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Prompt: “Do what you can, with what you have, where you are"
My dad fell and broke his femur, very near his hip, on May 30, 2021. He had surgery to repair it on Memorial Day and spent 10 days in the hospital. He was in rehab, which he hated, until July 20, when I found a CNA (certified nursing assistant) we could almost afford so he could get enough help to be at home. The look on his face when I told him he was going home and the huge smile he had when he was sitting in his recliner for the first time made it worth all the effort.
Unfortunately, my dad never regained the ability to walk. He was hospitalized for pneumonia for three weeks from late August to mid September, and the hospital staff never got him out of bed, against the doctor’s orders. Stupid Covid rules didn’t allow my mom or me to visit enough to keep an eye on things. We couldn’t make sure my dad was getting the best care in half an hour per day.
When he came home from that hospitalization, he could no longer, even with assistance, stand and pivot to transfer from the bed to the wheel chair or from the wheelchair to his recliner. It took me weeks, but I worked with Home Health and the insurance company to acquire a Hoyer lift for my dad.
I had seen Hoyer lifts before, and had had training for using one once, since I happened to be with one of my hospice families when their Hoyer lift was delivered and they invited me to stay. However, I had never actually used one, and it’s not as easy as it looked. The technician who did our training suggested I practice with my mom since she could move easily and would be able to get herself into the sling properly. My mom shrieked, “I am NOT getting into that thing!” The lift works through using pneumatic pressure, enabling someone to pick up far more weight than they could on their own. I managed it, but it does take effort, especially in making sure I didn’t bang any part of my dad into a wall or into a piece of furniture.
The Hoyer lift made daily life easier, even if not exactly easy, but it did not enable us to take my dad anywhere. If he had to go to the doctor, we used Elder Ride, a service with cars and vans built so a person can be wheeled up a ramp into the back and clamped into place, reversing the process upon arrival. I thought I could probably get my dad into the car with the Hoyer lift, although that is not its intended use, but the Hoyer lift is huge and not at all portable, so I would not be able to get him out of the car.
When we ran out of Home Health days, our doctor wrote an order for outpatient physical therapy for my dad. I was unable to schedule Elder Ride for his first appointment since they were already booked. I decided I was going to get my dad into the car with the Hoyer lift because the physical therapy location would have a Hoyer Lift to get him out of the car.
Getting my dad into the wheelchair with the Hoyer lift was not a problem. I wheeled him to the elevator while my mom used her walker, and then returned to wheel the Hoyer lift to the elevator, which was more difficult than I had expected. My mom with her walker, my dad in his wheelchair, the Hoyer lift, and I completely filled the largest elevator of my parents’ apartment building. Fitting us inside was akin to playing live-action Tetris. We received many comments from other residents who had called the elevator to their floors and couldn’t fit. Most along the lines of, “What is that thing?!” Trying to get my dad into the car with it took 45 minutes, and I was breathing heavily and sweating when I finally succeeded. My dad was not particularly pleased either, since he was never very fond of the Hoyer lift. He never admitted it, but I think he was rather afraid of hanging in the sling. I also am certain my lack of skill using the contraption did not instill him with confidence.
When I arrived at the physical therapy building, I parked and went inside to bring back a Hoyer Lift and/or help. The employees would not let me use their Hoyer lift because it was a liability issue. They tried to tell me to take my dad back home and we would reschedule, but I refused. The Stubborn is strong in my family.
My dad’s physical therapist had the build of an American Football player. He, and the similarly built security guard we found to help, had no problem lifting my 135 pound dad out of the car and into his wheelchair. They were not very gracious about it but did it, perceiving they would not win the battle of wills with me. The physical therapist was much kinder about putting my dad back into the car after spending time with him. It was impossible not to like my dad, who was always quick with a laugh and a smile.
When we returned to my parents’ apartment, it took me 45 minutes to get my dad out of the car with the Hoyer lift. I actually think getting him out of the car was even harder than getting him in. It took me forever to figure out how to lift my dad off the seat enough to get him out of the car without the bar that holds the sling being trapped inside the car.
It was an ordeal of a day, but I began to consider if it would be possible to take my dad somewhere fun. I had pushed my dad in his wheelchair around the garden at their apartment complex, but other than that, he hadn’t left their apartment other than for doctor or therapy visits since Memorial Day weekend, and it was November. I began searching for drive in or drive through events, and remembered the Botanical Gardens’ Christmas Lights display!
This time, I had Arthur to help with getting my dad in and out of the car with the Hoyer lift, so it only took half an hour rather than 45 minutes. The four of us went to the Botanical Gardens’ Galaxy of Lights on December 3rd. They have a walk through version, but of course we did the drive through version. My dad was smiling brightly in the passenger seat next to me as I drove. I drove so slowly through the display a couple of cars became impatient and passed me. I didn’t care. I was going to make the trip last as long as possible.
Even with Arthur’s help, getting my dad out of the car was still harder than getting him in. Unfortunately, the sling wasn't positioned very well, which I can't fix. With Arthur crawling into the driver’s seat to push while I pulled from the passenger side, we finally got my dad out of the car and he was dangling in the sling. I said, "There we go! GOOD!"
My dad glared at me and said, "Molly! What part of this do you think is good?!"
I answered, "I didn't drop you on the ground. We have a very low bar for what qualifies as good around here, Dad."
He didn't laugh at it then, but when we were back in their apartment and told my mom, he did. I asked if he had fun and if all the Hoyer lift drama was worth it and received a resounding yes. Arthur and I researched more drive through Christmas lights events and found one about half an hour away which we planned for the next weekend on Saturday. My dad passed away on Friday. I will be forever thankful we had such a fun time together as a family before it was too late.
A/N: I tried to include a picture of a Hoyer lift, but couldn't make it work.
My dad fell and broke his femur, very near his hip, on May 30, 2021. He had surgery to repair it on Memorial Day and spent 10 days in the hospital. He was in rehab, which he hated, until July 20, when I found a CNA (certified nursing assistant) we could almost afford so he could get enough help to be at home. The look on his face when I told him he was going home and the huge smile he had when he was sitting in his recliner for the first time made it worth all the effort.
Unfortunately, my dad never regained the ability to walk. He was hospitalized for pneumonia for three weeks from late August to mid September, and the hospital staff never got him out of bed, against the doctor’s orders. Stupid Covid rules didn’t allow my mom or me to visit enough to keep an eye on things. We couldn’t make sure my dad was getting the best care in half an hour per day.
When he came home from that hospitalization, he could no longer, even with assistance, stand and pivot to transfer from the bed to the wheel chair or from the wheelchair to his recliner. It took me weeks, but I worked with Home Health and the insurance company to acquire a Hoyer lift for my dad.
I had seen Hoyer lifts before, and had had training for using one once, since I happened to be with one of my hospice families when their Hoyer lift was delivered and they invited me to stay. However, I had never actually used one, and it’s not as easy as it looked. The technician who did our training suggested I practice with my mom since she could move easily and would be able to get herself into the sling properly. My mom shrieked, “I am NOT getting into that thing!” The lift works through using pneumatic pressure, enabling someone to pick up far more weight than they could on their own. I managed it, but it does take effort, especially in making sure I didn’t bang any part of my dad into a wall or into a piece of furniture.
The Hoyer lift made daily life easier, even if not exactly easy, but it did not enable us to take my dad anywhere. If he had to go to the doctor, we used Elder Ride, a service with cars and vans built so a person can be wheeled up a ramp into the back and clamped into place, reversing the process upon arrival. I thought I could probably get my dad into the car with the Hoyer lift, although that is not its intended use, but the Hoyer lift is huge and not at all portable, so I would not be able to get him out of the car.
When we ran out of Home Health days, our doctor wrote an order for outpatient physical therapy for my dad. I was unable to schedule Elder Ride for his first appointment since they were already booked. I decided I was going to get my dad into the car with the Hoyer lift because the physical therapy location would have a Hoyer Lift to get him out of the car.
