Little Update

I don't have anything good to say tonight. Nothing uplifting. My heart is heavy and all I want to do is sleep.

My dad went from the psych ward to ICU at 4 am. They found him unresponsive with high BP when they checked him in the night. They gave him fluids in ICU and he was doing better, but became combative and refused all meds. So they had to restrain him and tie him to the bed.

I called this afternoon and my brother was in the room with him. We talked for a few minutes and then he asked dad if he wanted to talk to me. He refused. He put the phone to dad's ear and he said "I don't want to talk to her!".

And that, in a nutshell, is my relationship with my dad. Pathetic.

I want to believe God isn't done with him yet. I want to think a miracle is on the horizon. I know I should have hope, but I just...don't. Should I?

Anyway, so that is how it stands. I would love to have something really profound to say, or to tell you I am learning something from all of this. That it is changing me somehow. But I am just so tired and sad. I am weary of caring so much, and angry at myself for being so invested in his well being.

Tangled

When it comes to my complicated relationship with my father, everything is tangled. Like a ball of yarn, every thread of love, devotion, anger, sadness, disgust, disappointment, hope and longing is all wrapped together in my heart. It cannot be unwound. It has been bound since I was a child.

I have very intense memories of the heat of Vegas. The tar of the road was sour smelling and stuck to my shoes. Tunnels of Oleanders drooped over me as I hid underneath their shiny leaved, drinking too sweet Kool-Aid from a dirty plastic cup. My hands smelled like dirt, my clothes like smoke. And underneath it all was the permeating smell of booze, sharp and thick in my nostrils. It was everywhere- in the air, on my skin, on my father's breath.

Many times, I am still that little lost girl, wishing for a daddy that was a safe warm shelter.

My father always drank, but in spurts. Sometimes he would go months between binges- sometimes years. When he wasn't drinking, he was kind and loving. He was never a stellar father, but he was all I had. And then the drinking would begin again. I remember being afraid of this man I loved when he drank- not because he was mean, but because he became somebody I didn't know. His words would slur, his eyelids droop. He would care less and less about my whereabouts and ignore me more and more. And I would keep reaching out with more and more desperation the farther he pulled away. That dynamic is as much a part of me as my hands.

The hallmark of a child is the need for attachment and love. A fixed point of family like a north star. Consistency. Discipline. It makes you feel safe. And when that safety is abruptly removed or inconsistently displayed, a frantic sort of need sets in. It becomes ingrained to be wanted and to be seen.

The hallmark of an alcoholic is selfishness. The booze is everything. Nothing else matters. My father exemplifies this. It's a disgusting dance. Back and forth, back and forth. Love and sickness in every step.

So, there you have it.

I have many well meaning people in my life who give me advice about my father.

"Love him and forgive him." I do and I have.

"Distance yourself. Don't think about him." Oh God, don't I wish.

"It's about HIM, not YOU." This one is my favorite. Yes, I know it's about him. But it effects me too. And he is my father. And I love him. So it is about me, too.

"It would just be easier if he died." Yes, in some ways. And in others, not so much.

"Just let it go." I have tried. Many times. But it's tangled, you see.

Add my faith into this and you have a mess. I am supposed to forgive. Okay. But at what point does forgiving mean enabling? I am supposed to love. Well that has never been a problem for me. I love him. It would be easier if I didn't. Don't judge. Yeah, okay. That would be easier if he wasn't actively trying to kill himself and hurting all that love him in the process.

So what do I do?

I want to do the right thing. I want to do what God wants me to do. But I also want to preserve my sanity and not fall apart. How do I do both? How do I love and not engage? How do I get past the anger and stop feeling like that little girl, desperately crying out for a daddy that just.does.not.care?

I cannot unravel all of these threads. I cannot pull them apart now. They are, for better or worse, a part of how I feel about my father. I have no idea how to feel, what to do, or where to go with these feelings.

Tangled and tied. Just trying to put one foot in front of the other.

The ties that bind

I've been thinking about my dad for 2 days now. A tugging in my mind and soul- a pushing and pulling to make contact. I resisted until today, when I called my sister.

