Room 101

This was dad's last breakfast at home before we took him to the hospital and never moved him home again. We poured our milk from the rose pitcher that I remember since forever and ever growing up on the farm. Our milk came home in ice cream pails from dad's cousin's dairy across the road. I knew my way around the milk room, and would release the lever on the big stainless steel reservoir and watch the rich white milk fill the pails, then carefully carry them home. Ice cream pails then were made of heavy plastic that lasted for many years, and the metal handles weren't at risk of breaking.

That rose patterned milk jug says something to me about endurance. About a time before the throwaway culture. About milk that comes from actual cows, about neighbours who never move, about the security and safety of my childhood.

My dad was a respected man in our farming community, and in surrounding areas. He was a smart, fair, kind, hardworking man. Our family life wasn't perfect, and there won't be an upcoming book entitled: "Bliss in Blumengard", but looking back, I'm astounded by how safe my childhood was. No worry for food, shelter, company. Always safe. So safe in fact, that we would be shocked in years to come to learn of incest and abuse in the very circle we called our own. My mother hadn't even known that those things were a possibility, that's how safe we were.

We were taught to treat people with respect, especially our elders. We never addressed our seniors by their first names, and we were expected not to behave in casual, familiar ways, not to ask for things that weren't offered, and always to seek to be helpful.

As dad aged, he held fiercely to his independence. Mom and dad stayed in their home, cut their own grass, worked their own garden, did their own housework, and went for daily walks. They remained true to their convictions of contributing to the community by dedicating twenty + years to volunteerism.

But life has its inevitable stages, and after dad's stroke in 2006, his memory slowly but surely continued to erode, even as he and mom continued to enjoy their independence. We kids offered more time and support, marvelling all the way at their resilience, positive attitude, and appreciation of our love for them. But eventually, dad's constant bladder infections, abdominal pain, and confusion led us to the hospital in January 2015 where he has resided ever since.

Long term care homes in our area are backed up one, to one and a half years and often times, people like my dad land up in hospital awaiting placement. It's not ideal, but its pretty okay-ish. The staff at Bethesda are awesome. Mom lives four blocks away and still drives at eight-nine. We kids quickly established a visiting schedule, and dad never spent a day without family by his side, helping him work out his confused thoughts, reassuring him, helping him to the washroom, shaving his face.

But we had been warned. Although they would not send dad home, they simply could not guarantee that he wouldn't be moved. And he did. Initially he had a lovely spot in front of a large window, with room for two or more of us to visit. Then he got moved to Room 101, cramped into what felt like a corner, with two other roommates. We were sad! We liked Room 110 for dad, with its window and its relative space, and its one roommate. But! we said- it's not Morris. It's not Vita. It's still four blocks from mom, and he is still safe, and we can still dedicate ourselves to him.

Room 101 became a gift to us. Cramped in with little privacy, we soon came to know dad's roomies. Big Guy to the west liked cheezies, and his gown was sometimes vaguely orange. His wife was devoted and spent every day with him. We fell in love with her as well. When the days came that his breathing shallowed and slowed, we felt his wife's loss keenly. At the funeral it was sweet to "see" him in his younger years, full of fun and energy for his grandchildren.

Even Bigger Guy to the south was initially kind of intimidating. His loss of space was more profound- having moved from a large private room into these relatively cramped quarters with two old men and their families he looked and sounded less than impressed. But "Tiny" as we came to know him, became so precious to us all. Tiny moved to the beat of his own drum, and as he like to say- he liked anything that was bad for him. So as we loved him more and more, we began to bring him gifts of Pepsi (his favourite- he scorned water), baking, and soup (another favourite).

Tiny told us stories of growing up in residential school. He told us he wished he had a mom and dad who loved him. Tiny began to call our mom "Mudder", and she willingly adopted him, holding out a basin when he needed to vomit, bringing him homemade buns, and reading him "The Daily Bread". My teeny tiny little birdie of a mother, and this enormous man. Their relationship crossed so many of my mother's previously held boundaries and prejudices.