Getting my dad into the wheelchair with the Hoyer lift was not a problem. I wheeled him to the elevator while my mom used her walker, and then returned to wheel the Hoyer lift to the elevator, which was more difficult than I had expected. My mom with her walker, my dad in his wheelchair, the Hoyer lift, and I completely filled the largest elevator of my parents’ apartment building. Fitting us inside was akin to playing live-action Tetris. We received many comments from other residents who had called the elevator to their floors and couldn’t fit. Most along the lines of, “What is that thing?!” Trying to get my dad into the car with it took 45 minutes, and I was breathing heavily and sweating when I finally succeeded. My dad was not particularly pleased either, since he was never very fond of the Hoyer lift. He never admitted it, but I think he was rather afraid of hanging in the sling. I also am certain my lack of skill using the contraption did not instill him with confidence.
When I arrived at the physical therapy building, I parked and went inside to bring back a Hoyer Lift and/or help. The employees would not let me use their Hoyer lift because it was a liability issue. They tried to tell me to take my dad back home and we would reschedule, but I refused. The Stubborn is strong in my family.
My dad’s physical therapist had the build of an American Football player. He, and the similarly built security guard we found to help, had no problem lifting my 135 pound dad out of the car and into his wheelchair. They were not very gracious about it but did it, perceiving they would not win the battle of wills with me. The physical therapist was much kinder about putting my dad back into the car after spending time with him. It was impossible not to like my dad, who was always quick with a laugh and a smile.
When we returned to my parents’ apartment, it took me 45 minutes to get my dad out of the car with the Hoyer lift. I actually think getting him out of the car was even harder than getting him in. It took me forever to figure out how to lift my dad off the seat enough to get him out of the car without the bar that holds the sling being trapped inside the car.
It was an ordeal of a day, but I began to consider if it would be possible to take my dad somewhere fun. I had pushed my dad in his wheelchair around the garden at their apartment complex, but other than that, he hadn’t left their apartment other than for doctor or therapy visits since Memorial Day weekend, and it was November. I began searching for drive in or drive through events, and remembered the Botanical Gardens’ Christmas Lights display!
This time, I had Arthur to help with getting my dad in and out of the car with the Hoyer lift, so it only took half an hour rather than 45 minutes. The four of us went to the Botanical Gardens’ Galaxy of Lights on December 3rd. They have a walk through version, but of course we did the drive through version. My dad was smiling brightly in the passenger seat next to me as I drove. I drove so slowly through the display a couple of cars became impatient and passed me. I didn’t care. I was going to make the trip last as long as possible.
Even with Arthur’s help, getting my dad out of the car was still harder than getting him in. Unfortunately, the sling wasn't positioned very well, which I can't fix. With Arthur crawling into the driver’s seat to push while I pulled from the passenger side, we finally got my dad out of the car and he was dangling in the sling. I said, "There we go! GOOD!"
My dad glared at me and said, "Molly! What part of this do you think is good?!"
I answered, "I didn't drop you on the ground. We have a very low bar for what qualifies as good around here, Dad."
He didn't laugh at it then, but when we were back in their apartment and told my mom, he did. I asked if he had fun and if all the Hoyer lift drama was worth it and received a resounding yes. Arthur and I researched more drive through Christmas lights events and found one about half an hour away which we planned for the next weekend on Saturday. My dad passed away on Friday. I will be forever thankful we had such a fun time together as a family before it was too late.
A/N: I tried to include a picture of a Hoyer lift, but couldn't make it work.
My parents’ fifty-fifth wedding anniversary would have been December 30, 2021, twenty days after my dad’s death. Along with Christmas and my dad’s January third birthday, this made for a very hard month.
I decided for self care because I did not want to leave the house on New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day. Since I had not had a day to stay home for at least six months, this would be a blessing, but it was a blessing requiring preparation. I took my mom out to lunch on December 30. I did not think she should be alone on the day that would have been her fifty-fifth wedding anniversary. My mom was glad to go to lunch, but said, “It’s not my anniversary any more.”
Her comment almost made me burst into tears as I told her, “Dad’s death does not change the fact that this is the anniversary of the day you married him.” She shrugged.
We ate at Olive Garden since Italian is our ultimate comfort food. I hoped they would not ask us the frequent question if we were celebrating anything because I would have definitely burst into tears. We had a nice lunch, and I took my mom to the grocery store to make sure she would be okay from Thursday until Sunday so I could have my two days at home. I carried in her groceries for her and asked if she needed me to do anything before I left. She asked me to get the Christmas boxes out of the closet, so she could take down her Christmas tree over the next few days. I was surprised, since my grandma and my mom never took a tree down before Epiphany, but I didn’t argue with her. After getting everything settled, I tried to hug my mom, and she pushed me away. I almost made it to my car before I started sobbing.
I had a good cry, and went to the grocery store to make sure my husband Arthur and I would be well stocked, too. I had made a list of the ingredients for several comfort food items. Arthur wanted me to go to Costco since he really likes their frozen chicken breasts that are individually wrapped to prevent sticking together. My mom’s apartment building is right behind Costco, so it was convenient, but as I drove by, the parking lot was absolutely packed and I could not deal with that level of crowds, so I continued driving to Publix.
I found most of what I needed at Publix, but they did not have frozen chicken. I even asked about it. While looking for frozen chicken, I did find frozen ravioli, which sounded really good to me. There was one brand on sale, but I refused to buy it, because the brand manufacturer thinks four ravioli constitutes a serving! Four ravioli does not a serving make unless they are the ginormous, gourmet, palm-sized sort shown on the Food Network. The other brands thought nine or twelve ravioli was a serving, which was much more reasonable. I bought three bags of different varieties. I had already planned on making spaghetti sauce from scratch.
I looked up, and in the freezer aisle checking her list on her phone, was one of my closest friends, DeeDee. She hadn’t seen me, and I fled. DeeDee is one of maybe five people on the planet for whom I cannot put on an act of being okay. She would have smiled brightly upon seeing me, hugged me, asked how I was doing, and I would have started sobbing hysterically right in the middle of the freezer aisle at Publix. Plus, DeeDee lives on the other side of town, so her shopping at this Publix meant she was going to her boyfriend’s house. If I started sobbing, she would insist on driving me home, and either Arthur would have to take her back to her car, or her boyfriend would have to come get her.
I vacated the freezer aisle, and went to the pasta aisle. I bought vodka sauce which I thought would be a better pairing for the sausage and fennel ravioli than the sauce I make, and also found gnocchi. I can make gnocchi from scratch but not any better than what I can buy, and I didn’t feel like bothering. I saw DeeDee pass by the end of my aisle, thankfully still absorbed in the list on her phone, so I made a beeline to the checkout. I made it out of the store without being seen.
Since I had not managed to buy frozen chicken, I went to Kroger. They were out of frozen chicken, due to the now ever-present supply chain issues, but they had frozen toasted ravioli on sale buy one get one free, so I bought two bags. I checked out and returned to my car, when I suddenly realized, I could have purchased fresh chicken at Publix or at Kroger! Tears burst out of me again. I called Arthur, sobbing about not remembering fresh chicken and having five bags of ravioli instead.
Arthur said, “Tandoori ravioli might be interesting . . . Where are you?”
I laughed through my sobs at “Tandoori ravioli” and said, “I’m in the parking lot at Kroger. I could go back in and buy fresh chicken. I don’t know how I didn’t think of it! This is my brain on grief . . .”
“Sweetie, it’s okay. Just come home. I wasn’t planning to make the Tandoori chicken until Monday anyway.”
While helping me unload the car, Arthur asked, “Why five bags of ravioli?”
“You’re talking to the person who couldn’t understand buying fresh chicken instead of frozen would work. This is my brain on grief. We’ll give a couple bags to my mom. I’ll make a double batch of sauce and we’ll give her some to go with the ravioli.”
