven't beaten myself up for everything I've said so far.
When the appointment for our first trip to clinic was made, I found myself struggling internally. Lisa had become so sad and hardened by this disease that part of me didn't want her there with us. Even though she knew more about this than any one of us, I didn't know if I could emotionally handle her sadness that sometimes presented itself as what she calls "pushy." Warren's ALS and my father's ALS were so dramatically different that I wasn't sure if she could make out the difference herself. Looking back at it now, I think that I was so consumed with fear that the idea of listening to what Lisa knew or had to say meant that this was really real. Looking at Lisa was now like looking in a crystal ball for my future and that was threatening in my mind. I didn't want to see that so I shut my eyes and I looked away from her. I began to shut her out. I know...I'm a horrible person...but don't think I haven't beaten myself up for everything I've said so far.
As Warren's disease progressed, you could see the physical manifestations of stress taking their toll on her. As the days went on, her eyes became more and more sad. There were dark circles under her eyes and her skin...well let's just say that if I were a painter and I had to paint the face of someone who was dying inside, I'd paint their face the color of her skin. As the joy was being sucked out, so too was her color. She lost a considerable amount of weight...so much so that her pants would be falling off of her. It was extremely difficult for me to see because if I looked at her, really looked at her, I was only seeing my future....so I continued to look away.
At the end, there was no life left in Lisa. ALS had taken her brother and it took the life out of her as well. It was heartbreaking to watch. I couldn't help but think of the song The Girl With the Weight of the World in Her Hands. That was Lisa. She was not only carrying the weight of her own grief, but she was carrying the grief of her family as well. She was trying to do everything for everyone...except herself. She had the weight of the world on her shoulders and she was drowning.
After Warren passed, there was no hiding anymore. All eyes were turned on my father. We had been able to ignore his diagnosis because of Warren but now we couldn't. At first Lisa and Jay were distant...understandably so. It was too much to have to relive that all over again so soon. They came back though...and Lisa came full force.
Like she did with her brother, Lisa would take over. She was on top of everything. She would show up to my dad's house and suddenly the house was redesigned. It's like she was addicted to one drug, ran out of it and then turned to another drug to take its place. She was intense...and at first, I'll admit, I was put off by it. That isn't how I operate and I was still somewhat in denial. With Lisa, it was in your face. Boom, boom, boom! We have to do this, this and this! He needs this, that and those! She was too intense for me and I began to withdraw myself from her and my brother. In reality, I was withdrawing from everyone.
It wasn't until this Thanksgiving that I finally opened up my eyes and said, "What the f##k, Lisa? What is your problem?" And by Lisa, I meant me.
Lisa was there when my father's blood clot was found and was there when his home care needs became greater. I finally saw that what she was doing was not trying to step on people's toes or be "pushy," she was genuinely trying to help. I saw that she genuinely cared for my father...she was only trying to help. I'm an a$$hole for every thinking otherwise and I'm disgusted at how long it took me to see it.
Over the last 4 months, Lisa has been there almost as much as I have. Each time we're at an appointment, it's Lisa and I sitting there together. Each time the visiting nurse comes, it's Lisa and I sitting there across from one another. I found myself spending more time with Lisa than I did my own siblings. As she did in the beginning of our relationship, she changed the way I looked at things...in particular, at her.
They say there's always a silver lining, right? If I had to pick out the silver lining through this horrible experience, it would be Lisa Beth. The one thing this disgusting disease has done for me is bring me closer to my sister-in-law. Through all of this, I've felt that she understands me the most and understands my feelings and where I'm coming from more than either of my siblings do...more than anyone does. She's walked in my shoes. She gets it.
As my dad's disease progressed, I saw the same physical manifestations that I saw in her, in myself. When she noticed that I had lost weight, all she said was,"You've lost weight. Not eating?" "Not hungry," I said. She just nodded. She didn't lecture me...she understood me.
As my dad's disease progressed, I saw the same physical manifestations that I saw in her, in myself. When she noticed that I had lost weight, all she said was,"You've lost weight. Not eating?" "Not hungry," I said. She just nodded. She didn't lecture me...she understood me.
When I am upset or when I need to talk to someone, I find myself turning to Lisa Beth. I either call, email or text her. That has never been the case before...but now it's reality. I'm more connected to her than I am to anyone else when it comes to this experience. I don't have to apologize for anything I do or say or explain my actions...she just gets it...and I love her for that.
