Things I Will Never Understand

Things I Will Never Understand

She emailed me in 2009, got my information from a friend.  "I understand we have something in common."  We were both caregivers and spouses to husbands recently diagnosed with colon cancer.  We struck up an email discussion about chemo, surgery, drugs, needles, hospitals, oncologists-  all the things I never thought I'd know about but now could discuss in detail.  Brett was sick.  His cancer was stage 3b and we would soon learn it was stage 4 with progression to the liver.  She was lucky.  Her husband had stage 2.  He had surgery and the tumor was removed.  He was put on yearly check ups.  Mine, well, it was a struggle through major surgeries, rounds of chemo, oral drugs, scary days, long nights, medical bills, frightened teenagers, and tears.  She felt sorry for me.  I could tell in her tone.  She was so fortunate.  Her husband was well and mine was dying.  She was kind but the communication dropped off in time.  It's so hard to know what to say. 

She emailed again several years later.  Brett had come through his cancer and genetic testing revealed a name for the monster we will fight the rest of his life.  A course of monitoring was set and cancers would be caught early.  Her husband, however, had a recurrence.  It was on the lungs.  She was scared.  I reassured her that new treatments were available.  We talked about bucket lists.  "Take that trip," I said.  "You'll never regret the memories made," I said.  Again the communication dropped off.  She went on to take that dream family trip.  She went on to fight for her family and her husband.  My life went on and cancer became routine to us.  Brett has his 90 day check ups.  It's clean or they find a small growth and remove it.  They know where to look.  They know what to watch for.  My teenagers are now adults and they learned that life is precious and memories must be made.  Brett was there to walk his daughter down the aisle.  He was there to watch his son graduate and play college baseball.  Boxes were checked and new boxes have been created.  We are living with cancer, truly living. 

Tomorrow I will put my son on a plane and my children will be together to laugh and make memories.  Tomorrow she will comfort her children. Tomorrow I will be with my husband.  Tomorrow she will bury hers. 

I don't believe in coincidence and happenstance.  I believe there is a purpose and a plan in all things.  I believe in reasons.  I believe in a God who rejoices with me and cries with her.  I believe in something bigger than me.

And, I believe there are things in this life that I will never understand. 

Writing Marathon Magic

Recently the Wyoming Writing Project visited Sheridan, Wyoming.  We conducted professional development with K-12 teachers on a Friday morning and then we opened up the afternoon to the community and invited community members to participate in a Writing Marathon.  A marathon is one of those things in life that is difficult to explain and must simply be experienced. It can initially feel uncomfortable and definitely unstructured.  Once a writer has participated, though, they generally cannot wait to engage in another.  It is a time to practice the craft of writing inspired by local surroundings and landmarks.  It is a time to share writing and connect with a community of writers.  It is one of my favorite activities that the WWP engages in during the summer months.  The following is one piece of writing that was born from the recent marathon in Sheridan.

I wonder what the girl at the desk is thinking.  We just invade and begin quietly writing.  She is wanting to ask more but just politely smiles when I explain we're just here to write.  

We take our places and pens begin to move.  Words pour forth breaking the white.  

I take my perch at the top of the stairs and wonder what will escape from my pen.  I rest in the fact that it won't matter.  My group will smile, nod, and say thank you when I share.  There is safety in that.  It's the beauty of the marathon.  

We've already built a writing community.  We've talked about first tattoos, being a parent, teaching, learning, pain, joy.  Life has been shared.  We've bonded and enjoyed some writing therapy.  

I'm always amazed at the ability of the written word to pull us together.  When I have something to share I write it down.  It's lasting.  It's personal.  It's moving and motivating and reassuring.  It's permanent.

As the words spill I discover things hidden in my thoughts.  They are revealed and shared with new friends and explored then stored away to be revisited later.  Every word is a possibility of a new creative project.  Each stroke of my pen is a promise.

The magic of the marathon begins locked in my pen.  Writing friends provide the key and the words burst forth, jumbled as they may be, creating a connection with people and the world around me.

The Wyoming Writing Project will hold community marathons in Thayne, Wyoming, July 15th, and in Laramie, Wyoming, July 22nd.  We will meet at 1:00 p.m. at Thayne Elementary School in Thayne or at the Literacy Research Center and Clinic on the UW campus in Laramie.  They are free and open to writers of all abilities and ages.  Writing of any genre is encouraged.  I can't explain it.  You just have to experience it.  Please join us!