My mom decided she didn’t want to go to church that Sunday and would watch the service online instead. We took her lunch after church and ate ravioli, which was delicious.
I decided for self care because I did not want to leave the house on New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day. Since I had not had a day to stay home for at least six months, this would be a blessing, but it was a blessing requiring preparation. I took my mom out to lunch on December 30. I did not think she should be alone on the day that would have been her fifty-fifth wedding anniversary. My mom was glad to go to lunch, but said, “It’s not my anniversary any more.”
Her comment almost made me burst into tears as I told her, “Dad’s death does not change the fact that this is the anniversary of the day you married him.” She shrugged.
We ate at Olive Garden since Italian is our ultimate comfort food. I hoped they would not ask us the frequent question if we were celebrating anything because I would have definitely burst into tears. We had a nice lunch, and I took my mom to the grocery store to make sure she would be okay from Thursday until Sunday so I could have my two days at home. I carried in her groceries for her and asked if she needed me to do anything before I left. She asked me to get the Christmas boxes out of the closet, so she could take down her Christmas tree over the next few days. I was surprised, since my grandma and my mom never took a tree down before Epiphany, but I didn’t argue with her. After getting everything settled, I tried to hug my mom, and she pushed me away. I almost made it to my car before I started sobbing.
I had a good cry, and went to the grocery store to make sure my husband Arthur and I would be well stocked, too. I had made a list of the ingredients for several comfort food items. Arthur wanted me to go to Costco since he really likes their frozen chicken breasts that are individually wrapped to prevent sticking together. My mom’s apartment building is right behind Costco, so it was convenient, but as I drove by, the parking lot was absolutely packed and I could not deal with that level of crowds, so I continued driving to Publix.
I found most of what I needed at Publix, but they did not have frozen chicken. I even asked about it. While looking for frozen chicken, I did find frozen ravioli, which sounded really good to me. There was one brand on sale, but I refused to buy it, because the brand manufacturer thinks four ravioli constitutes a serving! Four ravioli does not a serving make unless they are the ginormous, gourmet, palm-sized sort shown on the Food Network. The other brands thought nine or twelve ravioli was a serving, which was much more reasonable. I bought three bags of different varieties. I had already planned on making spaghetti sauce from scratch.
I looked up, and in the freezer aisle checking her list on her phone, was one of my closest friends, DeeDee. She hadn’t seen me, and I fled. DeeDee is one of maybe five people on the planet for whom I cannot put on an act of being okay. She would have smiled brightly upon seeing me, hugged me, asked how I was doing, and I would have started sobbing hysterically right in the middle of the freezer aisle at Publix. Plus, DeeDee lives on the other side of town, so her shopping at this Publix meant she was going to her boyfriend’s house. If I started sobbing, she would insist on driving me home, and either Arthur would have to take her back to her car, or her boyfriend would have to come get her.
I vacated the freezer aisle, and went to the pasta aisle. I bought vodka sauce which I thought would be a better pairing for the sausage and fennel ravioli than the sauce I make, and also found gnocchi. I can make gnocchi from scratch but not any better than what I can buy, and I didn’t feel like bothering. I saw DeeDee pass by the end of my aisle, thankfully still absorbed in the list on her phone, so I made a beeline to the checkout. I made it out of the store without being seen.
Since I had not managed to buy frozen chicken, I went to Kroger. They were out of frozen chicken, due to the now ever-present supply chain issues, but they had frozen toasted ravioli on sale buy one get one free, so I bought two bags. I checked out and returned to my car, when I suddenly realized, I could have purchased fresh chicken at Publix or at Kroger! Tears burst out of me again. I called Arthur, sobbing about not remembering fresh chicken and having five bags of ravioli instead.
Arthur said, “Tandoori ravioli might be interesting . . . Where are you?”
I laughed through my sobs at “Tandoori ravioli” and said, “I’m in the parking lot at Kroger. I could go back in and buy fresh chicken. I don’t know how I didn’t think of it! This is my brain on grief . . .”
“Sweetie, it’s okay. Just come home. I wasn’t planning to make the Tandoori chicken until Monday anyway.”
While helping me unload the car, Arthur asked, “Why five bags of ravioli?”
“You’re talking to the person who couldn’t understand buying fresh chicken instead of frozen would work. This is my brain on grief. We’ll give a couple bags to my mom. I’ll make a double batch of sauce and we’ll give her some to go with the ravioli.”
My mom decided she didn’t want to go to church that Sunday and would watch the service online instead. We took her lunch after church and ate ravioli, which was delicious.
I have always had very vivid dreams, very few of which I remember. As a child, I had night terrors, and would run down the hallway screaming, usually crashing into my dad in the middle of the hall as he was coming to check on me. He was always the one who came, not my mom. I am thankful to have forgotten the night terrors and only remember my dad’s comfort.
Some dreams I have had are amazing, and I’d wake up wanting to know more of the story, wishing I could remember the details. If I could remember those dreams, I might be a best-selling fantasy author. I have occasionally managed to hang on to a single image or a phrase which ends up in my writing, but that is only a paltry amount of the greater whole, and small consolation for forgetting what seemed like entire new worlds with novel-length stories that only happened in my sleep.
I can count on my fingers the number of dreams which I remember clearly and all of them are particularly meaningful to me, bringing me a message. The first of these happened when I was in graduate school in 1998. I dreamed of bees flying through the snapdragons in my grandpa’s garden. I can picture this scene as clearly as if I were standing in front of the garden, but what was significant, other than it was the first dream I ever remembered, is the sense of absolute peace I had when I awoke, and the sense of peace I still have from thinking about the dream. I knew it was a message from my grandpa that he and my grandma were happy and at peace in Heaven.
It didn’t happen again until 2006, about numerous friends who had passed away in a matter of weeks. In 2008, when Arthur’s grandma passed away, I saw my grandma welcome her into Heaven. I always knew they would like each other, and funnily enough, they even had the same first name. Dreams came several more times over the next five years about friends, and even the loved ones of close friends. The latter stories, I shared with the families, and they said it brought them peace, too.
One week after my dad died, I had a dream about him. He was in Heaven eating blue chocolate cake and smiling. I asked if his chocolate cake was blue because of the Percy Jackson books. My dad said, “Who’s Percy Jackson?” I explained the character’s love of blue food because of his love of water. My dad replied, “That’s cool! I like water, but my favorite color is blue.”
When I awoke, I again had the sense of absolute peace. I know perfectly well my dad has never read Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series (although I think he would have liked the books). And I knew his favorite color was blue. What really sticks with me is his huge smile and his savoring his cake.
On the one month anniversary of my dad’s death, my longest-time friend, who I have known since we were eleven, texted me that my dad appeared to her in a dream. She said, “I was apparently trying to teach him some popular new dance at the grocery store, something akin to a TikTok dance. I don’t use TikTok and I’m pretty sure your dad didn’t either. It must’ve been his humorous way to get my attention and send you greetings.”
Her text made me laugh on a day that had started out in tears. How I felt made me thankful I had shared my dreams with the loved ones of those in them. I still forget most of my dreams, but these few I remember are enough.
Some dreams I have had are amazing, and I’d wake up wanting to know more of the story, wishing I could remember the details. If I could remember those dreams, I might be a best-selling fantasy author. I have occasionally managed to hang on to a single image or a phrase which ends up in my writing, but that is only a paltry amount of the greater whole, and small consolation for forgetting what seemed like entire new worlds with novel-length stories that only happened in my sleep.
I can count on my fingers the number of dreams which I remember clearly and all of them are particularly meaningful to me, bringing me a message. The first of these happened when I was in graduate school in 1998. I dreamed of bees flying through the snapdragons in my grandpa’s garden. I can picture this scene as clearly as if I were standing in front of the garden, but what was significant, other than it was the first dream I ever remembered, is the sense of absolute peace I had when I awoke, and the sense of peace I still have from thinking about the dream. I knew it was a message from my grandpa that he and my grandma were happy and at peace in Heaven.