There are times when I feel as if I am The Girl With the Weight of the World In Her Hands. I feel pressure coming at me from every angle and I feel as if I have to be in multiple places all at the same time. I feel like I can't do enough and I feel extreme guilt. However....if I look back over my shoulder when I feel like the weight is just too heavy, I see that I am not alone. I see that there is someone there helping me to carry this load...and her name is Lisa.
xoxo, Sissy. You have no idea how much you mean to me.
There are times when I feel as if I am The Girl With the Weight of the World In Her Hands. I feel pressure coming at me from every angle and I feel as if I have to be in multiple places all at the same time. I feel like I can't do enough and I feel extreme guilt. However....if I look back over my shoulder when I feel like the weight is just too heavy, I see that I am not alone. I see that there is someone there helping me to carry this load...and her name is Lisa.
xoxo, Sissy. You have no idea how much you mean to me.
The Girl With the Weight of the World In Her Hands
Indigo Girls
She won't recover from her loses,
She's not chosen this path, but she watches who it crosses
Maybe move to the right, maybe move to the left
So we can all see her pain she wears like a banner on her chest
And we all say it's sad, and we think it's a shame
And she's called to our attention, but we do not call her name,
The girl with the weight of the world in her hands.
'Cause we're busy with our happiness, busy with our plans
I wonder if alone she wants it taken from her hands
But if things didn't keep getting harder
She might miss her sacred chance to go a consecrated martyr,
The girl with the weight of the world in her hands.
I wonder which saint that lives inside a bead
Will grant her consolation when she counts upon her need
It makes us all angry though we feign to care
But who will be the scale to weigh the cross she has to bear,
The girl with the weight of the world in her hands.
"Is the glass half full or empty?" I ask her as I fill it
She says it doesn't really matter, pretty soon you're bound to spill it
With the half logic language of the sermon she delivers
And the way she smiles so knowingly at me gives me the shivers
I pull the blanket higher when I'm finally safe at home
And she'll take a hundred with her, but she always sleeps alone,
The girl with the weight of the world in her hands.
I wonder which saint that lives inside a bead
Will grant her consolation when she counts upon her need
It makes us all angry though we feign to care
But who will be the scale to weigh the cross she has to bear,
The girl with the weight of the world in her hands.
http://www.bing.com/music/songs/search?q=the+girl+with+the+weight+of+the+world+in+her+hands&songID=97480800-0100-11DB-89CA-0019B92A3933&qpvt=the+girl+with+the+weight+of+the+world+in+her+hands&FORM=DTPMUA
http://www.bing.com/music/songs/search?q=the+girl+with+the+weight+of+the+world+in+her+hands&songID=97480800-0100-11DB-89CA-0019B92A3933&qpvt=the+girl+with+the+weight+of+the+world+in+her+hands&FORM=DTPMUA
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Hey, Jesus...it's me
As a child, I hated going to church. It was the worst hour of my life each and every week. I hated it...but I had to go every Sunday.
I'd try everything to get out of going. I'd fake being sick. Never worked. I tried hiding. Was always found. I even tried watching a mass on the TV one Sunday morning thinking that my parents would allow me to stay home since I had already "attended." Nope. I got two doses of Jesus that morning.
I was so bad about trying to get out of church that when I actually was sick, my parents didn't believe me.
One Sunday morning in winter, my father and I went to church alone together because my mom was out of town. As I went to get out of the car, I stepped on a patch of ice and fell very hard on my a$$. My legs actually slid under the car and I was screaming with pain. Trying to get up was the most excruciating pain I had felt up until that point. (I didn't know about childbirth yet)
My dad walked around the back of the station wagon, took one look at me and said, "Nice try. You're going in!"
He dragged me in for mass even though I was hysterically crying. When we found our seats and I continued to cry from the pain I felt when sitting. He kept giving me that look. You know the one...when you're parents just glared at you because you're making a scene and you know that the second you're not in public, s##t's gonna hit the fan. That one.
Now if you're a Catholic like me, you know how mass goes. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. I'm not sure which was more painful...the standing up or the sitting down. It was horrible.
Finally my father leaned down and looked me right in the eyes and said, "If you're in that much pain, I guess you'll have to just go to the doctor won't you?" Up until then, that's how my parents would catch me when I was faking. I hated the doctor as much as I did church. As soon as they would throw out that threat, I'd cave in, "No, no...I'm feeling better now." But not this time. No...this time I looked him right back in the eyes and said, "Yes! Please, daddy!" He straightened up a bit and looked surprised at my response. This was certainly not the reaction he had anticipated. He had thought I was giving my finest performance to date up until that moment...but now he knew that I might not be faking.
