Tomorrow's sunrise will bring with it the dawn of a new year. In the upcoming year, I will turn 50, my daughter will turn 8, I'll return to work after a workplace absence of five years, and I will deal with a host of situations new and foreign to me. And I'm OK with that. Although it will be memorable for many reasons, I'm ready to bid farewell to 2014.
As I am wont to do, I can't help but reflect back on other years that were memorable for me. There is no effective or fair way to rate the order of the years, so it's probably best to go chronologically.
1970 - I met a little boy who wore Jesus sandals and I fell in love with him. I was 5. I even told my mom that someday I would marry him. We were close friends for many years and I even lived with him for a short while. We managed to hurt each other over the years, but I can't let go of that kindergarten love.
1976 - My family moved from a dangerous part of a metro city to the little suburb that's not so little anymore. It was terrifying for me to leave all my friends behind and start over in a dinky little town, but it turned out to be one of the best decisions my parents made. I now call this town home and it's where my heart truly lives.
1980 - I began dating a guy nine years my senior. I was 16. He changed my life in many ways, but the primary lesson I learned is how a woman should be treated. It's his fault I never settled for anything less than what I expected. Unfortunately, he took his own life exactly 20 years ago tonight.
1982 - My best friend at the time gave birth to an adorable little girl who is now 31 and a mother of 4. Knowing her as a child and as an adult is one of the most rewarding experiences of my life.
1983 - I graduated high school and thought I was a grown up. I prepared to attend Oklahoma State University, turned 18 and could legally drink! Six months later, the law changed to raise the drinking age to 21. It was the best of times and the worst of times. I also met the first of many gay men I would love. His name was Jon and he was my mom's hairdresser. He was beautiful and artistic, sweet and funny. He colored my world in a way no one had been able to do. He died of AIDS related complications in 1990.
1984 - My best friend had another little girl, who at 30, is all I wanted to be when I grew up.
1990- I discovered that I had five half siblings, one who is 11 months younger than I. He contacted me and we met. I ended up meeting my biological mother and the one child she kept as well. It was a tenuous situation since they welcomed me as family, but I was reluctant. I had my mom with me every step of the way and she guided me through that difficult emotional terrain.
1993 - I lost my compass. My mom died suddenly on a Sunday afternoon from a massive heart attack. The shock sent me into a spiral of depression, alcohol abuse and promiscuity. I was reckless and angry at the world. In the span of one week my dog died, my best friend moved far away and my mom died. I felt I had a right to act out. My mom and I were so enmeshed in each other that it was hard to tell where she ended and I began. I've been missing a piece for two decades, but I still keep going. I also met my rock, my best friend and partner in all things fun and ridiculous. She's Speck and The Pie's Favorite Aunt. She has been by my side without judgment for 22 years and she will be with me until the end.
1996 - The year of eight jobs. In 12 months I worked at 8 different jobs. I learned many lessons that year, not the least of which was how to file taxes with more than one W2 form!
1997 - I got the dream job of a lifetime. I was hired by a private school to be the assistant to the director of the arts department. I LOVED that job. I enjoyed being part of young people's lives and working alongside talented and intelligent instructors. That position afforded me the opportunity to travel, to participate in professional development, to meet very famous people like Dr. Jane Goodall and Bill Cosby (he did not attempt to drug and rape me, I want to make that clear) and to forge friendships that I still enjoy all these years later.
2005 - I traveled to New York City for a journalism conference, since I had been appointed the newspaper and yearbook adviser at the school at that time. It was a very informative seminar and I learned many strategies to take back to the kids. BUT, during that trip I met my close personal friend Hugh Jackman. It's one of my favorite stories to tell about my brush with greatness. When I returned to work the following week, I was let go from that fantastic dream job. As a result of a serious budget issue, 16 positions were being eliminated and mine was one of them. Another bout of depression followed that loss and I ended up spending about a year making really bad decisions.
2007 - The Pie is born!
2010 - I moved in with Dad to take care of him. His health gradually declines at about the same rate The Pie is growing and developing. I became firmly entrenched in the Sandwich Generation and adjusted to not working full time.