Tiny looked after my dad. When dad awoke in the night afraid and confused, Tiny would remind him of his family who loved him. Tiny would remind dad of his years of farming, and it settled dad to be drawn to something familiar and grounding. When dad would be convinced of his mobility when he had none, Tiny would ring for the nurse, as dad couldn't remember how to pull his own help cord. Sometimes it would be too late, and dad would be lying on the floor, having taken flight from his bed, forgetting that his legs were weak. Tiny would call out in the night until the staff would come. Tiny became our ambassador, always reporting dad's status when we came to sit with him. Tiny reported the quality of dad's night, the state of his confusion, and any perceived injustices that had occured in our absence.

And we cared for Tiny. He was so easy to love.

Then one day I got a text from Kathy: "Tiny has died." Growing increasingly sicker and short of breath, with no hope of ever going home, Tiny removed his oxygen mask and ceased to exist.

My brother and I drove straightaway to the hospital- Tiny was also ours. I couldn't bear to go the next day and see his empty space without at least showing up. Dad sensed the heaviness in room 101 and asked- "How do you expect me to sleep in a morgue?", so we wheeled dad to another room and tried to speak of more restful things, even as we imagined room 101 without Tiny in it.

I admit to resenting the patient who took up Tiny's bed, and I guarded myself against falling in love again. Tiny's presence and absence hung heavy in the room. I was happy for him to have gone in peace, but I felt sad for him and us as well. After Tiny's replacement was released, we asked if dad could move to that corner of the room.

Soon enough with dad in TIny's spot, dad's prior spot became Mr F's new home. His daughter was devoted and soon we were exchanging greetings and discussing books. I learned to worry about her, as she didn't have the five siblings that I do to help fill in the gaps. She learned to worry that her dad's hallucinations might be offensive to us, but we quickly reassured her that perceptions of mom and dad smoking cigars behind dad's curtain partition would help us pass the time!

Then another text from Kathy: "Dad is being moved to Vita. Today."

But Room 101! And Mr F! All the staff who have become familiar to dad!

We had been warned, that part is true. But after six months, we had been lulled into believing it couldn't happen to us.

When you are an elder in our culture, you have lost your place of significance in this world. We carry on stupidly glorifying youth, and shoving our ancestors wherever there's a tiny space.

My siblings went immediately into high gear, exploring options. Looking for ways to take dad home instead of moving him 35 minutes south, nearly at the US border.

Kathy and I headed over to our mom's house and suggested she sit down. Dad is fine, I insisted.

"He's going to Vita?" mom asked, joking, then the colour draining from her face as we confirmed.

When we suggested the alternative of moving dad home with lots of supports, our dear sweet brave mother wept. And wept.

So we packed up room 101. Took all the photos off the wall, folded up the calendar, and waited for the paramedics. When they arrived to transfer dad to the stretcher, I was already sad and mad at everyone so I made a fuss about the stretcher. Insisted she use the brakes when she wanted to simply brace it with her body. Not for my dad. Not today. Brakes.

"But that's not how we do it".

Brakes.

It was a tiny thing, but there was nothing I could do about Vita. I could at the very least insist that the stretcher's brakes be engaged before the transfer.

Bed 3 in Room 101 is likely refilled by now. It's not Tiny, and its not dad.

Dear old dad lives in Vita now, and my mom won't visit every day.

His room is large and there are no roommates. He is an hour away for me. An hour and a half for my brother and sister. And more than three hours for my other sister.

My mama in her brave resilient way insists that dad will be fine here. That he will be lovingly cared for. That we cannot maintain our schedule of daily visits with these distances.

And we will all learn to love Room 5. We will.

 

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Winnipeg Folk Festival 2015

Sometimes Life and the gifts it gives are almost too good to set words to.

Folk fest with my darling girls.