She was already crying. My sister does not cry. Ever.

My father fell in the rehabilitation home a week ago, hitting his head on a metal pole. He was taken to the hospital, checked out and cleared.

But since then he has been increasingly confused, and today has been wandering the halls since 5:30 AM, trying to strike the nurses with his cane, and acting increasingly paranoid.

They called an ambulance. He refused to go, saying that they were the cops and taking him to jail. This went on all day, until they called my sister and put him on the phone with her. She told him nobody was taking him to jail, just transporting him by ambulance to UNMC. He kept saying there were cops everywhere.

In the end, he went.

So now, we wait again.

My sister and I have never been super close. I love her dearly. She is loving and calm and has always shown me grace and care. But she is older than me, and was starting her married life when I was still very young. Our lives simply didn't mesh.

We don't talk often, don't even exchange Christmas cards.

But we are drawn together over this man that we both love, despite his many flaws. A man that did not treat either of us particularly well, and yet we still are invested in his world.

My sister loves him, but she also has the unenviable task of making decisions for his care. The decision that he won't go home again. That she will commit him to a nursing home for the rest of his life. Just in speaking to her, I can tell that the decision is weighing heavily on her. I am sad for her, wish I could hug her. I wish she didn't have to do this.

I ask her- "Should I come?" and she says "Maybe it's time."

And she says "If he would have just stopped drinking..." and we both sigh.

Because it is true. If he would have stopped drinking, he never would have fell. He wouldn't have stopped eating. He wouldn't have lost his mind.

My heart is so heavy tonight. I am thinking of my daddy alone in a hospital. Confused and possibly injured. Is it a stroke? Concussion? Is it the end?

And most heavy on my mind, my friends, is this: in my inability to stop being angry and disgusted, have I lost precious time? In making a decision to step away from something I cannot bear to watch, have I lost the father I knew? If I don't go, will he still know me if I do decide to wait?

I am torn, and angry at myself. I made a choice for my sanity, but I am now second guessing everything.

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

I just want to do the right thing. The thing I can live with. The thing that lets me sleep at night, and helps me to make it through the day.

I wish I could be sure what that is.

Breastfeeding: A Love Story In Pictures

It is awesome, miraculous, beautiful. It is a journey I took for nearly 2 years with Lily, and now over 6 months and still going with Samuel. It saved me as a mother. Whenever I was uncertain, I offered the breast. Whenever I didn't know who I was as a mother, or what to do, I cuddled my babies close and nourished them. It is a connection and a bond I will never, ever lose with my babies.

It is national breastfeeding week, and I am so proud to have given my children this gift.

July 31, 2010

Your image has faded
though I feel you still
an your voice is still in my head
though your face has blurred
The walls of my Jericho heart are tumbling, tumbling
broken down by my babies smile
Do you see them?
His sweet neck, the scent of powder
Her hair, lying in waves across her back
Her spirit like a wildflower
His face, so open and sweet
Do you see them?
I think of you each day
pass your picture in the hall
your rosary in my drawer
broken beads under my fingertips
and you are missing this
all of this
my hands, dressing my babies
my face when I look at them
the wonder I feel
you are missing it all
each year that passes you get further away
never as distant as when you had breath
but farther in my mind
But still...
I love you
And still...
I invite you into my world
from wherever you are
come.
sit.
watch.
Be with me.
I cannot give you life
I cannot change your caged and wounded soul
I cannot forget all of what you are or what you gave me
but I can do this:
I can have compassion for every kindness
I can remember your voice under my cheek
your hand on my back
I can remember falling asleep to your heartbeat.
all of it echoes
ripples
through my memory
and when I rock my babies
I whisper to them
so my voice becomes their lullabye
my whisper carrying them to dreams
just as you did
once and far away
for me.



Happy Birthday Mom.

Houses

Last night I dreamed of my father's house. I roamed the halls, looking at everything. Seeing the overflowing ashtrays, the coating of dust. The cheap wood paneling bumped under my fingertips. The room he should be using, the big room, sat still and silent, the bed made. The room he had chosen to use, the small one, sat still as well, but with a stained mattress covered with a tattered blanket.