2013 - I met a man. He was married. That did not go well. I doubt those feelings will ever really go away, but remember, I learned early how a woman should be treated.
I'm looking forward to creating new memories, new friendships and new experiences in 2015. Believe it or not, I'm excited about turning 50. And I'll try just about anything once...twice if I like it!
Happy New Year!
I lost my virginity this year. My Elf on the Shelf virginity, that is. I steadfastly opposed bringing a kinda creepy little doll into my home for the sole purpose of entertaining my child every morning with its silly antics and mess making. The idea of creating another mind-numbing chore for myself was beyond my comprehension. And then my dad died.
I felt an cavernous emptiness that nothing could fill. I dreaded the upcoming holidays with Grinch-like fervor and wondered how I could possibly survive my sadness. The Pie begged for the last two years for an Elf for our Shelf; she asked again a couple of days before Thanksgiving and I finally relented. While she was at school, I went out and adopted a little girl Elf with mischievous blue eyes and set to making a calendar to outline all the shenanigans she might get up to. Now, I have laughed heartily at all the Internet photos of an Elf doing the nasty with Barbie, and drinking up tiny airplane bottles of vodka or pooping chocolate kisses, but those scenarios are hardly appropriate for a seven year old. I wanted a well behaved Elf that warmed our hearts and spread Christmas cheer, not one that I might have to send to rehab! So that is what I created.
On the morning of December 1, The Pie awoke with no idea what awaited her on the couch. Her squeals of delight when she saw the Elf were enough to set off all the neighborhood dogs! Our Elf was dubbed "Jolly" and our countdown to Christmas began. Jolly liked to make The Pie smile and giggle, so she created little vignettes of herself making breakfast, taking a bubble bath, sneaking into the candy jar, trying to decorate the tree, and baking cookies. Sometimes Jolly even brought special gifts: one day she arrived with tickets to the local production of The Nutcracker, and another day she was discovered playing with toy trains and holding tickets to The Christmas Train.
Every morning, The Pie woke with anticipation and utter joy at finding Jolly. She says that she wishes the Elf could stay the whole year long. She has grown fond of the Elf and loves her in her very own special 2nd grader way. Jolly filled her days with happiness, instead of sorrow at the loss of her Papa. Jolly reminded her the the holiday is about giving cheerfully to the ones we love. As the days of the month passed, I realized that The Pie would occasionally talk to Jolly when she thought I was out of ear shot. Jolly heard The Pie's wish list, a couple of holiday jokes, and the most heartbreaking one: "if you see my Papa, tell him I said hi."
Our little Elf has provided a connection to something we can never see. Whether it's Papa or Santa or flying reindeer, Jolly is the personification of the kind of magic that I am glad my daughter believes in. She feels in her heart that Jolly is alive and flies back to the North Pole every night to report to Santa. For me, Jolly is a wonderful motivation and behavior modification tool; to The Pie, Jolly is a friend that's always there for her to make her laugh and bring her the joy she needs to make it through her first Christmas without Papa.
It's now December 4. Two weeks ago today, I buried my father. He died peacefully in his sleep on Monday, November 17, 2014. Valerie, his nurse at the Castle, was so kind and gracious when she called to share the news. When I hung up the phone, I sat quietly for a few minutes, knowing that the days following would be a blur of activity and decisions. I allowed myself to be still, to quietly honor his final battle with life.
Then came the phone calls. Those are the hardest calls to make. I knew I needed my rock, so I first called The Pie's Favorite Aunt and my best friend. When she answered, I spoke two words: "he's gone." I don't even remember what she said...it seems like she just instantly appeared at my side. Awesome Neighbor was next on the list; and the next thing I knew, I was wrapped in her embrace, crying. My Crazy Aunt, Dad's baby sister, was my next call. She was such a great support during the previous several months, and she was already planning to arrive the next day for a visit. She just missed him. All the phone calls bled into one long repetitive conversation and by the time they were finished, I didn't even want to talk about it anymore.
