It's been a minute...

Hello! It’s certainly been a while. I’ve missed you guys, and so I have a bit of a longer then normal post to bring you up to where we are today.

After Thanksgiving, I decided that I wanted to spend the holidays living in the moment and enjoying the season, so I put analyzing my grief process, and therefore this blog to the side. I didn’t want to burden the holidays with any additional weight, thinking things like “this will be the last time we do this with my dad” all the time. I just wanted to be able to enjoy Mariah Carey in all her glory and try to put the reality of the situation on the back burner.

That proved to be a little tough, as my dad’s pain increased significantly throughout December. It was really during these weeks that we saw his independence and well-being decline. His pain limited him to a recliner in the living room, to the shotgun seat in the car.

My family’s Christmas traditions have only ever slightly evolved over the years. Christmas Eve and Christmas Morning are the only traditions my brother, mom and dad have together. Christmas Eve morphed from going to church and driving around after looking at lights and luminaries to a party held at my mum’s house, champagne and scotch aplenty. But Christmas Morning: sacred. It has always been opening presents that Santa brought, taking turns, starting with the youngest. Usually that was Matt, until Bleecker came into our lives. And for breakfast, no deviations: artichoke quiche, caramel rolls (“carmies” as we call them), fruit salad composed of cantaloupe, grapes, raspberries and blueberries, and coffee. I suppose the only change was the addition of mimosas. This was our tradition, even after my parents got divorced, this was our thing. The only thing that has been constant.

Part of me taking a break from my heartache included finding a way to let go of any expectations for Christmas. I knew that as my dad’s last Christmas, there was a chance that expectations could get ahead of us, and emotions would be at an all time high, particularly as we had to share my dad’s time with my stepmom and her family. I will be forever grateful that we were able to do a version of our tradition - a family gathering at my house Christmas Eve (my mom let me host! And she and my brother still cooked for everyone! Dream dinner party.) including my stepmom and stepsisters - champagne for all. Christmas Morning we also held together, meeting this year at my dad’s house, with Polly, Margot and Jackie there as well. My dad and Polly were also able to go up to Wyoming to spend time with her family, and it sounds like it was a wonderful time. I will forever treasure this last Christmas with my dad, and will never forget his comment to me on Christmas Eve that I had “made my house a cozy home”. It means so much that he found my home “cozy” and approved.

Warm fuzzies aside, it was clear that my dad was not feeling good. He was in almost constant pain, hardly able to converse much, unable to find a comfortable position sitting or lying down. The things he ate were also giving him trouble, and he slowly started eliminating more and more from his diet in attempts to alleviate the pain and vomiting.

By the start of 2020, we knew we had a bigger issue, and shortly after the start of the year we found ourselves in crisis mode, back in the hospital, weighing procedures against my dad’s comfort and wishes for the end of his life. Ultimately we ended up taking my dad home with a “G-Tube” in, and a morphine pump. A G-Tube essentially allows whatever ends up in my dad’s stomach to drain, eliminating any discomfort and need for vomiting. His cancer has grown so much that his bowels are blocked, nothing flows through them, which is why he was in so much pain and vomiting. His ostomy bag has been rendered moot.

My dad has now been home for about four weeks, existing only on the saline that flows through his port, made comfortable by the morphine that goes through the port as well. He can drink liquids, and can consume things like ice cream. It’s certainly an interesting, sobering lesson in human anatomy - just a few minutes after drinking something, you can see it flow through the G-Tube, into a bag that gets flushed into the toilet at the end of the day. My dad has been living for weeks without any nutrients, except for what fat and muscle his body metabolizes. The length of his life since the start of the year is a testament to his strength of spirit - it defies modern medical science.

So this blog is meant to track my grieving - what does that look like for me right now?

I find myself lapping up comments that “I am dealing with this so gracefully” or that I am so “poised” or “brave”. I find myself trying to prove that I am strong and composed, and that I’m not acting out. In fact, I’ve not been on my best behavior. I stole a container of guacamole from my dad’s house, after I found out that it had been put away to be saved for breakfast (sorry Polly!), and I was angry that I couldn’t have more. The next day, my stolen guacamole was still delicious, but somehow the energy was dampened as the pettiness of my actions were a little more obvious in the morning light.

I’m doing everything I can to avoid becoming “unglued”. Why? It feels like something I can control, and I live in fear of being judged. Frankly, in the same way I judge others. But what is so farcical about this, is the more I try to suppress my grief, the more likely I am to eventually explode. There is no rationality to my behavior.

I’m isolating myself. I am beyond lucky that I have innumerable friends and family that make up my support network. I don’t know how to tell people I need their help - mostly because I need help not letting the dishes pile up in the sink, making sure I do my washing, or pay my bills or run out to get shampoo, or take my shoes to get new soles - general adulting.