My Father is Dying

My father is dying. 

He doesn't have a terminal illness.  Of course, I suppose one could consider aging a terminal illness.  All of a sudden he is looking old and I see my grandfather when I look at him.  At the age of 89 this is truly the first time I've seen him look and act old.  He has been the definition of spry for the last 20 years.  Fortunately, his mind is youthful and I can still steal his stories and his wisdom.  But, his body is giving out.  I see it more each time I visit. 

My siblings and I are all spaced six years apart.  My oldest sister was born when my father was 29 years young.  My next oldest sister was adopted when he was 35.  After my mother was told she would not have any other children of her own, I came along when my father was 41, a great surprise to all.  My younger brother was born when my father was 47, nearing 48.  My brother was also a great surprise but of a different kind at that late stage of life. 

Timing is everything.  My oldest sister was born to a World War II veteran who was fighting demons he carried back from liberating concentration camps and watching death and destruction first hand. My mother has told me that my father had a difficult transition back to life after the war, as one would expect.  He was still adjusting when my sister arrived.  I don't know that he had completed that adjustment when my second oldest sister was adopted.  Then, I came along.  He never expected me and I arrived at a time when he had settled and matured and really understood his role as a father. By the time my little brother arrived he was seeing himself look toward retirement and had not expected to be a father to a baby again in late life.  I think as he aged some of his demons returned to haunt him.  I came along at the perfect time to have a loving and strong relationship with my father, one my siblings didn't experience in the same way. 

As a young child I recall a loving and patient father.  He awoke very early to make a commute from our home in Ohio to a Pennsylvania steel mill.  He had his rituals- make coffee, have toast, read, and take in the morning.  I would often sneak out to the kitchen to join him and he would make me my own coffee.  It was mostly milk and sugar but I would imitate how he stirred and I would sip it while I watched him.  Though he enjoyed his morning quiet he never got angry when I awoke and joined him. 

We bonded over fishing and baseball in my early life.  He took me to Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh to watch the Pirates play.  We listened to the games we didn't attend on the radio in the evenings.  We waited for Willie Stargell or Dave Parker to hit one over the fence.  I got to see it in person and I heard many hits on the radio on our front porch.  I knew all the players and their stats.  I thought I might marry third baseman Phil Garner one day and my father thought that was a great choice in a mate. 

Fishing was another adventure.  The night before we would cook up something he called "dough ball".  I have no idea now what we were making but I remember it contained corn meal.  I used to run it through my fingers and feel its grainy texture.  It had sugar in it as well and it smelled sweet while it was cooking.  We arose before daylight in the morning and packed up poles and worms and dough ball and headed to the river.  I was a very hyper child.  I got into trouble often in school for talking out of turn and failing to sit still.  I am quite certain I was not a joy to fish with in the wee hours of the morning.  My father never seemed to tire of me, though.  He was very good at hiding it if he did.  He also never said a word when I was too squeamish to bait the hook.  He simply did it for me and helped me cast.  We caught carp and released them.  One day I caught a bass.  It's a day I will never forget because my father made me feel like a true fisherman.  He was so proud of me.  He praised its size, though I remember it now to be quite small, and its beauty before throwing it back in to the water.  He spoke of it all the way home and shared with my mom and my neighbors and anyone who would listen about my catch. 

As I grew older my father made me believe that I was capable of anything.  He encouraged everything I tried and I always felt like he believed I could change the world.  I've watched my own children go off to college now so I know when I left it broke his heart but I never knew then.  He smiled and let me go.  As an adult he has bragged on me more times than I can count to all of his friends.  Every small accomplishment has served as his conversation piece.  He is my biggest fan. 

My siblings did not have these experiences.  They don't understand why my father and I are so close.  My sisters see him as guarded and standoffish at times.  My brother sees him as tired and angry.  I never saw those sides of my father growing up.  As an adult I do at times but I also see a man who went to war at the age of 18 and experienced trauma beyond our imaginations.  I think he did the best that he could do and I think he was at his very best with me. 

He is not a demonstrative man.  Hugs are rare.  Kisses just don't happen.  I love you's are scarce.  But, I've never doubted his love for a moment.  He raised me on a solid foundation of it.  It was in his cups of coffee.  It was in that dough ball.  It was in our walks by the river.  It was in the hot dogs at baseball games.  It was all around me. 