It didn’t happen again until 2006, about numerous friends who had passed away in a matter of weeks. In 2008, when Arthur’s grandma passed away, I saw my grandma welcome her into Heaven. I always knew they would like each other, and funnily enough, they even had the same first name. Dreams came several more times over the next five years about friends, and even the loved ones of close friends. The latter stories, I shared with the families, and they said it brought them peace, too.
One week after my dad died, I had a dream about him. He was in Heaven eating blue chocolate cake and smiling. I asked if his chocolate cake was blue because of the Percy Jackson books. My dad said, “Who’s Percy Jackson?” I explained the character’s love of blue food because of his love of water. My dad replied, “That’s cool! I like water, but my favorite color is blue.”
When I awoke, I again had the sense of absolute peace. I know perfectly well my dad has never read Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series (although I think he would have liked the books). And I knew his favorite color was blue. What really sticks with me is his huge smile and his savoring his cake.
On the one month anniversary of my dad’s death, my longest-time friend, who I have known since we were eleven, texted me that my dad appeared to her in a dream. She said, “I was apparently trying to teach him some popular new dance at the grocery store, something akin to a TikTok dance. I don’t use TikTok and I’m pretty sure your dad didn’t either. It must’ve been his humorous way to get my attention and send you greetings.”
Her text made me laugh on a day that had started out in tears. How I felt made me thankful I had shared my dreams with the loved ones of those in them. I still forget most of my dreams, but these few I remember are enough.
I have a confession to make: I am a Morgenmuffel, which is now my favorite new word. I am not a morning person. If I have to be somewhere at a certain time in the morning, my husband Arthur will drag me out of bed to make sure I am up. When he was up, and I was still in bed, I have had entire conversations with him with no memory of them later. I instituted the rule that he is not allowed to talk to me, at least not with the expectation of my remembering, until I am vertical, have drunk at least half a glass of green tea, and preferably have showered. He has done very well following my rule, but the rest of the world, not so much. Why do crises always happen before I’ve even finished my tea?
Since my dad died, I have been sleeping in much more frequently because grief is exhausting. One morning in late December, I had gotten up at about nine, and was just getting in the shower when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the number, didn’t recognize it, and got into the shower. I had just turned off the water when the phone rang again. I poked my head out of the shower door to look, and it was my mom, so I reluctantly answered the phone.
My mom said the funeral home called her and my dad’s death certificates were ready. I reassured her I would go get them. She also had tried to order groceries but their delivery driver had Covid, so they wouldn’t deliver, and she needed things. I told her I would go to the store for her, and said I needed to call her back to get her list, when I wasn’t dripping water on the floor. I hadn’t planned to leave the house that day, but plans so often change.
I dried off and checked my phone, seeing a message. The unknown number had been the funeral home saying I could pick up my dad’s ashes and death certificates. I looked at the time of the funeral home’s call to me and the time of my mom’s call. They were only fifteen minutes apart. The funeral home was NOT supposed to call my mother about anything, since she can’t drive. Thankfully they had not mentioned my dad’s ashes to her, since she said repeatedly she did not want to hear anything about them. I would have thought the funeral home director could have waited fifteen minutes for me to call back before calling my mom.
I told my husband Arthur what was going on and said, “I thought we could spread Dad’s ashes in the garden at our house, or maybe plant a tree and plant the ashes with it.”
Arthur replied, “We have issues with the trees we already have. I don’t want to plant more trees, and anyway, having your dad’s ashes here is creepy.”
I didn’t respond, but as I went to the store, I was contemplating other places to inter my dad’s ashes. I hadn’t expected that Arthur wouldn’t want them in our own yard. When I talked to my dad about his wishes, he said to use him to fertilize a garden. I considered the Botanical Gardens in my town. My family loves the Botanical Gardens, and that’s where we went on the last outing with my dad, one week before he died. We drove through The Galaxy of Lights, an annual Christmas Lights display. Arthur and I are members of the Botanical Gardens, but asking to inter my dad’s ashes there would require a conversation with a stranger, and I’m not sure I could emotionally handle it.
As an alternative, I considered scattering his ashes on Lake Guntersville. My dad grew up near a similar lake, and loved the lake when we visited, except that would take away the “fertilize a garden” aspect of interring ashes.
I also considered the garden at my church. My dad loved our pastor Christine and loved the church. He had planned to join. I knew I would need to officially ask the Session (the church leadership) for approval, but they are all friends, so I didn’t foresee a problem.
I acquired groceries for my mom and for us, and drove to my mom’s apartment. It was pouring rain by that time, so she met me downstairs under the covered drop off so I didn’t have to hike across the parking lot in the rain. I loaded up her walker basket with her groceries and said I was getting the death certificates next. She said she was surprised the funeral home director called her, but that he had been very nice. I was glad of that.
I went to the funeral home and signed the release form for my dad’s ashes. The form said in red ink across the top, “DO NOT CALL WIFE. ONLY CALL DAUGHTER” and listed my name and phone number. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes out loud, and walked out carrying my dad’s ashes. I was sobbing before I even reached my car as a wave of grief struck me. I sat in the driver’s seat of my car in the rain with my dad’s ashes on my lap and sobbed. I started to dial a friend’s phone number and stopped, remembering the groceries I had in the car. I needed to talk to someone and needed a long conversation, but it couldn’t happen in the funeral home parking lot with groceries in the car, so I managed to pull myself together.
I also could not drive with my dad’s ashes on my lap. I had only seen ashes once before, when we scattered the ashes of Arthur’s grandma and her second husband Geoff on the intercoastal waterway, but I knew what size box to expect and knew how heavy they would be. I wanted to make sure I kept them safe so I wedged the box under the driver’s seat of my car. It fit, but barely. I had stopped crying and drove home, emptied the car of groceries, and then debated what to do with my dad’s ashes. Arthur wasn’t home since he had a doctor’s appointment, but I didn’t know if he would want them in the house or not. I also didn’t want to put the ashes somewhere I would lose them. I remembered when Grandma died, my mother-in-law called me and said, “I need you to pray! I can’t find Geoff!” She did eventually find Geoff’s box of ashes in the back of the spare bedroom closet, but I certainly didn’t want to misplace my dad’s ashes before we interred them. I decided to leave them under the seat of my car. I would know where they were, and they wouldn’t be in the house in case that bothered Arthur.
I made the phone call I had wanted to make earlier to a livejournal friend who has done this before. She listened to me ramble on for an hour and a half and was such a comfort. I felt immeasurably better after talking to her.
When Arthur came home, he asked, “Where did you put your dad’s cremains?”
“They’re under the driver's seat of my car.”
“It’s okay if you want to bring them in the house. It won’t bother me. I’m sorry I didn’t want to bury them in our yard. I don’t know why I think that’s creepy but having them in the house isn’t.” He shrugged.
“Your grief doesn’t have to be logical or make sense. Even on a good day I’m rarely logical and often don’t make sense.” We both laughed.
“But do you really want to keep your dad’s ashes in the car?”
“Yes. My dad drove me to school every morning until I was old enough to drive and that time in the car was always our special time together. Driving home from the funeral home, I was comforted by having my dad’s ashes in the car. Not a permanent solution but good for now. And I won’t misplace the ashes like your mom did with Geoff.” Arthur laughed. “I’m going to text Christine and ask about burying the ashes in the garden at church. Do you think that would be okay?”
“I think your dad would like that.”
The next morning, I slept in until 10:30! There were no phone calls or crises, and I drank my tea while I read Livejournal. It was glorious.
Since my dad died, I have been sleeping in much more frequently because grief is exhausting. One morning in late December, I had gotten up at about nine, and was just getting in the shower when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the number, didn’t recognize it, and got into the shower. I had just turned off the water when the phone rang again. I poked my head out of the shower door to look, and it was my mom, so I reluctantly answered the phone.