My sweet Jane and I had the awesome adventure volunteering backstage on La Cuisine, pink crew. What a bunch! Friendly and upbeat and hardworking. We may have spent many hours grilling in the thirty+ degree heat, and I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Seriously cold beer after four hours of the hot grill helped to take the edge off.

As did a trip to the ice cold outdoor shower, as fully clothed as thirty degrees calls for. Soak it all. Hair, dress, body.

We also got to celebrate sweet Arianna's birthday at the festival!

Just twenty-one years ago, I laboured that first baby girl while Brian and I hung out at Folk Fest 1994.

I was That Mom who hung out with the girls and their people and laughed way too loud and talked way too much.

They were so gracious. (and fun to be with).

Jane and I got to eat all the yummy food backstage.

(and wash hour upon hour of plates- FF is a disposable free zone)

Dang, we ate well.

 

 

 

And now for the interview portion of this blog post:

So Joyce, what did you really like about FF 2015?

Joyce (Gushing): "OOOOhhhhh I just Loved All of the Everythings!"

Like- the artists, perhaps?

Joyce: "Well, honestly what I do at Folk Fest is wander around watching people and philosophizing, I do my shifts in La Cuisine, I stand under the hose shower until I am gasping for breath, I wander through Handmade Village and vow (For the zillionth time) to be in it NEXT YEAR, I hang out with my daughters and their people, and then- sometimes the music stops me cold! This year, I was swept away by Matt Anderson. He blew me away. I texted Brian straightaway to check him out on the tubulars, and Brian agreed, so -- that means it was real!"

And were there things in Handmade village this year that made you weak in the knees?

Joyce: "I was a huge fan of the bunwarmers, legwarmers, and wearable blankets made from recycled sweaters, but honestly in a billion degrees celsius, I could barely stand to touch them. Also there was a woman selling things made of felted wool- very original, creative, lovely. But again- wool! in the weather! There weren't any bags to speak of, which made me wonder-- hmmmmm. bags. Are bags a thing? I could make bags!"

So am I hearing you say that next year might be the year for Re-Joyce at the Handmade Village?

Joyce: "You are hearing my heart on fire. Or at least on warm. Or re-warm. I guess time will tell. Plus there's the screening process- you know, being deemed cool enough by the Folkie who's who to play with the in crowd. Handmade village is on my bucket list, so pretty soon I will have to at least try to follow through on that. Do you think I'm snappy enough?"

Please don't make this interview unneccarily awkward.

Joyce: "Sorry. I'm currently in therapy. Sorry. But seriously- am I good enough?"

Um, let's refocus, shall we? Did you run into Gloria and Holly this year at the FF?

Joyce: "Now you're just being cheeky. You know this. I run into Gloria and Holly every single year about 14 billion times, and I don't ever run into the other trillion people I know are also at festival. I'm actually glad you asked though because this year Gloria and I came up with a brilliant idea for icepack undies to sell at next year's fest. We're pretty sure they'll be a big seller. Also she's now my BFF because I see her every year at FF, and at least twice during the year at various thrift shops. She's the one who convinced me to buy an orange velveteen coat at the thrift last winter, so she's pretty much a lifer in my life forever now."

And how was the weather?

Joyce: "It was smoking, smoking hot with humidity of 157%. So hot. All I ever wore were my lightest in the world clothes. Most of my clothes stayed in the suitcase in the million degree hot tent. Even at night when it typically cools off, I stayed in my strappy sundresses. So hot. Did I mention hot? It was hot. So hot. It was so Not Winter and it was my favorite."

Did you feel fat at the FF this year?

Joyce: "Do you ever listen to anything I say? HOT. I said I was smoking HOT. Besides- therapy. Gosh, it would be so nice if you would just listen once in a while. Maybe you should consider therapy."

Well. Would you look at the time! So real quick like before we wrap up here forever and I never call you ever again because you clearly have issues, what was your actually most favoritest ever festivally thing?

