I do miss him so.
Monday, February 18, 2019
Lynn Taylor Cox, 5 August 1945 - 16 February 2019
I do miss him so.
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
The rest of how I am doing
I have a carry-on open in the upstairs hall, and have for about a week, which is "dump-packed"-- meaning, I've dumped the stuff I think I want in it, but haven't fit it into the suitcase yet. I have, finally, started rolling things and putting them in gallon-sized plastic bags and sitting on them as I zip them up. I've started thinking about whether I really want to travel with this or that thing, and trading them out accordingly. What if it gets stolen by the TSA? Do I want to wear red at all, the week that I actually am using the stuff in this suitcase?
My father has been in hospice since October. I think October. Things get a little hazy sometimes. It could have been earlier. Anyway, in October they gave him three weeks to three months. On January 11th, they thought it would be about two weeks. Last Monday they thought it would be about two weeks. Today, they thought it would be any time in the next week. When I told my sister that they need a different bell curve for Dad, she laughed and agreed with me. And as she said last October, it will be a shock no matter when he dies, because he has dodged death so many times.
Other than that great dreadful hanging over me at all times, I'm doing so gloriously well that I can honestly say I'm the best I've been in my life. The decision to not even look for a different job, to put all my extra energy into writing, has been SO freeing, and-- sorry to reuse the word, but it just makes me feel glorious. I feel happier than I ever remember being, about that in particular but also about life in general. This, of course, is interspersed with the sharp pain of finally losing my beloved father. If that sounds like a weird way to live to you, then your instincts are spot-on. On average I'm doing fine, but in this case, the average truly doesn't tell the whole picture. I'm doing wonderful and terrible.
I do cry a lot, but it's good crying, if that makes any sense. It feels clean to me. I figured out over a decade ago that I wanted to treasure every moment I had left with my dad, and I've done that. I have about seven years' worth of phone conversations that I've typed out while talking to him, and that gives me an enormous sense of satisfaction. It isn't that I have absolutely no regrets, and I hope I don't get all full of myself over how well I think I've done, but at the same time, I think that it's OK to feel happy that I have done a small thing for a long time that was not always easy.
Also tempering my sadness is my recognition of the fact that my knowing my dad, him knowing me, him having been around for my childhood, the fact that he likes me and tells me how proud he is of me-- all these things are blessings that put me in a class of blessedness far beyond numerous children and even some adults in the building I work in. I was listening to Matthew 5 the other day, and when I heard, "blessed are they that mourn," I thought to myself: yes, I'm already blessed. Mourning means I have loved and been loved. Not to be able to mourn would be awful.
And I'm writing, and I'm getting more prolific, and feeling more confident in my own competence. I have a couple of wonderful writing partners, who are splendid friends as well.
And speaking of friends, I have more friends-- more people to call and talk to and listen to and feel human with-- than I ever have in my entire life. That makes a huge difference when you have a burden you need help with. And in this, too, I know I am lucky. I can reach out all I want, but having people who are willing to reach back and be true friends really is completely beyond my control, and I know how blessed I am to have all these people who are willing and able to do so.
Anyway. That's how I am. Don't feel too sorry for me. I've had the house to myself for the last month, and it has been absolute heaven. (Mom has been out in Utah, caring for Dad.) And as I was praying about how I could manage my emotions when I am out in Utah for the funeral trip, the answer was knitting. I foresee knitted plushies in my future, unless the yarn for my friend's baby dress arrives in the mail before the time comes for me to fly out.
The pictures I keep promising keep not happening (obvs.), but here is one I did that I liked of the ceiling and upper wall in the chapel where my ward meets on Sundays. The lighting could be better, and honestly the drawing itself could be better, but I still like it. The sunburst, stars, beehives, wheat stalks, whorl between the wheat stalks, and fleur-de-lis (of which there are many more irl than the one sad little one I drew) are all covered in gold leaf. I will not get to stay in this ward forever, so I'm trying to live it up. ;)
My father has been in hospice since October. I think October. Things get a little hazy sometimes. It could have been earlier. Anyway, in October they gave him three weeks to three months. On January 11th, they thought it would be about two weeks. Last Monday they thought it would be about two weeks. Today, they thought it would be any time in the next week. When I told my sister that they need a different bell curve for Dad, she laughed and agreed with me. And as she said last October, it will be a shock no matter when he dies, because he has dodged death so many times.
Other than that great dreadful hanging over me at all times, I'm doing so gloriously well that I can honestly say I'm the best I've been in my life. The decision to not even look for a different job, to put all my extra energy into writing, has been SO freeing, and-- sorry to reuse the word, but it just makes me feel glorious. I feel happier than I ever remember being, about that in particular but also about life in general. This, of course, is interspersed with the sharp pain of finally losing my beloved father. If that sounds like a weird way to live to you, then your instincts are spot-on. On average I'm doing fine, but in this case, the average truly doesn't tell the whole picture. I'm doing wonderful and terrible.
I do cry a lot, but it's good crying, if that makes any sense. It feels clean to me. I figured out over a decade ago that I wanted to treasure every moment I had left with my dad, and I've done that. I have about seven years' worth of phone conversations that I've typed out while talking to him, and that gives me an enormous sense of satisfaction. It isn't that I have absolutely no regrets, and I hope I don't get all full of myself over how well I think I've done, but at the same time, I think that it's OK to feel happy that I have done a small thing for a long time that was not always easy.
Also tempering my sadness is my recognition of the fact that my knowing my dad, him knowing me, him having been around for my childhood, the fact that he likes me and tells me how proud he is of me-- all these things are blessings that put me in a class of blessedness far beyond numerous children and even some adults in the building I work in. I was listening to Matthew 5 the other day, and when I heard, "blessed are they that mourn," I thought to myself: yes, I'm already blessed. Mourning means I have loved and been loved. Not to be able to mourn would be awful.
And I'm writing, and I'm getting more prolific, and feeling more confident in my own competence. I have a couple of wonderful writing partners, who are splendid friends as well.
And speaking of friends, I have more friends-- more people to call and talk to and listen to and feel human with-- than I ever have in my entire life. That makes a huge difference when you have a burden you need help with. And in this, too, I know I am lucky. I can reach out all I want, but having people who are willing to reach back and be true friends really is completely beyond my control, and I know how blessed I am to have all these people who are willing and able to do so.
Anyway. That's how I am. Don't feel too sorry for me. I've had the house to myself for the last month, and it has been absolute heaven. (Mom has been out in Utah, caring for Dad.) And as I was praying about how I could manage my emotions when I am out in Utah for the funeral trip, the answer was knitting. I foresee knitted plushies in my future, unless the yarn for my friend's baby dress arrives in the mail before the time comes for me to fly out.
The pictures I keep promising keep not happening (obvs.), but here is one I did that I liked of the ceiling and upper wall in the chapel where my ward meets on Sundays. The lighting could be better, and honestly the drawing itself could be better, but I still like it. The sunburst, stars, beehives, wheat stalks, whorl between the wheat stalks, and fleur-de-lis (of which there are many more irl than the one sad little one I drew) are all covered in gold leaf. I will not get to stay in this ward forever, so I'm trying to live it up. ;)
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