My mom said the funeral home called her and my dad’s death certificates were ready. I reassured her I would go get them. She also had tried to order groceries but their delivery driver had Covid, so they wouldn’t deliver, and she needed things. I told her I would go to the store for her, and said I needed to call her back to get her list, when I wasn’t dripping water on the floor. I hadn’t planned to leave the house that day, but plans so often change.
I dried off and checked my phone, seeing a message. The unknown number had been the funeral home saying I could pick up my dad’s ashes and death certificates. I looked at the time of the funeral home’s call to me and the time of my mom’s call. They were only fifteen minutes apart. The funeral home was NOT supposed to call my mother about anything, since she can’t drive. Thankfully they had not mentioned my dad’s ashes to her, since she said repeatedly she did not want to hear anything about them. I would have thought the funeral home director could have waited fifteen minutes for me to call back before calling my mom.
I told my husband Arthur what was going on and said, “I thought we could spread Dad’s ashes in the garden at our house, or maybe plant a tree and plant the ashes with it.”
Arthur replied, “We have issues with the trees we already have. I don’t want to plant more trees, and anyway, having your dad’s ashes here is creepy.”
I didn’t respond, but as I went to the store, I was contemplating other places to inter my dad’s ashes. I hadn’t expected that Arthur wouldn’t want them in our own yard. When I talked to my dad about his wishes, he said to use him to fertilize a garden. I considered the Botanical Gardens in my town. My family loves the Botanical Gardens, and that’s where we went on the last outing with my dad, one week before he died. We drove through The Galaxy of Lights, an annual Christmas Lights display. Arthur and I are members of the Botanical Gardens, but asking to inter my dad’s ashes there would require a conversation with a stranger, and I’m not sure I could emotionally handle it.
As an alternative, I considered scattering his ashes on Lake Guntersville. My dad grew up near a similar lake, and loved the lake when we visited, except that would take away the “fertilize a garden” aspect of interring ashes.
I also considered the garden at my church. My dad loved our pastor Christine and loved the church. He had planned to join. I knew I would need to officially ask the Session (the church leadership) for approval, but they are all friends, so I didn’t foresee a problem.
I acquired groceries for my mom and for us, and drove to my mom’s apartment. It was pouring rain by that time, so she met me downstairs under the covered drop off so I didn’t have to hike across the parking lot in the rain. I loaded up her walker basket with her groceries and said I was getting the death certificates next. She said she was surprised the funeral home director called her, but that he had been very nice. I was glad of that.
I went to the funeral home and signed the release form for my dad’s ashes. The form said in red ink across the top, “DO NOT CALL WIFE. ONLY CALL DAUGHTER” and listed my name and phone number. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes out loud, and walked out carrying my dad’s ashes. I was sobbing before I even reached my car as a wave of grief struck me. I sat in the driver’s seat of my car in the rain with my dad’s ashes on my lap and sobbed. I started to dial a friend’s phone number and stopped, remembering the groceries I had in the car. I needed to talk to someone and needed a long conversation, but it couldn’t happen in the funeral home parking lot with groceries in the car, so I managed to pull myself together.
I also could not drive with my dad’s ashes on my lap. I had only seen ashes once before, when we scattered the ashes of Arthur’s grandma and her second husband Geoff on the intercoastal waterway, but I knew what size box to expect and knew how heavy they would be. I wanted to make sure I kept them safe so I wedged the box under the driver’s seat of my car. It fit, but barely. I had stopped crying and drove home, emptied the car of groceries, and then debated what to do with my dad’s ashes. Arthur wasn’t home since he had a doctor’s appointment, but I didn’t know if he would want them in the house or not. I also didn’t want to put the ashes somewhere I would lose them. I remembered when Grandma died, my mother-in-law called me and said, “I need you to pray! I can’t find Geoff!” She did eventually find Geoff’s box of ashes in the back of the spare bedroom closet, but I certainly didn’t want to misplace my dad’s ashes before we interred them. I decided to leave them under the seat of my car. I would know where they were, and they wouldn’t be in the house in case that bothered Arthur.
I made the phone call I had wanted to make earlier to a livejournal friend who has done this before. She listened to me ramble on for an hour and a half and was such a comfort. I felt immeasurably better after talking to her.
When Arthur came home, he asked, “Where did you put your dad’s cremains?”
“They’re under the driver's seat of my car.”
“It’s okay if you want to bring them in the house. It won’t bother me. I’m sorry I didn’t want to bury them in our yard. I don’t know why I think that’s creepy but having them in the house isn’t.” He shrugged.
“Your grief doesn’t have to be logical or make sense. Even on a good day I’m rarely logical and often don’t make sense.” We both laughed.
“But do you really want to keep your dad’s ashes in the car?”
“Yes. My dad drove me to school every morning until I was old enough to drive and that time in the car was always our special time together. Driving home from the funeral home, I was comforted by having my dad’s ashes in the car. Not a permanent solution but good for now. And I won’t misplace the ashes like your mom did with Geoff.” Arthur laughed. “I’m going to text Christine and ask about burying the ashes in the garden at church. Do you think that would be okay?”
“I think your dad would like that.”
The next morning, I slept in until 10:30! There were no phone calls or crises, and I drank my tea while I read Livejournal. It was glorious.
"What Really Matters"
There is so much that has to be done quickly when someone dies. The afternoon of the Friday my dad died, my mom and I went to the funeral home to officially make arrangements and pay for said arrangements. Thankfully Christine went with us. She is not only a dear friend, but also the pastor of our church. My mom did not make a fuss in front of the funeral home director, but as soon as we left she started to complain.
First of all, she wanted to have the memorial service the next day to get it over with. Christine couldn’t do a service the next day because her son had a cross country race. I suggested the following Saturday, which would give my friends who work a chance to attend. My mom refused to wait a week because it would drag things out too far. She also refused to have a visitation one evening and the memorial service the next afternoon because that would be too much. I stood in the parking lot of the funeral home with my mom and Christine for half an hour in the cold, and we finally left without agreeing on a date because it started to rain.
As soon as my mom and I were in my car, she lost her “being on her good behavior for the pastor” and her complaints escalated. I texted my husband Arthur, “Pray I don’t kill my mother.” He responded, “Praying! Don’t kill your mother. Prison would not be fun.”
Mom continued complaining, “I wish Charles could do the service rather than Christine.” My friend Charles is also a pastor, but as my family attends Christine’s church, it would be customary for her to officiate the service. “That would hurt her feelings though, wouldn’t it?” I assured her it would, and offered to have Charles co-officiate. “Fine.”
“You forced me to have your father cremated.” I reminded my mom that she and dad had agreed to cremation several years ago on the condition that I didn’t put their ashes in an urn on the mantel. She replied, “We only said what you wanted to hear.” I told her, at this point, there’s nothing else we can do. Neither of us has the money for a burial, and getting a burial plot on short notice is almost impossible around here. She huffed.
“I didn’t like the funeral home director. Why did you pick this place anyway?” I asked why she didn’t like the funeral home director, and my mom said she just didn’t. I honestly don’t think my mom would have liked Mother Teresa on the day my dad died.
The rest of the way home my mom complained about the rain, the cold, the traffic, my driving, how far away my house is from the funeral home, reiterated all of her previous complaints, and refused to discuss what we were going to do with my dad’s ashes when we eventually received them from the funeral home. My house is only nine miles from the funeral home, but felt much farther with my mom in the car.
When I walked into the house, Arthur hugged me, handed me a large glass of wine, hugged my mom, and asked if she would like a whiskey and Coke. He asked when the service was going to be, and I said we didn’t know. He understands the looks I give after twenty-five years of marriage and didn’t press.