He held my hand.  I remember slipping my hand into his big hand and feeling safe.  Now, I feel his hand slipping away and I wonder what I will do when it is gone.  I can rationalize that he's had a full life and I can't keep him forever.  I can tell myself I have the memories and those will console me.  I can tell myself so many things, none of which are true.  He seems ready to go softly into the dark night and he seems at peace with his next transition and his trip Home.  But, I will let him go kicking and screaming, caught between knowing I have no choice and wanting to hold on forever.  My siblings will mourn the loss of a parent and talk about their various memories of his anger and his ugly days and how they never felt loved.  I will mourn the loss of a father, a loving man who held me high on a pedestal and became my firm foundation.  My siblings and I will have much different experiences surrounding his death, just as we have in his lifetime.  I, for one, am so glad for my timing in this world and to have been the daughter of a hard working veteran who would lay down his life for me and for those he didn't even know. When he goes he will take me with him.  I will fight to remain behind simply because it's what he would expect of me and I would never want to disappoint him. 

My father is dying, and I suppose I am dying a little each day, too, as I watch him pass.  For now, I'll hold out for one more story, one more gentle touch on the small of my back, one more laugh, one more moment.  I will savor each for I fully recognize each could be the last.  And, when I have experienced the last I hope I find the strength he bestowed upon me to go back and remember them and share them and smile. 

Somewhere Between the Surf and the Shore

He stood looking out over the ocean.  His face was weathered, giving away his advanced age.  He watched from the shore.  His eye caught mine a few times and I noticed a hint of a smile.  He appeared to be in thought and I sensed a longing.  Perhaps it was a longing for times gone by or a longing to be young and agile and run headlong into the waves.  Perhaps it was a wish to be carefree and uninhibited.  I imagined it was a wish to be in the water dancing with the waves. He watched over the water for several minutes, often shading his eyes from the sun, and then shuffled away slowly along the beach. His head bobbed low with each step.

She waited patiently in the water until a wave approached and then she dove in with abandon and swam with it, letting it carry her into shore.  Once on shore she jumped up, youth on her side, and ran back toward the next wave.  Once or twice she nearly took me out at the knees.  Her father, watching from a distance, called her in and cautioned her to be more aware of the people around her.  She entered the water again but was quickly swept in by the catch and release game with the waves and very nearly knocked me over once again.  It made me laugh and her father seemed relieved by my reaction.  Storm clouds began to build but she did not want to leave the water and pretended not to hear her father calling, reluctant to stop her play.

I was in the middle.  I was coaxed by my husband to leave the shore and had entered the water.  I stood chest deep enjoying the waves hitting me and getting some splash in my face now and then.  I was swept off my feet once by a large wave and giggled.  I was not locked on the shore reminiscing or wishing.  I was not jumping with abandon into the surf.  I was somewhere between.

Those moments on a beach in Florida are a perfect metaphor for my life these days.  Though I want to jump in headlong into new adventures I'm held back.  I am bogged down by things like age and fear and fear of age.  I set limits for myself.  I'm no longer young but I'm not old and that comes with a desire to be responsible and a hesitancy toward change.  But, I will venture in slowly.  I'm not glued to the shore thinking about what has been and what might have been.

I hope I always venture into the water.  I've never been one to jump into anything with abandon.  But, I do get in and I do begin to enjoy the experience.  I hope I'm never afraid of what people might think when they see an old woman dancing in the surf.  I hope I never stand on the shore with a look of longing.  I hope I can stay somewhere between.

Why...

I spent a lot of time this summer immersed in writing.  It resulted in a few pieces I felt were polished and two publications.  As a professor and new administrator, work and life have swallowed me whole and I have not been giving time to my writing.  I compose when I'm jogging.  I compose in the shower.  I compose in the car.  But, nothing is making it on to paper or screen.  I miss it.  I have so many thoughts and ideas rolling around in my head and heart.  My writings are poised for takeoff but they have been grounded due to crazy weather.  It's time for them to take flight.  It's also time for them to have a place to land.  The public nature of a blog has a sort of accountability for me.  As a co-director of a Writing Project site I also think it is important that I lead by example and lay bare my thoughts and drafts and allow myself to be transparent and vulnerable in my writing endeavors.  So, here you will begin to find some of my musings put into text on a screen.  Of course, my husband is an aircraft mechanic who reminds me that the most dangerous part of a flight is the takeoff and landing.  I expect my share of incidents as I train my pilot/writer self.  But, I also hope for some smooth flying along the way.  Thanks for coming along.