Did he let me leave though? Nope. We still stayed and I continued crying as I stood up and sat down. Stood up and sat down. Up and down. Up and down. Each time more painful than the last.
I continued to cry the rest of the day and night, not even going out to play with my friends. The next morning I was taken in to see Dr Mundee, my pediatrician.
"She broke her tailbone" the doctor said. JUSTICE!! "I told you I wasn't faking!!" I yelled. I laid in to my dad that night like nobody's business. Yes, I hated church but damn...I wouldn't make that much of a fool of myself.
Like all like public school Catholic kids, I had the pleasure of attending CCD classes as well as church. That was a blast, let me tell ya. I swore that I'd never make my children go to these horrible classes when I was a mom...but ask Jackson where he is from 4:30-6:00 on Tuesday evenings. What a hypocrite. But I digress...
I made my way through the Sacraments as a good little Catholic girl should. I think I blocked out most of that because I only really remember one...Confession. First Confession. Nothing scares the s##t out of a kid like sitting them down in front of a priest (who might as well be God in their eyes) and tell them all the bad stuff you've done.
Most people probably don't remember what they first confessed...but I do.
The night before Confession, I was watching Ewok Adventures on VHS. My dad had taped it for me over the weekend and I was itching to watch it.
When my dad used to tape shows, he would stop the recording once the commercials started up and would resume recording when they were finished. He was ahead of his time. It was DVR or TiVo but in the 80's.
This particular recording, however, he forgot to hit record after the commercials were done. He went through I think 2 rounds of commercials and everything in between once he realized what he had done. As I lay on the shag green carpeting in our family room, I all of a sudden sat up when I realized what had happened. Wait a minute!! What happened to that Ewok?!? I looked over at my dad as he sat quietly on the couch and yelled, "What happened?!? What did you do?!?" He looked at me and said, "I forgot to hit record again after the commercials. I'm sorry, honey."
To say that I went nuts was an understatement. You would have thought he killed my dog with his bare hands. I screamed and cried and really let him have it...and then the guilt set in.
As I lay awake in my bed, I felt horrible for how I had reacted. I felt terrible for yelling at my father like that. But wait!!! Tomorrow is Confession!! That'll make my guilt go away!
As our group gathered for our first Confession, we had one of two options: sit face to face with one priest and confess our sins or go in a booth and hide behind a screen so they don't know who you are. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what I chose.
"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!"
Ahhh...but Father Hearn was on the other side of that little mesh type window. He was the scariest of all the priests in our church. Damn it! I should have chose face to face! I'm gonna get 1000 Hail Marys now for sure!
I crept into the booth and the little door covering the window was shut. Phew! He didn't see me! I smashed myself as far back against the wall as I could so that when the window did slide open, he wouldn't be able to even see my shadow...and then it opened. It felt as if cold air had flown through that little window and had frozen my mouth so I couldn't talk. Father Hearn cleared his throat to let me know I was supposed to say something.
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. This is my first Confession."
"Go ahead, my child," he said.
"I yelled at my father last night because he didn't record all of the Ewok Adventure. That's my sin."
I swear I heard a chuckle come from the other side of the dark window. He gave me a punishment of 10 Hail Marys and I was off. Pretty sure I made that guy's day with my ridiculous confession.
After I went off to college, I stopped going to church. I'm sure there was one on campus somewhere but hell if I knew where it was. Jesus was the last thing on my mind. No...only holiday masses for me!
And it continued that way after I graduated and "became an adult." There was one exception to the rule...911. I went to mass that Sunday because I didn't know what else to do. I thought maybe there would be some answers there...but I didn't find any. I don't think anyone could at that time...but I gave it a go.
In February of 2002, I suffered what I call a severe depression "crash." Life went black there for a few months and it took a long time to get even a sliver of light to shine in. It was during this time that I started attending services at Willow Creek with my sister.
I'm not sure what it was about that place; the over the top productions (because that's what the service really was),the modern day music or what the pastor was saying...but I actually got into it. Me. Into church. If I really want to be honest, I'd say it was the music. It wasn't the Amens I was used to singing in my own church. It wasn't repetitive. There was no old man with a bad comb over playing the organ. These were people my age and a full blown band playing what sounded like rock music...and it actually got to me.