My mother couldn’t decide what she wanted to eat for dinner and didn’t like anything we suggested. Arthur and I made ourselves sandwiches and said we would make her whatever she wanted when she decided. She eventually accepted a sandwich, too. After being home for a couple of hours, Christine texted me and suggested we hold the memorial service at three in the afternoon the following Wednesday with the visitation for a couple of hours afterwards to allow friends to have a little time to stop by if they worked until five. My mom agreed.
I had told the funeral home director I planned to write the obituary that evening, but I had not expected it to take six hours to agree on a day and time for the memorial service. I went to bed at eight because I was exhausted, not only by grief but by mom drama.
Even though my mom and I often do not get along and do not have very much in common, thankfully neither of us is a morning person. I slept well, didn’t have to set an alarm, which is bliss, and had written a draft of my dad’s obituary before my mom was awake. Since my mom is not computer literate, I printed it out for her. When she emerged from the guest room, she asked if I felt better, since I had gone to bed so early the previous night. I told her I did feel better and thanked her. After she had eaten her raisin toast and had drunk her first Coke, she read the obituary and vetoed it. “I don’t like the beginning. I hate the last paragraph. You can’t say that. Take it out.”
I took things out, changed them per my mom’s instructions, substituted other things, and she continued to say she didn’t like whatever I wrote, but would not offer alternatives. I wanted to write a tribute to my dad, not only fill in the blanks in the template the funeral home uses, however my mom would not accept anything other than filling in the template blanks. In all fairness, the funeral home’s template is excellent, my dad’s obituary is perfectly acceptable, but it wasn’t what I wanted. I decided it didn’t really matter if the obituary wasn’t what I wanted, at least it was finished.
The next task was to let Christine know what hymns and scriptures we wanted for my dad’s memorial service. I started the conversation. “Dad’s favorite hymn is ‘When We All Get to Heaven’ and his favorite scripture is Philippians 4:13 ‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.’ We should definitely use those.”
My mom shocked me by snarling, “How do you know your dad’s favorite hymn and scripture? Did he tell you?!”
“I asked him, and yes he told me.”
My mom’s voice changed to what Arthur and I call “Dementor Mode.” “Did you ask him recently?!”
“No, it was probably 2008 when I was driving him to work after his first stroke.”
“How do you know those are still his favorites then?!”
“Well, my favorite scriptures and hymns have changed over time based on what’s happening in my life and what speaks to me at that time, but something that was once a favorite is still at least on my list of favorites. Is there a different scripture you would prefer?”
“No.” My mom glared at me. “Why would he tell you his favorites?”
“Because I asked him.”
Arthur bravely interjected, “I’ll go get hymnals so we can pick out the other hymns.”
My mom abruptly changed the subject. “What are we going to do with all of your dad’s things?”
“I’ll donate all of the wound care medication and bandages to the wound center, because they’ll use them for their patients who can’t afford them, and Manna House always accepts all sorts of medical supplies. They allow people who need help to ‘shop’ there for free. And I’ll take his clothes to the homeless shelter. They do job training and have an interview closet, and give people nice outfits for interviews and a work wardrobe when they get a job. Plus dad had plenty of warm things since he always felt cold.”
Arthur handed each of us a hymnal.
My mom growled at me, “I am not wasting a $600 suit on a homeless person!”
My friend Richard gave my dad a new suit which he had lost too much weight to wear. I saw red at my mom’s comment.
Arthur spoke up, “We don’t need to decide today where things get donated, but we do need to pick hymns so Christine and Charles can plan the memorial service.”
My mom sighed and opened the hymnal Arthur had handed her. I left the room, presumably to use the bathroom. I was too angry to stay in my mom’s presence.
Arthur showed up in the bathroom about ten minutes later and put his arms around me. I whisper-hissed “How in the fuck am I even related to her?!”
“I don’t know, sweetie. Your mom’s a pain in the ass.”
I snorted. “There’s a news flash.”
“What your mom said is horrible, but does it really matter where things are donated as long as they get used by someone? Your mom said she wants to give the suit to Vera’s husband.”
“I suppose that’s fine, and you’re right it’s not really important where things get donated as long as they aren’t wasted, but she hasn’t been this difficult in years, and I can’t take it right now!”
Arthur hugged me more tightly. "I know, hon."
When I emerged from the bathroom my mom agreed to “When We All Get to Heaven” and Philippians 4:13, and the three of us paged through our hymnals to pick a couple of other hymns. My mom did not offer any suggestions, and vetoed all of the ones I suggested, until I suggested “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” Both of us remembered my dad’s trombone solo with their church band many years before, unfortunately long before worship services were recorded. Arthur suggested “It Is Well with My Soul” which I thought was a good suggestion since we all like it. My mom asked suspiciously, “How do you know your dad liked it?”
“Because when we sang it at church, Dad said, 'I like that hymn!'”
She reluctantly agreed, so I texted our decisions to Christine and Charles. The drama did not end there, but the planning of what we had to decide for the memorial service did.
The service was on Wednesday afternoon, since that was the most convenient day for everyone involved, especially for Arthur since he could take the entire day off from work and not have to balance meetings. There were thirty people present, which was a pretty good turn out considering it was an afternoon mid-week service in the time of covid, and I felt surrounded by love. Only three people came after work, but to me it was worth it for those three people. Christine and Charles did a wonderful job with the service, and it was a beautiful tribute to my dad’s life, which is what really mattered and made all of the planning drama fade into the background.
There is so much that has to be done quickly when someone dies. The afternoon of the Friday my dad died, my mom and I went to the funeral home to officially make arrangements and pay for said arrangements. Thankfully Christine went with us. She is not only a dear friend, but also the pastor of our church. My mom did not make a fuss in front of the funeral home director, but as soon as we left she started to complain.
First of all, she wanted to have the memorial service the next day to get it over with. Christine couldn’t do a service the next day because her son had a cross country race. I suggested the following Saturday, which would give my friends who work a chance to attend. My mom refused to wait a week because it would drag things out too far. She also refused to have a visitation one evening and the memorial service the next afternoon because that would be too much. I stood in the parking lot of the funeral home with my mom and Christine for half an hour in the cold, and we finally left without agreeing on a date because it started to rain.
As soon as my mom and I were in my car, she lost her “being on her good behavior for the pastor” and her complaints escalated. I texted my husband Arthur, “Pray I don’t kill my mother.” He responded, “Praying! Don’t kill your mother. Prison would not be fun.”
Mom continued complaining, “I wish Charles could do the service rather than Christine.” My friend Charles is also a pastor, but as my family attends Christine’s church, it would be customary for her to officiate the service. “That would hurt her feelings though, wouldn’t it?” I assured her it would, and offered to have Charles co-officiate. “Fine.”
“You forced me to have your father cremated.” I reminded my mom that she and dad had agreed to cremation several years ago on the condition that I didn’t put their ashes in an urn on the mantel. She replied, “We only said what you wanted to hear.” I told her, at this point, there’s nothing else we can do. Neither of us has the money for a burial, and getting a burial plot on short notice is almost impossible around here. She huffed.
“I didn’t like the funeral home director. Why did you pick this place anyway?” I asked why she didn’t like the funeral home director, and my mom said she just didn’t. I honestly don’t think my mom would have liked Mother Teresa on the day my dad died.
The rest of the way home my mom complained about the rain, the cold, the traffic, my driving, how far away my house is from the funeral home, reiterated all of her previous complaints, and refused to discuss what we were going to do with my dad’s ashes when we eventually received them from the funeral home. My house is only nine miles from the funeral home, but felt much farther with my mom in the car.
When I walked into the house, Arthur hugged me, handed me a large glass of wine, hugged my mom, and asked if she would like a whiskey and Coke. He asked when the service was going to be, and I said we didn’t know. He understands the looks I give after twenty-five years of marriage and didn’t press.