I also am fearful of becoming a burden to my friends. For the last three weeks, I feel like a broken record, I only really have one thing going on: my dad is dying, I’m trying to keep my head above water, look pretty and not be a burden. I won’t even let myself be sad in private, because that seems too scary, and will throw my “work in the morning, spend the evening with my dad” routine out of whack. I try to get in a few workouts, but if I were to be honest, I have lost almost any time for myself outside of Pilates sessions. Sometimes Bleecker and I just want to watch TV on the couch and drink wine. Bravo TV is a form of self-care, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. My narrative has become the following: My dad is still alive and cognizant, I am exhausted, I need a break. Even I’m tired of saying it, I cannot imagine what it’s like to be my friend right now hearing that day after day. It’s the actual definition of “same shit, different day”, and yet my beautiful friends and family continue to check in on me. I don’t deserve them. I have nothing interesting to bring to the table right now.

I also have this problem that Iris Murdoch said so concisely: “The bereaved cannot communicate with the unbereaved”. I am not yet part of the bereaved club, but it is so hard to explain where I’m at to people, particularly to people who have never done this. How do I say “I just wish this would end” to people who don’t know, without them looking at me like I am a horrible person who wants my father dead. Of course I don’t want my dad to die, but I want an end to this limbo, to this suspended state of reality, where nothing moves forward, and my dad is still dying. The end is certain; how do I simultaneously wish for it and yet dread it at the same time? There are times when I can explain it, but it’s tiring and takes so much effort that it becomes easier to say “I’m ok” to people who are so kind and loving to reach out. Instead of relying on my friends, I find myself blurting out the situation to baristas and spiritualists that I barely know. I let text messages go unanswered, rudely leaving people in the dark.

What’s worse is that I am so consciously aware of the fact that I am currently so self-absorbed and do nothing about it. My friend is due to have her baby any day now. I know that because this last week when she called to check in on me (!!), I had to write down her due date, even though she has told me time and time again, since she told me she was pregnant. I haven’t celebrated Christmas with my colleague, or her birthday. I haven’t met one of my friends’ new baby, even though she lives just a couple houses down the street, AND she’s holding a package for me that was delivered that she rescued from porch pirates. I feel like the worst human. I haven’t sent my Christmas cards, and even worse, haven’t written my Christmas “thank you” notes.

Finally, I have this weird pain that just resides in my chest all the time. Sometimes it’s a lot, sometimes I can push it to the background, but it’s always there - a physical manifestation of my heartbreak. It’s like there’s a vice around my heart, tightening and loosening on its own schedule. This is why it’s just easier to take a nap for a few hours, or go to bed at 8:15pm.

If there was ever a time to envy Dorian Gray, it’s now. I have this awful rash on my face, this strange zit/dry patch on the left side of my nose that is unreceptive to any sort of treatment I try to give it. It would just be divine if I could have flawless skin, and a hidden portrait of myself reflecting my grief. I won’t wish for the end of Dorian’s story, but I’d like to relish in the fantasy.

I could keep going, telling you about the anxiety dreams I have about my dad’s funeral (people are NOT listening to my instructions), or the other reasons I can’t sleep. But it would be remiss to not tell you about some of the wonderful moments. I’ve had some beautiful, honest conversations with my dad. I’ve gotten to watch him live through some of what he calls “the best weeks of his life”, where he spends his days visiting with friends and loved ones, creating games around our time together: this week his usual supper guests are (competing) participating in a meal preparation showcase. A family friend dazzled us with lamb ziti, Matt and Dan fed us what looked like a delicious salmon (I don’t eat cooked salmon), and my night will be Julia Child’s Boeuf Bourguignon. I’m going to slay this meal tomorrow, as long as Matt and Dan help me :).

I remain in awe of my dad who has orchestrated this whole thing with so much enthusiasm, knowing he is unable to really eat any of the food. While I’ve only been focused on what has been limiting my dad from living his best life, he’s embracing what he can - he gets to spend time with those he cares for, continuing to impart wisdom and advice, usually with a side of humor. The most important thing in life, he says, is family and friends. I am trying to take on his perspective, to have fun and relish these last days, instead of thinking how hard and long this period is.

So please, as my friends and supporters, know how grateful I am for you, and how much I love you. Please accept my humble thanks and apologies. I am not convinced this is the nadir of my grief, so please hang in there with me a little longer. And once my dad’s “closing date” is upon us, I hope that all your kind offers to feed me and wine me and help me will still be there, and would be gladly accepted, they mean so much to me.