When I began my training to become a yoga instructor, I stopped going to services at Willow Creek and church was once again pushed to the back of my mind. Honestly, I don't think I even went on all the holidays.
Jackson was baptized in the Catholic church and I remember feeling like such a fraud in there. I felt like I wasn't religious enough to pull this off...the priest would be able to see what a heathen I really am. But guess what...they still baptized him.
When I began dating my husband, the holiday masses started back up again. Jackson was put in Catholic school for Junior Kindergarten so I had to attend a few services during that period but other than that, holidays were the only time I would walk into a church.
It's not that I don't believe in what the priest is saying. I think it's more that I have ADD and just can't sit listening to something that I don't necessarily understand for that long of time. That...and the fact that a certain someone and I are having communication problems.
Over the past few years, since my dad's diagnosis was made, God/Jesus and I have had some curious conversations. I've gone from questioning God as to why he would do this to begging him to make it be a mistake, a misdiagnosis. I've told God that I hated him and then turned around begging him to give the world a cure so my dad wouldn't have to suffer from this disease. I've questioned how a "loving God" could create diseases such as ALS...if he loves us so much, why do we have to suffer?
For each time I've said something negative to God, I've also begged for help. I've asked him to slow the progression down so that I could selfishly have more time with my father. I've tried bargaining..."I'll go to mass every single Sunday if you make this go away. I swear I will." But for each time I've called for his help, it hasn't come. Things would only get worse which would spark my hatred for Him. My dad didn't deserve this. How could He do this to him?
This year for CCD, Jackson had to attend a special Sunday night mass. It was supposed to be a family thing but the hubby had to stay home with the baby so it was just Jack and I. Lucky us...we got to sit right up front in the first row.
I don't know what it was about that night...I wasn't on my "I hate God" kick and I came in with an open mind so I could be an example for Jackson. For the first time ever, I actually cried in church. Not a big "ugly face" crying episode... just a "quiet tears rolling down my cheeks" type thing. To this day, I have no idea why that happened. I walked out of there actually thinking to myself, "Huh...maybe I should do this with Jackson more often."
On Christmas Eve, Jackson and I attended mass together again...you know...because it's a holiday...and I'll be damned if it didn't happen again. What was going on with me? Why was I being brought to tears?
I've come to the conclusion that maybe it was not only the situation with my father that brought on the tears, but also my frustration with God. Why wasn't he listening to me? Is it because I don't attend church enough? Is it because of all the trouble I got into in my younger years? Has he cut the line between he and I so he doesn't get the call anymore? Why? Why us? Why won't He listen?
Then it hit me. Maybe I'm talking to the wrong guy. Maybe he's too busy with war and poverty and hunger that he doesn't have time to listen to the prayers of a heathen. Maybe I need to talk to whoever is next in command. Maybe his kid would listen to me and help my father out. What was there to lose?
And so I did it. I gave a shout out to Vice President of Heaven.
"Hey Jesus, you out there?"
No answer.
I left a message but he still hasn't gotten back to me.
But you know, it's easy for you, you got friends all over the world.
I'm not gonna call on you any more.
Because when I die and I get up to your doors,
I'd try everything to get out of going. I'd fake being sick. Never worked. I tried hiding. Was always found. I even tried watching a mass on the TV one Sunday morning thinking that my parents would allow me to stay home since I had already "attended." Nope. I got two doses of Jesus that morning.
I was so bad about trying to get out of church that when I actually was sick, my parents didn't believe me.
One Sunday morning in winter, my father and I went to church alone together because my mom was out of town. As I went to get out of the car, I stepped on a patch of ice and fell very hard on my a$$. My legs actually slid under the car and I was screaming with pain. Trying to get up was the most excruciating pain I had felt up until that point. (I didn't know about childbirth yet)
My dad walked around the back of the station wagon, took one look at me and said, "Nice try. You're going in!"
He dragged me in for mass even though I was hysterically crying. When we found our seats and I continued to cry from the pain I felt when sitting. He kept giving me that look. You know the one...when you're parents just glared at you because you're making a scene and you know that the second you're not in public, s##t's gonna hit the fan. That one.
Now if you're a Catholic like me, you know how mass goes. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. I'm not sure which was more painful...the standing up or the sitting down. It was horrible.