Joyce: "Being there with my girls. They were so happy to be at FF, I was so happy to be happy with them. Every little boiled up in the sun baby I saw breastfeeding in the sweltering sun, I thanked my precious girls for growing up and turning out ok-ish in spite of me and their dad. ( I also thanked them for no longer breastfeeding. It looked hot.) Every little whining toddler child reminded me of the joy of having survived the past, and the ecstacy of my little angel daughters (they never whined or cried or pooped) being the sorts of grownups who also love FF. I loved working the kitchen with Jane, and I loved celebrating Arianna's birthday with her fab friends.

I also loved wearing shoes or not wearing shoes, not brushing my hair for four days, living and eating and sleeping outdoors. I loved wandering about, and I loved sitting still. I loved the hot coffee (thank you Green Bean!) and the cold beer, the cold water, and the cold mystery punch. I loved running into festival friends and Niverville friends. I loved being on pink crew. I loved that at the very end of four smoking hot days, a huge storm rolled in hard.

We got PELTED! I may have laughed really really loud and really long and I'd do it again even if you shushed me.

Nothing more perfect than driving home in an epic storm, and the sky looking like straight up magic.

So, my favorite, you ask? Yes. I say. It was- it was all my favourite.

My most Festivally Fun Favourite, Folk Fest 2015.

 

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July 1, 2015

It's my first day of holidays!

The daisies are blooming.

Hiawatha's tires are full of air and she's ready to hit the road.

The deck will be hosting less of this

And more of this.

My hollyhocks are budding.

My application to volunteer at Winnipeg Folk Fest is approved.

A trip to Flin Flon to pick up my daughter is being planned.

And.

The bangs are growing out.

It's going to be an epic summer, y'all.

And it all begins this afternoon at the Osborne Street Festival.

 

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Abs and Flabs

There's a reason that I look more

than

.

It might be related to my urge to cry and break for DQ when push-ups and runs are the torture de jour at my local "Box". (I think that's what actual fit people call crossfit gyms).

I said push-ups.

And running.

Coaches just let that roll off their tongue as though it were entirely doable.

Trust me when I tell you, they weren't in my phys ed class, circa 1984. Cruel Mrs Harem Pants and Slouchy Socks is still weeping over her wasted years trying to teach me a damn thing. She used to escort us down into the bowels of the high school to an underground track that smelled of spiders and mold and watch us run endless laps in semi-darkness while in the grip of nutrient deprived anorexia. (how could she know.) I hated her for her generous belly and stretchy pants and whip cracking attitude of domination. Standing there while I slowly killed myself on that soggy track.

Yech.

For all her efforts, I never really executed a run worthy of the wind pant.

More of a...

And I can't do bloody push-ups to save my life. Sure, I modify by pushing off a bar several miles up from horizontal and still- I choke out twelve or four at a time.

Coach (who crushes rodents between her thighs on her lunch breaks) commands that we produce thirty push ups in proper form, and that each time the body insists on a rest longer than two seconds in duration, you've earned yourself another 400 meter run. In any case, we all start with a 400 meter run (and not towards home).

I want to quit. I want to talk and whine and cry about my huge tatas that hurt like the devil because my stupid 47 year old uterus still wants to play house and pretend to keep making babies and feeding them all from the bounty that is bosom. And that's just the North end. Further South, I fear that the entire Poise company will be inadequate for the floodgates of unending fluids that my body will squeeze out (an attempt to lighten its load? Throw something overboard?) I silently curse all male runners for not having a single precious clue. I refuse to make eye contact with anyone. They are all the enemy because they will all finish before me while I stumble about in my aching, dampened state.

First try- twelve lousy pushups. Second- thirteen. Which leaves me to run another 400 meters before the last five ruddy pushups.

And I don't even mean pushups.

I mean pushups for people who can't do pushups.

-sigh-

Did I mention that I pay for this?! I do, and I love it (mostly) and I always go back. However. That does NOT mean I'm not frightened and ugly.

That, folks.

And trust me when I say they forgot to mention the 2-3 bras, the protective products,and the suppressed tears.