We went to the Castle, where a hospice nurse was finishing up giving Dad a shave. I saw his body there in the bed, but what I didn't see was pain, anger, sadness or regret. I saw peace. I held his hand and rubbed his still warm head; said good-bye. I felt in a very odd way, that I had just become an event planner - that I was delegating tasks to the appropriate people, fielding questions to which only I knew the answer. The hospice chaplain, Terry, was helpful and mindful of the journey that awaited me over the next several days. Dad wanted the same funeral service that did Mom's funeral to do his, so they were called and as I awaited their arrival, I began to gather Dad's personal belongings.
There wasn't much, really. He hadn't allowed me to bring too much stuff there. "It's not my home," he told me once. When the all-grown-up son of someone I graduated high school with arrived from the family owned funeral service, we left so as not to witness the transfer. As we walked out the door, the director stopped me and handed me an envelope. I would discover days later that it was his final bill. Classy, right?
My best friend stuck by me every moment. Just her presence calmed me. I could think clearer, make decisions quicker, be okay. There was one big decision to make and I really needed her there with me. How would I tell The Pie?
When she got home from school, The Pie was her usual ebullient self; chattering on about the day's events and which boy had aggravated her the most. I asked her friend to go home and beckoned The Pie to join me in the big chair. I took a deep breath and said, "Papa went to Heaven today." She broke down in sobs and all I could do was cry with her and hold her tight. My heart broke for her. In her young life, she had already lost her Mimi and her Papa. But, as young children often do, she rallied, and we talked calmly about how much we would miss him.
The next day was filled with meetings and conversations: the funeral director, the preacher, bank, the railroad board. The nursing home, the hospice agency and primary care doctor were also on the list. I had prepared a file for service information, so that went surprisingly smoothly and was able to maintain my composure for most of the day. I'm glad I had Crazy Aunt with me, though. I didn't want to be completely alone. One thing I was laser focused on was the music for the service. I contacted the man who was my elementary school music teacher (in the 70s) and asked him to sing at the service. Never mind that I hadn't seen him nearly 40 years, it's what I wanted, and I was damn well going to get it.
The day of the service was sunny and only a little chilly. The Pie and I got up early to attend visitation, to see Papa one last time. That little girl is so strong and practical that it astounds me. We stood together at his open casket and as I cried, she held my hand tightly and rubbed my arm. "It's ok, Mama," she said. "He's in Heaven now." I must have done something right along the way...she's so smart!
We went for breakfast, then came home to prepare for the funeral. She picked one of her favorite dresses and I went with the standard black. I felt appropriately respectful, but pushed the envelope with my shoes...high and pointy. We arrived at the funeral home chapel a little later than I anticipated and there already people there. It threw me off a little, but it was nice to see them there to honor my dad. Next, I went to a small room to visit with my music teacher. We both look a lot different that we did in the 70s, but I was momentarily nine years old again, looking admirably at him. Even back then, his faith was strong and obvious. I am grateful that he was willing to make the drive.
The service was perfect - exactly how I planned it. It was a teeny bit irreverent, like my dad, but still respectful of his life and how he lived it. Mr. Music Teacher sang "My Tribute (To God be the Glory)" and "It Is Well (With My Soul)", my best friend did an uplifting reading, the preacher gave a wonderful eulogy, the song "Daddy's Hands" was played, I read a poem I wrote for Dad 10 years ago and I read something that The Pie wanted to say, but ultimately got too shy for. I held it together pretty well until the end, when the military color guard began their rite of flag folding and presentation. I hadn't seen it in person before and wasn't sure what to expect. But it moved me to my core. The young men were precise, respectful, honorable. The soldier who presented the flag to me went down on bended knee...and as he spoke, his voice cracked with emotion.
I lost it. I couldn't hold it in any longer. My grief exploded in waves of tears, realizing that my daddy was really gone. God was taking care of him now, not me. He was finally with my mom and his brothers, up to mischief, frolicking without pain or depression. I will have a period of adjustment: getting used to having more time on my hands, not having to consider his dietary restrictions when meal planning, etc. And I will miss it.
And I will miss him. Forever.