Finally my father leaned down and looked me right in the eyes and said, "If you're in that much pain, I guess you'll have to just go to the doctor won't you?" Up until then, that's how my parents would catch me when I was faking. I hated the doctor as much as I did church. As soon as they would throw out that threat, I'd cave in, "No, no...I'm feeling better now." But not this time. No...this time I looked him right back in the eyes and said, "Yes! Please, daddy!" He straightened up a bit and looked surprised at my response. This was certainly not the reaction he had anticipated. He had thought I was giving my finest performance to date up until that moment...but now he knew that I might not be faking.
Did he let me leave though? Nope. We still stayed and I continued crying as I stood up and sat down. Stood up and sat down. Up and down. Up and down. Each time more painful than the last.
I continued to cry the rest of the day and night, not even going out to play with my friends. The next morning I was taken in to see Dr Mundee, my pediatrician.
"She broke her tailbone" the doctor said. JUSTICE!! "I told you I wasn't faking!!" I yelled. I laid in to my dad that night like nobody's business. Yes, I hated church but damn...I wouldn't make that much of a fool of myself.
Like all like public school Catholic kids, I had the pleasure of attending CCD classes as well as church. That was a blast, let me tell ya. I swore that I'd never make my children go to these horrible classes when I was a mom...but ask Jackson where he is from 4:30-6:00 on Tuesday evenings. What a hypocrite. But I digress...
I made my way through the Sacraments as a good little Catholic girl should. I think I blocked out most of that because I only really remember one...Confession. First Confession. Nothing scares the s##t out of a kid like sitting them down in front of a priest (who might as well be God in their eyes) and tell them all the bad stuff you've done.
Most people probably don't remember what they first confessed...but I do.
The night before Confession, I was watching Ewok Adventures on VHS. My dad had taped it for me over the weekend and I was itching to watch it.
When my dad used to tape shows, he would stop the recording once the commercials started up and would resume recording when they were finished. He was ahead of his time. It was DVR or TiVo but in the 80's.
This particular recording, however, he forgot to hit record after the commercials were done. He went through I think 2 rounds of commercials and everything in between once he realized what he had done. As I lay on the shag green carpeting in our family room, I all of a sudden sat up when I realized what had happened. Wait a minute!! What happened to that Ewok?!? I looked over at my dad as he sat quietly on the couch and yelled, "What happened?!? What did you do?!?" He looked at me and said, "I forgot to hit record again after the commercials. I'm sorry, honey."
To say that I went nuts was an understatement. You would have thought he killed my dog with his bare hands. I screamed and cried and really let him have it...and then the guilt set in.
As I lay awake in my bed, I felt horrible for how I had reacted. I felt terrible for yelling at my father like that. But wait!!! Tomorrow is Confession!! That'll make my guilt go away!
As our group gathered for our first Confession, we had one of two options: sit face to face with one priest and confess our sins or go in a booth and hide behind a screen so they don't know who you are. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what I chose.
"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!"
Ahhh...but Father Hearn was on the other side of that little mesh type window. He was the scariest of all the priests in our church. Damn it! I should have chose face to face! I'm gonna get 1000 Hail Marys now for sure!
I crept into the booth and the little door covering the window was shut. Phew! He didn't see me! I smashed myself as far back against the wall as I could so that when the window did slide open, he wouldn't be able to even see my shadow...and then it opened. It felt as if cold air had flown through that little window and had frozen my mouth so I couldn't talk. Father Hearn cleared his throat to let me know I was supposed to say something.
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. This is my first Confession."
"Go ahead, my child," he said.
"I yelled at my father last night because he didn't record all of the Ewok Adventure. That's my sin."
I swear I heard a chuckle come from the other side of the dark window. He gave me a punishment of 10 Hail Marys and I was off. Pretty sure I made that guy's day with my ridiculous confession.
After I went off to college, I stopped going to church. I'm sure there was one on campus somewhere but hell if I knew where it was. Jesus was the last thing on my mind. No...only holiday masses for me!
And it continued that way after I graduated and "became an adult." There was one exception to the rule...911. I went to mass that Sunday because I didn't know what else to do. I thought maybe there would be some answers there...but I didn't find any. I don't think anyone could at that time...but I gave it a go.
In February of 2002, I suffered what I call a severe depression "crash." Life went black there for a few months and it took a long time to get even a sliver of light to shine in. It was during this time that I started attending services at Willow Creek with my sister.