But still-

There's way, way more to heading to the gym than perfect abs.

Way more.

 

 

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This Journey With Dad

Dad never wanted to grow old enough to "become a burden", and by that I think he meant  a few things.  He wanted to remain independent, mobile, mentally sharp, able to manage his own body, finances, yard work, and decisions.  And until past the age of ninety, my dad did just that.  He defied his family history of illness and poverty by becoming a successful farmer who barely so much as caught a cold.  My dad, with only a grade six education, served on many boards, gave huge amounts of himself to the church and community, and raised eight children who all had the opportunity to further their educations, should they so choose.  My dad lived to be an old man, in his own home, cutting his own grass, and managing his own affairs.

I never knew how much these things meant to my dad until the very thing he never wanted to happen began to happen.  My dad's brain started to slip a few cogs.

And then my normally very quiet father began to repeat himself.  He said the same things over and over so many times that all the muscles in my body from baby toe to furrowed brown tensed in sheer boredom and frustration.

The story of him being a sickly child, sharing his home with his grandfather who considered my dad his favourite.  Great grandfather would hold my dad on his knee and say-  "Abey, Abey.  What will ever become of you.  You'll never make a farmer.  Perhaps a fiddle player".

I'm not kidding when I tell you now that I've heard this story so many times that I want to break out into angry, resentful, guilt-fueled hives each and every time I sense that dad is about to offer it to me again as though it were the first time the tale had been told.

But dad came from a line of sick people.  His dad wasn't well and died as a poor farmer just into his fifties.  My dad grew up with the impression that once you get married and begin to procreate, you heap upon yourself and your loved ones pain and agony in the forms of inescapable illness and poverty.

So when his eyes light up and he begins anew... "I was a sickly child"...  I have some idea of the depth of his tale.  He beat the odds.  His grandfather's gravestone sits on the very land that my father farmed up to the day he sold the farm and moved to town.  Every fall, dad would navigate his massive machinery around the prairie gravesite and imagine his grandpa sit up tall in that grave to behold tiny Abey armed with not a fiddle, but a ginormous New Holland combine.  And my dad's grin matches the sense of accomplishment he must have felt.

Although I know and appreciate this as my dad's story and part of his legacy, this painful dance of loving and sitting with my elderly father still finds me as a  horribly flawed, irritable human being.

I understand that my dad never had the opportunities for learning that my children now have.  And that its his one regret in life to have never "finished" a formal education.  But it truly doesn't stop my rage when he asks me more than a zillion times what my oldest daughter (I can't remember her name, he says) is doing?  What are her goals?  Is she taking university courses?  What is her ultimate goal?  I don't act out my anger by throwing plates or walkers or dentures.  I manage to suppress my rage.  And it troubles me that although I know he can't help it, and that he asks as a reflection of his own hopes and dreams, I just really want him to stop asking.

None of this is storybook, but it is my truth.

There's just enough self-awareness in me to know that his preoccupation with education hits my nerve of never having finished my own degree, and of never having a true sense of direction for my calling in this life.  It feels like an accusation.  Even though I know its not.

My dad is a good man.  A kind man.  A man with a heap of integrity.  It feels awful to be mad at him for being repetitive.  It feels selfish and unkind.

During the three months that dad has spent in hospital, his body has become stronger.  Sometimes he scoffs at the offer of his walker, as though we were being ridiculous to offer him something a weak person might need.  He doesn't remember that for the five weeks of his hospitalization, he couldn't walk, or even sit up unaided.  Often he is incredulous that he's in hospital at all, and even more so when we explain it has been three months already.  Sometimes he gets angry when we knock on the bathroom door to check if he's all right.  He doesn't remember all the times I have walked in with him and stayed.  Sometimes he gets mad at me when I ask him repeatedly not to take his shoes off before he has gotten into bed because I don't want him to fall because of the slippery TED stockings he wears on his legs now.  He thinks I'm being ridiculous- that  I don't know what I'm talking about.