My mother couldn’t decide what she wanted to eat for dinner and didn’t like anything we suggested. Arthur and I made ourselves sandwiches and said we would make her whatever she wanted when she decided. She eventually accepted a sandwich, too. After being home for a couple of hours, Christine texted me and suggested we hold the memorial service at three in the afternoon the following Wednesday with the visitation for a couple of hours afterwards to allow friends to have a little time to stop by if they worked until five. My mom agreed.
I had told the funeral home director I planned to write the obituary that evening, but I had not expected it to take six hours to agree on a day and time for the memorial service. I went to bed at eight because I was exhausted, not only by grief but by mom drama.
Even though my mom and I often do not get along and do not have very much in common, thankfully neither of us is a morning person. I slept well, didn’t have to set an alarm, which is bliss, and had written a draft of my dad’s obituary before my mom was awake. Since my mom is not computer literate, I printed it out for her. When she emerged from the guest room, she asked if I felt better, since I had gone to bed so early the previous night. I told her I did feel better and thanked her. After she had eaten her raisin toast and had drunk her first Coke, she read the obituary and vetoed it. “I don’t like the beginning. I hate the last paragraph. You can’t say that. Take it out.”
I took things out, changed them per my mom’s instructions, substituted other things, and she continued to say she didn’t like whatever I wrote, but would not offer alternatives. I wanted to write a tribute to my dad, not only fill in the blanks in the template the funeral home uses, however my mom would not accept anything other than filling in the template blanks. In all fairness, the funeral home’s template is excellent, my dad’s obituary is perfectly acceptable, but it wasn’t what I wanted. I decided it didn’t really matter if the obituary wasn’t what I wanted, at least it was finished.
The next task was to let Christine know what hymns and scriptures we wanted for my dad’s memorial service. I started the conversation. “Dad’s favorite hymn is ‘When We All Get to Heaven’ and his favorite scripture is Philippians 4:13 ‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.’ We should definitely use those.”
My mom shocked me by snarling, “How do you know your dad’s favorite hymn and scripture? Did he tell you?!”
“I asked him, and yes he told me.”
My mom’s voice changed to what Arthur and I call “Dementor Mode.” “Did you ask him recently?!”
“No, it was probably 2008 when I was driving him to work after his first stroke.”
“How do you know those are still his favorites then?!”
“Well, my favorite scriptures and hymns have changed over time based on what’s happening in my life and what speaks to me at that time, but something that was once a favorite is still at least on my list of favorites. Is there a different scripture you would prefer?”
“No.” My mom glared at me. “Why would he tell you his favorites?”
“Because I asked him.”
Arthur bravely interjected, “I’ll go get hymnals so we can pick out the other hymns.”
My mom abruptly changed the subject. “What are we going to do with all of your dad’s things?”
“I’ll donate all of the wound care medication and bandages to the wound center, because they’ll use them for their patients who can’t afford them, and Manna House always accepts all sorts of medical supplies. They allow people who need help to ‘shop’ there for free. And I’ll take his clothes to the homeless shelter. They do job training and have an interview closet, and give people nice outfits for interviews and a work wardrobe when they get a job. Plus dad had plenty of warm things since he always felt cold.”
Arthur handed each of us a hymnal.
My mom growled at me, “I am not wasting a $600 suit on a homeless person!”
My friend Richard gave my dad a new suit which he had lost too much weight to wear. I saw red at my mom’s comment.
Arthur spoke up, “We don’t need to decide today where things get donated, but we do need to pick hymns so Christine and Charles can plan the memorial service.”
My mom sighed and opened the hymnal Arthur had handed her. I left the room, presumably to use the bathroom. I was too angry to stay in my mom’s presence.
Arthur showed up in the bathroom about ten minutes later and put his arms around me. I whisper-hissed “How in the fuck am I even related to her?!”
“I don’t know, sweetie. Your mom’s a pain in the ass.”
I snorted. “There’s a news flash.”
“What your mom said is horrible, but does it really matter where things are donated as long as they get used by someone? Your mom said she wants to give the suit to Vera’s husband.”
“I suppose that’s fine, and you’re right it’s not really important where things get donated as long as they aren’t wasted, but she hasn’t been this difficult in years, and I can’t take it right now!”
Arthur hugged me more tightly. "I know, hon."
When I emerged from the bathroom my mom agreed to “When We All Get to Heaven” and Philippians 4:13, and the three of us paged through our hymnals to pick a couple of other hymns. My mom did not offer any suggestions, and vetoed all of the ones I suggested, until I suggested “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” Both of us remembered my dad’s trombone solo with their church band many years before, unfortunately long before worship services were recorded. Arthur suggested “It Is Well with My Soul” which I thought was a good suggestion since we all like it. My mom asked suspiciously, “How do you know your dad liked it?”
“Because when we sang it at church, Dad said, 'I like that hymn!'”
She reluctantly agreed, so I texted our decisions to Christine and Charles. The drama did not end there, but the planning of what we had to decide for the memorial service did.
The service was on Wednesday afternoon, since that was the most convenient day for everyone involved, especially for Arthur since he could take the entire day off from work and not have to balance meetings. There were thirty people present, which was a pretty good turn out considering it was an afternoon mid-week service in the time of covid, and I felt surrounded by love. Only three people came after work, but to me it was worth it for those three people. Christine and Charles did a wonderful job with the service, and it was a beautiful tribute to my dad’s life, which is what really mattered and made all of the planning drama fade into the background.
"Light in the Darkness"
I have never seen a black rainbow. I have actually never even heard of one, but I believe there is light in the darkness. Sometimes the light can be very hard to see, and we have to look hard to find it.
I was fired in August from the job I have had for eight and a half years, the longest I’ve had any job. I planned to retire from it in the far distant future. The same day I was fired, my dad became very sick. I was wondering if I needed to take FMLA to care for him, but then was fired, so that solved that problem. I was able to spend what turned out to be the last four months of my dad’s life, spending time with him, helping him and my mom and not worrying about trying to balance caring for my parents with working.
My dad’s heart stopped beating on December 8th, completely unexpectedly. Paramedics revived and intubated him, but hospital tests showed he was brain dead. My mom and I (mostly me) made the decision to remove the life support, because my dad would not have wanted to “live” with machines. My dear friends Charles and Christine came to the hospital to be with us. Thankfully, the hospital was allowing visitation and not limiting it due to Covid “in compassionate circumstances.” I called my husband Arthur, and made him cry during a meeting with his boss, to ask if he wanted to be there when life support was removed. He said he’d come if I needed him there, but he didn’t need to be there for himself. I know how much my husband hates hospitals and told him I would be OK. We expected my dad to die immediately, but he didn’t, stubborn to the very end. He has fought so hard and overcome so many obstacles, I guess he couldn’t give up fighting.
After a couple of hours off life support and still breathing, we were transferred from the ER to the ICU to wait for the end. Thankfully the ICU was not enforcing visiting hours for us. I don’t know why ICU rooms are always so dark. The dreary, rainy weather did not help, opening the blinds did not bring more light. Charles and Christine stayed with us for the entire day, and went to get us food, when at three in the afternoon, my mom and I realized we hadn’t eaten anything all day. We finally left the hospital in the evening with a promise from the night nurse to call with any changes.
I took my mom home with me. Arthur picked up dinner which we managed to eat at around nine. I did manage to sleep that night from sheer exhaustion and called the hospital the next morning. No change. My mom and I decided not to hurry too much since neither of us had showered the day before and didn’t want to feel even more gross. We also ate breakfast before we returned to the hospital.
We still arrived at the hospital at about 8 AM and stayed until 10 PM which made for a very long day. Charles and/or Christine were there with us for major parts of the day. Arthur even came after work and stayed for several hours. One might think that sitting in an ICU room all day would be hell, but we shared memories of my dad with our friends. Christine found my dad’s favorite hymn “When We All Get to Heaven”on her phone and played it for him. Then she sang “Amazing Grace” which a hospital chaplain sang for him at a different hospitalization. When Arthur arrived, he sang “Come Thou Long Expected Jesus” at my request. I noticed the nurses at the ICU desk unobtrusively scooting towards the end of the desk closest to my dad’s room, since Arthur has an awesome voice. My dad has always been a musician so singing was a way to honor him. I, unfortunately, did not inherit my dad’s talent.
