On Your Birthday, Dad

My father would have turned 72 today. While going through his and my mother's papers a few weeks ago, I found this birthday card given to him by his father. Fifteen dollars sat inside with the words "Love, Dad" below the rhyming sentiment. He would have received the card on some year between 1969 (the series year for both bills) and 1985 (the last birthday my dad would have celebrated with grandpa).

Wendy and I found a similar birthday card, years ago, from her great-grandmother to her grandfather with cash sitting inside. Both discoveries have bewildered me.

I wonder why they didn't spend the money to buy themselves a gift. Maybe they didn't want to put the money in their wallet for fear of using it accidentally to buy some necessity. I imagine they planned to go out someday and get something nice for themselves. Someday exists after the work day is over, and after the commute; after the family time, after the yardwork, after the errands and after the nap.

Eventually, this valuable little gift is shuffled among other papers and forgotten until it is discovered, years later, after all the somedays are all used up.

I'm going to spend this money today, dad, and think of you. Happy birthday, wherever you are.

I've Fallen Into the Cellar

Today, this week, I've been in the grips of a monstrous depression that I can't shake, no matter how hard I try. The weather has been, for the most part, fantastic, but that's not enough to pull me out of this nose dive. I've tried everything I can think of. Just now, I was engaging in some online retail therapy, looking for an American DVD release of Zabriskie Point (no such luck), when I thought maybe what I need to do--maybe what's been wrong with me--is that I haven't been blogging.

I've tried to write again, but it just hasn't gone through. What's left to say after mom's death? Part of me thought that this blog started as a reaction to my father's death, so maybe it should end.

I miss my mom and my dad. Most of all, though, I miss my wife. We announced the first winner of the Wendy Jackson Hall Memorial Scholarship this week. I thought it would make me happy and give me a sense of completion. It doesn't. It's just one more rung on the ladder. I'm holding on to the ladder.

About My Mom

My mom died about three weeks ago. I originally thought I would have a better understanding of how I'm feeling three months later, but I don't. I still feel numb. I really loved my mom and I know I'm going to miss her.

I feel at peace with my Mom's death. Partly I'm relieved that she's no longer confined to a bed with a stomach tube. I'm relieved that her health will no longer create havoc in my sister's life or discord between all of my siblings. I'm relieved to not have the psychic burden of hearing that she's dead.

I accept that my mom has died in that she was 78 and her health was in long decline. I've said all of my good-byes to her and soaked up her stories. In November, I sat with her in the hospital and we sang every standard both of us knew; songs as old as "Pennies from Heaven" and as new as "Close to You."

Neither of my parents ever accepted the deaths of their parents very well. My dad would spend Father's Day holed up in the bedroom trying to sleep through to Monday. My mom, always affable when drunk, would sometimes wail late at night and cry for her mom and dad.

This is how unprocessed grief ruins us. We go on the lam from the hurt, and it makes us look over our shoulder.

But my understanding of death has changed, too. It honestly doesn't seem so bad any more. I was always afraid of it--more so after my father died. I thought I was next, for sure. I could never imagine how someone could want to die the way, I think, my grandfather did when his time was up.

My buddy Mike's atheistic take on death sums up to this: When I'm dead, it will be like before I was born. There was nothing bad, frightening, or dreadful about that time, so why should death be any different.

I'm only now starting to see his point. Discounting the idea of going to Hell, which has always seemed logically implausible to me, death is, at its worst, like going to sleep.

Sleep well, Mama. I hope to see you again.

Mom, 1928-2007

My mother died Sunday night. It occurred to me then how frightening the world is when your mother is no longer alive.

My mother was a source of grace. She knew every song on the radio and could sing it, well. She knew almost every correct answer on the TV game shows.

I could never stump my mom on a definition or a spelling of a word. She had an incredible capacity for language.

My mom and I didn't always agree or see eye-to-eye, but I always knew that she loved me, no matter what. That is an important gift.

Grief Shaved 30 Points Off My IQ

Foggy Winter Morning

The whole day goes by, and I get almost nothing done. Or it feels like I get nothing done. Or I get nothing consequential done.

I'm surprised, in fact, by how fast morning turns to night. Where did it go?

Here's what I did this week: I slowly built pyramids of laundry, dishes, and recycling. I went on walks. I paid overdue bills. I opened cupboards and didn't close them. I lingered in public places to be around other humans but didn't call on any friends. I half-read magazine articles. I drank. I watched movies. I slept about 10 hours a day. I went to a class. I did a very little bit of work and half-heartedly asked for more. I did my rounds on the Internet. I stewed in the hot tub. I talked to friends and family on the phone.

I feel constantly distracted and unfocused. I feel dulled. I look at what others are able to accomplish and wonder how. How do the get so much work done? How do they have so many hobbies? All I can do is impotently mark the passing of time around me.

Maybe everyone feels this way. Maybe it's the season. Maybe I keep writing things down and never learn from them. January, not April, is the cruelest month.