Sometimes I just have to leave the room.

My dad is a good and kind man.  Its soul crushing to find myself so short on patience at times.  His processing and reasoning no longer work at capacity, and although I know this, he's my dad and it's hard for me to tell him what to do, and its even harder when he balks at reason and safety.  My dad wasn't one to yell or say things in anger, unless he was loading pigs for market.  That's a whole other story.

So when I remind him about his dentures, and he yells at me, I want to yell too.

So this seems like the perfect time to talk about my family, of which I am the eighth, and last born.

I am part of an amazing family.  Where elderly parents and the care they require is more than enough to splinter many families, mine has become closer.  Every day we group text, deciding who will care for dad, and mom, and when.  When one of us is reduced to tears and emptiness, someone else will be strong in that very moment.   Or we will all be sad in the safety of each other's comfort.   There's always someone to say; "Me too".  "I know".  "It's ok."

Everyone brings another skill set to the table.  We all have distinct personalities, different things that we love and hate, and a variety of comfort zones.

My sisters love puzzles and games.  I would rather impale myself with plastic hospital forks.  My brother is administrative and weekly designs a well balanced schedule of hospital visits.  He takes my dad for car rides and even to Tim Hortons to see his OLD pals.

My mom shares her journey with us.  She sits with my dad endlessly, playing Skip-Bo when he is able, reading to him from My Daily Bread, trimming his hair, brushing his dentures, teasing him about how long they've been married when he's not sure she's his wife and not his sister.

It's not all sunshine and roses for her either.

But my mama sets her example, as she always has.  She's deeply appreciative of her children's time and attention, never taking anyone's time for granted.  She explains and reexplains to dad about where he is and why.  And when dad starts telling "Abey, Abey" again, mom gently kicks my ankle and we share a look.  Most of the time, my mom is optimistic and resilient.  She adapted quickly to living in the house alone, still baking her own bread, caring for the yard, her plants, the house, and the car.  I think its the first time ever in her life that she has lived alone.  Not bad for eighty-eight.  She still takes time to exercise every day.  Her stubborn pride prevents her from using a walker within sight of the neighbours, so she has taken to doing laps around the dining room table.  She always makes me laugh.

Sometimes, though,  the last place on earth I want to be is in room 101.  Sometimes mom's breath smells like fish, and dad wants to buy a new lawnmower and start volunteering again.  Of dad's two roommates, one is breathing heavy and smells awful and the other is talking endlessly on the phone about his bowel movements, open sores, and how much weight he lost on weight watchers eating raw carrots.  I'm chewing my cuticles to bloody stumps, worrying about my children, and sick to death of sitting in a cramped hospital room.  I miss empty time.  Time to think, to write, to stare off into space without being eaten up by guilt or worry.

Here's what I'm learning:

Love isn't necessarily pretty, and it certainly isn't comfortable.  Human love is terribly flawed, inadequate, and complicated.

Show up anyway.

Look after yourself and the people you care about so that you don't go completely bat shit crazy and actually have nothing left to give except rage and irritability.  This is soooo much easier said than done.  I have to work full-time.  It's my commitment.  There are no sick days, no vacation pay, and no spares in my career.  That's all I'm going to say about that.

I am, and continue to be the mother to four and the wife to one.  (Only one.  weird, right?)

Fortunately, my children aren't small any more.  But still I am their mother.

Fortunate too that Brian and I are both introverts.  We both don't need fifteen hours of conversation at the end of the day.  And because Brian is a home body, there's almost always someone here for whatever offspring happen to be around.

And this again is where I can give a huge shout out to my brothers and sisters, who will double up when they are feeling balanced so that one of us can take a little time to stare into space.  Who don't bother trying to guilt anyone about their time and energy.  Who have so much insider knowledge on the importance of pursuing mental health, that we should likely be a poster family at a psych clinic somewhere on the outskirts of crazy town.