When Arthur came he brought fixins for banana splits with him, knowing that is my guilty pleasure. I did, of course, share with everyone. My whole family has always loved our food, so that led to fond memories and conversations about favorite meals.
My mom and I had given my dad permission to go before he even went off life support. We continued to reassure him we would be OK. I told him I’d take care of mom so he didn’t have to worry. Arthur told my dad to go on to Heaven because he could have all the prime rib, Coke, chocolate cake and Southern Comfort Manhattans he wanted. That made all of us laugh, because those certainly are my dad’s favorite things. My dad had a feeding tube so he was not able to have those things for the six months before he died, except for when he managed to steal my mom’s Coke without being caught like an octogenarian ninja.
I had just said that maybe it was time to go home for the night when my dad had a forty-five second period of apnea, so we didn’t go home. We stayed until ten, but at that point I was doubting my ability to drive home if we didn’t leave since I was so tired, and his stats were as good as they had been that morning. Thankfully, we only live a few miles from the hospital, but having a car accident would not have helped anything. Once again the night nurse promised to call if anything changed.
I called back the next morning, and the nurse said there had been no change and to come at 9 for visiting hours. My mom and I arrived and were there by ourselves when my dad breathed his last slightly after 10. Charles and Christine arrived minutes after my dad had died. Charles offered to call the funeral home for me, but I was OK, well, as OK as I was going to be, and sometimes it helps to have something concrete to do.
When we were ready to leave the hospital, we decided to go have lunch at my dad’s favorite restaurant, Logan’s, which is a casual steak place that has prime rib on the weekends. Arthur planned to meet us there. I went to get the car to pick up my mom, had her in the car, her walker settled in the back, and realized I forgot my phone charger in my dad’s ICU room. Thankfully Charles was still there and stayed with my mom while I ran back to get my phone charger.
When we arrived at the restaurant and everyone had settled, the first thing Arthur asked me was if I had remembered my phone charger. I have a very bad record with phone chargers. I said, “On the second try” and we all laughed. We toasted my dad with Coke, since it was lunch time after all, and continued sharing memories to celebrate his life.
While we were eating lunch, the sun came out from behind the clouds and shone brightly. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it.
~~~
All names have been changed because my husband and friends, while very supportive of my writing, do not want their real names in a Public post.
I have never seen a black rainbow. I have actually never even heard of one, but I believe there is light in the darkness. Sometimes the light can be very hard to see, and we have to look hard to find it.
I was fired in August from the job I have had for eight and a half years, the longest I’ve had any job. I planned to retire from it in the far distant future. The same day I was fired, my dad became very sick. I was wondering if I needed to take FMLA to care for him, but then was fired, so that solved that problem. I was able to spend what turned out to be the last four months of my dad’s life, spending time with him, helping him and my mom and not worrying about trying to balance caring for my parents with working.
My dad’s heart stopped beating on December 8th, completely unexpectedly. Paramedics revived and intubated him, but hospital tests showed he was brain dead. My mom and I (mostly me) made the decision to remove the life support, because my dad would not have wanted to “live” with machines. My dear friends Charles and Christine came to the hospital to be with us. Thankfully, the hospital was allowing visitation and not limiting it due to Covid “in compassionate circumstances.” I called my husband Arthur, and made him cry during a meeting with his boss, to ask if he wanted to be there when life support was removed. He said he’d come if I needed him there, but he didn’t need to be there for himself. I know how much my husband hates hospitals and told him I would be OK. We expected my dad to die immediately, but he didn’t, stubborn to the very end. He has fought so hard and overcome so many obstacles, I guess he couldn’t give up fighting.
After a couple of hours off life support and still breathing, we were transferred from the ER to the ICU to wait for the end. Thankfully the ICU was not enforcing visiting hours for us. I don’t know why ICU rooms are always so dark. The dreary, rainy weather did not help, opening the blinds did not bring more light. Charles and Christine stayed with us for the entire day, and went to get us food, when at three in the afternoon, my mom and I realized we hadn’t eaten anything all day. We finally left the hospital in the evening with a promise from the night nurse to call with any changes.
I took my mom home with me. Arthur picked up dinner which we managed to eat at around nine. I did manage to sleep that night from sheer exhaustion and called the hospital the next morning. No change. My mom and I decided not to hurry too much since neither of us had showered the day before and didn’t want to feel even more gross. We also ate breakfast before we returned to the hospital.
We still arrived at the hospital at about 8 AM and stayed until 10 PM which made for a very long day. Charles and/or Christine were there with us for major parts of the day. Arthur even came after work and stayed for several hours. One might think that sitting in an ICU room all day would be hell, but we shared memories of my dad with our friends. Christine found my dad’s favorite hymn “When We All Get to Heaven”on her phone and played it for him. Then she sang “Amazing Grace” which a hospital chaplain sang for him at a different hospitalization. When Arthur arrived, he sang “Come Thou Long Expected Jesus” at my request. I noticed the nurses at the ICU desk unobtrusively scooting towards the end of the desk closest to my dad’s room, since Arthur has an awesome voice. My dad has always been a musician so singing was a way to honor him. I, unfortunately, did not inherit my dad’s talent.
When Arthur came he brought fixins for banana splits with him, knowing that is my guilty pleasure. I did, of course, share with everyone. My whole family has always loved our food, so that led to fond memories and conversations about favorite meals.
My mom and I had given my dad permission to go before he even went off life support. We continued to reassure him we would be OK. I told him I’d take care of mom so he didn’t have to worry. Arthur told my dad to go on to Heaven because he could have all the prime rib, Coke, chocolate cake and Southern Comfort Manhattans he wanted. That made all of us laugh, because those certainly are my dad’s favorite things. My dad had a feeding tube so he was not able to have those things for the six months before he died, except for when he managed to steal my mom’s Coke without being caught like an octogenarian ninja.
I had just said that maybe it was time to go home for the night when my dad had a forty-five second period of apnea, so we didn’t go home. We stayed until ten, but at that point I was doubting my ability to drive home if we didn’t leave since I was so tired, and his stats were as good as they had been that morning. Thankfully, we only live a few miles from the hospital, but having a car accident would not have helped anything. Once again the night nurse promised to call if anything changed.
I called back the next morning, and the nurse said there had been no change and to come at 9 for visiting hours. My mom and I arrived and were there by ourselves when my dad breathed his last slightly after 10. Charles and Christine arrived minutes after my dad had died. Charles offered to call the funeral home for me, but I was OK, well, as OK as I was going to be, and sometimes it helps to have something concrete to do.
When we were ready to leave the hospital, we decided to go have lunch at my dad’s favorite restaurant, Logan’s, which is a casual steak place that has prime rib on the weekends. Arthur planned to meet us there. I went to get the car to pick up my mom, had her in the car, her walker settled in the back, and realized I forgot my phone charger in my dad’s ICU room. Thankfully Charles was still there and stayed with my mom while I ran back to get my phone charger.
When we arrived at the restaurant and everyone had settled, the first thing Arthur asked me was if I had remembered my phone charger. I have a very bad record with phone chargers. I said, “On the second try” and we all laughed. We toasted my dad with Coke, since it was lunch time after all, and continued sharing memories to celebrate his life.
While we were eating lunch, the sun came out from behind the clouds and shone brightly. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it.
~~~
All names have been changed because my husband and friends, while very supportive of my writing, do not want their real names in a Public post.
It's been a long time since I've participated in a writing competition, but I'm always up for trying new things! And dadi convinced me that there were no excuses . . .
All my friends please read and vote! ;)
dadi convinced me that there were no excuses . . . All my friends please read and vote! ;)
