A Quart of Milk

Sometimes the mind, for reasons we don't necessarily understand, just decides to go to the store for a quart of milk.--Northern Exposure, Three Doctors, 1993

My Dad's mind has gone out for a quart of milk and I'm thinking it's not coming back. This is difficult. It is yet another lesson in acceptance (have I mentioned I'm really tired of these?). My Dad has written and published I think four books, maybe five, he's been a soldier, an engineer, a painter, a master bird carver, a teacher, a furniture builder, a civil war historian, an author. He always said for his next project he would write a concerto, simply because it was one of the things he hadn't done. Dad played piano by ear, he didn't read music, I'm not sure how he would have written this concerto, but probably he would have taught himself how to read music and done it--he was just that kind of guy.

Dad still remembers me, he amazes me in conversation once in a while by remembering exactly when I was born and when his father died, but not remembering his sisters who visited. Our last conversation we talked about Easter Sunday when my brother and his wife and the wonderful little grandson were coming. Except...he couldn't remember who it was that was coming, just "alot of people, which means a big day." He can't remember words, words were his best friend. I credit my love of reading to my Dad, and now he can't remember lots and lots of words. Or what time it is, or how to get home if he goes too far walking the dog (she brings him home he says and she probably does), he can't drive any more or work in his woodworking shop.

His sense of humor is intact, and there are other things that are very "Dad-like" but I know I am experiencing the long goodbye. So counting blessings of what is still there, accepting what is, that is the mission for me. I don't have to like it though, nobody said that.

My, I'm chatty today

I saw this as I was getting ready to try yet another call to my Mom (who is still not in her room tonight so I've heard the "magical day" thing twice tonight already.)

It made me sad. The Christmas Zach was in Iraq he got to see Robin Williams. Every conversation was about Robin Williams is coming and I get to see him! It was wonderful. I eventually wrote Robin Williams after much searching about just HOW to do that, and thanked him for going to Baghdad to make my son and everyone else there laugh rather than be home with his own family at Christmas. What a wonderful thing he did. I actually wrote him to thank him because it was on my "to do" list before that knock on the door came, and I wanted to let him know he made my son's last Christmas special. So I write, and I check that off my list and carry on.

A month or so later I get this envelope in the mail with the return address "Robin and Marsha Williams" Of course I've forgotten and I'm confused, I don't know who this is. I open the envelope and there is a letter from Robin Williams and his wife thanking me for my letter and Zach's service, and telling me that he has a son named Zach and that they have made a donation for a redwood tree to be planted in my Zach's memory. Wow. Sweet. Talk about caring, real, and going beyond anything expected.

So, that they are getting a divorce after so many years together is just kinda sad and I wish him the very best.

Have a magical day!

Oh. My. God. If I hear "Have a magical day!" one more time I swear I will just cry. My brother and his family, along with my Mom are visiting Disney. Yesterday was Mom's 70th birthday. My sister, Lisa and I were supposed to be there but we're not. The best laid plans and all. Lisa disintegrated a tooth that was supposed to be pulled next week. So yesterday we were at the dentist, not at Disney World. A new dentist, the regular dentist is where dentists are on Spring Break--probably at Disney with my family. *chuckle* So we get to the new dentist and we fill out all the papers.

Mind you, Lisa does not like the dentist. Not even a little bit and she's also prone to hysteria if there is a hint that pain will be involved. Our dentist makes her take Valium before she comes to his office for major procedures--he gives her no choice even though we are not drug doing people and she would really rather NOT take this drug prior to her dentist visit. That also requires that she have a chauffeur to and from the dentist--me. But I digress.

So we fill out the new dentist papers, she troops in to have her tooth pulled, whereupon the new dentist says "What? you took Valium on the orders of your other dentist? I can't pull your tooth you are under the influence of a drug and your consent is not valid." They call me in from the parking lot where I am reading a book and waiting. I say, well I have a medical power of attorney, I can sign, you pull the tooth, I go home and fax it to you, it's all good. No. She can come back tomorrow and not take Valium until she signs the consent. I hate the new dentist.

So we did not go to Disney for Mom's 70th birthday celebration (which I hear was magical) and we did not go today either. We are going tomorrow. My eye. Meanwhile I am calling about every half hour all last evening in order to update Mom and to wish her Happy Birthday. Every time I call the last thing the operator says is "Have a magical day!"

This day, and yesterday were not so magical really...please stop wishing me a magical day, ok? Just stop.

Friendship and Memory

Megan called last night, while she was driving home from picking up Ryan at the half-way point between her home and his so he could stay with her during spring break. They wanted to know what their Mom's dream car was. I told them, the little BMW convertible or the Saturn Skye were the two she really loved. When we hung up I was hit with such sadness.

Megan is Beth's daughter, Beth and I were pregnant together and Megan was born nearly one month to the day before my son Zach. Zach and Meg grew up together. Meg is now 25 years old, soon to be 26. Ryan, her brother, is now 15. Zach died January 23rd, 2004, Beth died July 2 of last year. She had a stealth aortic aneurysm that decided to rupture while she and Ryan were at the mall one Sunday afternoon.

Beth was my best friend, but more than that, she held memory with me. She knew Zach from before the day he was born. She remembered all the little stories, all the things I did and didn't. Beth remembered with me and when she was away from me. Those memories, the funny (and some not so funny) little stories...they are what is most precious to me. When you lose your child (or anyone you love dearly) you want nothing more than for him to be remembered, not forgotten, but kept alive in memory and story and laughter and love. That is all there is now.

After Meg and Ryan called, I realized I am now that for them, the holder of memory, of years and years of shared history. The person who will know the answer to "what was the dream car Mom wanted" and probably many other questions to come.

When I first saw Megan before Zach's funeral, she hugged me for a long time and we cried, and she whispered in my ear "I will have your grandchildren for you." It brings tears to my eyes whenever I think of her saying that. With all her heart she meant it. So my job is to be her children's grandmother, to tell them the stories of their grandmother Beth. Not what I expected.

Now I am the holder of memory and it is the very least I can do for my friend.