Life as a human sucks lemon balls sometimes.  Inadequacy is real, people.  Many days I don't even like myself a little.  I want to be a deep, clear pool of love and compassion and life-defying patience but more often feel like Kathy Bateman  in "Misery".

So, sometimes the answer becomes-  "Don't Show Up Anyway".

Don't show up to some of the stuff you actually would like to but know will require energy.  Just don't.  It's ok, the world will continue to spin.  

Or sometimes-  "Show up all ugly and honest".  Apologize if you need to.

(Sorry mom.  I'm having a sad day.  Crying about all the things.  Worried about the kids.  Sick of the smell of fish and poop.  I love you, I love dad, and I'm grumpy.  Sorry.)

For the love of Pete, try to be nice to yourself too.  (I've got very close to nothing here.  I'm just barely trying to learn).  One of the unbelievable things that is true about these past three months, is that I decided early on that exercise was something I shouldn't let slide.  So I state my hospital availability around my twice weekly gym appointments.  Twice weekly might not sound like much, but after a ten hour workday with twelve hours of housework attached to it, hauling my impressive butt to the gym from 6-7 twice a week is actually kind of a big deal.  And a commitment.

It hasn't been easy.  Most of the time, I'm really glad I went.  My blood is pumping, my muscles feel taut, my laugher got exercised, and I got the heck out of the house to a place that wasn't Bethesda Hospital.  Sometimes I hate it.  Sometimes I feel like the Biggest Loser in the world, and not in the celebrity sense.  More like the girl with four left feet kind of way.  I know that its because my tank is low and demands are stretching my idealisms to ugly little scrappy bits.  

So its a case of show up anyway.  My gym people are amazing.  So kind and real and funny.  And STRONG!  Good grief, so strong.

This journey with dad isn't over.

When people ask-  "How's your dad?", I hear myself sigh and say- he's getting stronger.

And then get hit with a floodgate of soul crushing guilt.  

I love my dad.  I'll miss him when he's gone. I want to spend every minute of every time I've driven to Steinbach to sit in that cramped and smelly room.  It's exactly what I want to do.  I'll never regret it.

Life is more full of contradictory truths than I'd fully appreciated.

This is exactly what my dad never wanted.  And so we never wanted it for him either.  But there's been some sweetness in dad's life shifting this way- the smell of his bald head when I kiss it good night.  The kisses between my stoic and excessively private parents when mom goes home to bed.  The pleasure I find in rubbing lemon oil into dad's calves, massaging the bump where his leg broke in 1965.  Arranging the pillows under his head until they are just so.  Lacing up his shoes, stirring cream into his coffee, helping him find his glasses.

Maybe you've gone through this already, and you know all these things.

Maybe your dad died young and you never had the chance.

Maybe your family hates each other.

I have to believe its ok, somehow.

These are our stories, and they are sacred.

Beautiful, ugly, precious, boring, profound.

Sacred.  This journey with dad.

Abnormals Anonymous

They weren't offering Abnormals Anonymous, so I joined crossfit instead.

It was time.

I'm not very good at it.

But I keep going back.

Sometimes we have to run to the elevator, which is sort of on the way to my house if you don't actually run to the elevator, but you take a sharp left instead.

So far, I've never run home instead.

This is sort of how I look when I run.

But actually, more like this.

Fortunately when we run, it isn't for long distances. Usually because they want us to do some other horrible thing.

I tend to be the horrible, negative, irritating one in the class who when the coach explains all the stuff and how to do the stuff, then says; "Any questions?" I usually say- "Yes. WHY?"

And then he lies and says it will be easy.

I had hoped that crossfit would change my life and I'd turn into one of those buff people without cellulite or tons of fat.

But like I said- I'm not very good at it.

If that isn't bad enough, I have to share my experience with people who are both strong and coordinated. Life isn't fair.

But I keep showing up. I figure one of these days, they'll introduce an activity that I could possibly excel at.

But meanwhile, I'll just keep being me.

And showing up.

 

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