I'm not sure what it was about that place; the over the top productions (because that's what the service really was),the modern day music or what the pastor was saying...but I actually got into it. Me. Into church. If I really want to be honest, I'd say it was the music. It wasn't the Amens I was used to singing in my own church. It wasn't repetitive. There was no old man with a bad comb over playing the organ. These were people my age and a full blown band playing what sounded like rock music...and it actually got to me.
When I began my training to become a yoga instructor, I stopped going to services at Willow Creek and church was once again pushed to the back of my mind. Honestly, I don't think I even went on all the holidays.
Jackson was baptized in the Catholic church and I remember feeling like such a fraud in there. I felt like I wasn't religious enough to pull this off...the priest would be able to see what a heathen I really am. But guess what...they still baptized him.
When I began dating my husband, the holiday masses started back up again. Jackson was put in Catholic school for Junior Kindergarten so I had to attend a few services during that period but other than that, holidays were the only time I would walk into a church.
It's not that I don't believe in what the priest is saying. I think it's more that I have ADD and just can't sit listening to something that I don't necessarily understand for that long of time. That...and the fact that a certain someone and I are having communication problems.
Over the past few years, since my dad's diagnosis was made, God/Jesus and I have had some curious conversations. I've gone from questioning God as to why he would do this to begging him to make it be a mistake, a misdiagnosis. I've told God that I hated him and then turned around begging him to give the world a cure so my dad wouldn't have to suffer from this disease. I've questioned how a "loving God" could create diseases such as ALS...if he loves us so much, why do we have to suffer?
For each time I've said something negative to God, I've also begged for help. I've asked him to slow the progression down so that I could selfishly have more time with my father. I've tried bargaining..."I'll go to mass every single Sunday if you make this go away. I swear I will." But for each time I've called for his help, it hasn't come. Things would only get worse which would spark my hatred for Him. My dad didn't deserve this. How could He do this to him?
This year for CCD, Jackson had to attend a special Sunday night mass. It was supposed to be a family thing but the hubby had to stay home with the baby so it was just Jack and I. Lucky us...we got to sit right up front in the first row.
I don't know what it was about that night...I wasn't on my "I hate God" kick and I came in with an open mind so I could be an example for Jackson. For the first time ever, I actually cried in church. Not a big "ugly face" crying episode... just a "quiet tears rolling down my cheeks" type thing. To this day, I have no idea why that happened. I walked out of there actually thinking to myself, "Huh...maybe I should do this with Jackson more often."
On Christmas Eve, Jackson and I attended mass together again...you know...because it's a holiday...and I'll be damned if it didn't happen again. What was going on with me? Why was I being brought to tears?
I've come to the conclusion that maybe it was not only the situation with my father that brought on the tears, but also my frustration with God. Why wasn't he listening to me? Is it because I don't attend church enough? Is it because of all the trouble I got into in my younger years? Has he cut the line between he and I so he doesn't get the call anymore? Why? Why us? Why won't He listen?
Then it hit me. Maybe I'm talking to the wrong guy. Maybe he's too busy with war and poverty and hunger that he doesn't have time to listen to the prayers of a heathen. Maybe I need to talk to whoever is next in command. Maybe his kid would listen to me and help my father out. What was there to lose?
And so I did it. I gave a shout out to Vice President of Heaven.
"Hey Jesus, you out there?"
No answer.
I left a message but he still hasn't gotten back to me.
Hey Jesus
Indigo Girls
Hey, Jesus, it's me.
I don't usually talk to you
But my baby's gonna leave me, and there's something you must do.
And I am not your faithful servant.
I hang around sometimes with a bunch of your black sheep
But if you make my baby stay, I'll make it up to you
And that's a promise I will keep.
Hey, Jesus, it's me.
I'm the one who talked to you yesterday
I asked you please, please for a favor but my baby's gone away
Went away anyway
And I don't really think it's fair.
You've got the power to make us all believe in you.
And then we call you in our despair,
And you don't come through.
Hey, Jesus, it's me, I'm sorry.
I don't remember all I said.
I had a few, no, too many, and they went straight to my head
And made me feel like i could argue with God.
But you know, it's easy for you, you got friends all over the world.
You had the whole world waiting for your birth.
But now i ain't got nobody,
I don't know what my life's worth.
I'm not gonna call on you any more.
I'm sure you've got a million things to do.
All I was trying to do was to get through to you, get through to you.
Because when I die and I get up to your doors,
I don't even know if you're gonna let me in the place.
How come I gotta die to get a change to talk to you
Face to face?
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