His chair sat alone in the dining room, the pillow he rested on crooked. A blanket lay on the floor.

It smelled of cigarettes, dust, dishes.

I wandered back and forth, waiting for him to come home. Convinced he would be around a corner or standing in the kitchen. I looked in the fridge, and rotten food spilled out. I looked out the window into the roadway, watched the gravel and dust lift in the wind.

I waited.

He never came.

I felt helpless, forlorn, sad, and bitter.

I have this dream often. The landscape rarely changes. Sometimes I can find him, but he acts as if I am not there. I cry, I yell. Nothing. He doesn't see me.

I was going through cards the other day, and I came across one that he sent when Lily was born. Sweetness echoed through every word. It was written in steady hand, one not shaking from drinking.

Just 3 1/2 years ago.

And now he sits in the hospital. He went in April. He was self starving, stopped taking all of his medication, and had open sores with maggots in them on his legs. He was drinking and fell. He was on his floor for 2 days.

This is my father's life. I cannot wrap my mind around it.

And now he is going to be sent to a nursing home, to live out his life there. He will not be going home again. It is the best thing for him, but it makes things very real for me.

He will not go home again.

I think of him when he wasn't drinking. When he was so strong and good. I loved him so very much. I still do, the same way. I love him, but I see him for who he is, and it breaks my heart. He is a broken man, and always had been.

There are no more chances to make this right. His mind is not what it used to be. Resolving this rift between us will not happen now. I can either move past it or not. I am stuck here, in the in-between.

I love him, and I wish things could be different for him. I am not sad for myself, or for what's missing from me, I am sad for him. I am sad for what he is missing and what he is choosing to miss. He has always held me at arm's length. I don't know why, but now I know it won't ever change.

I am sure I will still dream of his house, of his things. In my dream, I will run my fingers over his glasses, his mail. I will straighten his shoes and close the washer.

I will look for him without finding him.

As always.

One last summer

The days are hot. Everything is wilting in the heat. Bumblebees buzz lazily in our yard. The flowers lean over with thirst. The world outside of our house shimmers.

And inside our house, it is us. We spend each day singing, dancing, coloring, watching sesame street and baking cookies. We are insulated from the world here, in our little bubble of family.

And I know that it is the last summer we will be like this. The last summer we won't be rushing, busy and busier each day. With classes and soccer and school, dinners and playdates and pool time. When the sun rises and sets without me noticing. When the warm days are gone in a blink.

It is the last summer Lily will be entirely mine. The last summer we will spend without anyone else's influence. Ours, these last few days. Days of heat and naps curled like kittens. Days of giggles and baths and snacks and endless chatter. Singing Bob Marley and James Taylor, dancing to Lady Gaga and Beyonce.

I've had my sweet girl to myself for 3 summers now. We have played, planted flowers and tomatoes and herbs. We have run in the sprinkler and baked cupcakes. We've painted and eaten popsicles in the sun. We've learned about each other, and our days follow a rhythym like a heartbeat.

But she is 3. And next summer she will be 4- that magical age where friends and school become so important. She will want to go to a friends house and play, instead of stay home with me. She will hop out of the car at school and not look back. She will whisper and giggle with friends. She will be in a circle, with me on the outside. For three years I have been the circle...now I will be watching her create her own.

So this one last summer is what I am asking for. For her to spend these last heavy, heated days being my girl. When she will ask for me to rock her, read her a book, bake cookies. When we will go to the pool, the park, and the museum. We will explore together, dig in the dirt, play games and laugh. One last summer to enjoy her before there is no baby left in my baby.

Already she is so much older. She is taller, her legs brown, her toes pointed like a ballerina. She is opinionated and funny. She is sassy and silly. She grows each day, her braids getting longer, her face thinner. She has lost the babyface she always had, and now when I look at her I can see the beautiful young lady she will be.

But not yet. Because for this one last summer, she is mine. And I will soak up every warm, lazy, and beautiful moment.