Been way blue – Dad can’t get through an MRI so nothing can be done for his pain and I’m about to get my period and holding his tiny hand I keep seeing him coming through the door after playing golf and how I loved the way he smelled and watching him wash his hands with Lava soap and how vital and BIG he was and it isn’t that this is wrong- his dying- but that life is always so fucking much about letting go and I understand now why middle aged people stared at me when I was 19 and lush, stared with grief and joy because they so wished (as I do now) that I could have gotten it — that these fleeting moments of firm peach brightness are to be treasured like nothing else.
~~~~~
I spent to much of the last two days dealing with stinky cable men (I fear the house knows that Chris has left and has decided that without testosterone to keep it in check, it will let everything technical fuck with me) and am dragging my feet getting projects done and just want to make art…
so I got this email from the amazingly and brilliant Dawna Markova who I do not know but who loves my new book and this is what she wrote (I’m bragging):
dear jennifer
there is a secret beach in kauai, where i go when we are there. it demands to be walked barefoot because the sand is so fine and light.if it is early enough when i walk it, while the sun rising turns the wavespink gold, the very edge of the sand, where it is licked by the pacific, is filled with tiny treasures–keilani shells that nestle between your toes. each one is curled in on itself, like a tiny ear of the spirits.
finding your book was like finding that beach.
trust you are now nestled between my toes
dawna
I keep reminding myself none of this life of mine is a problem – and that thought helps as does
god before email (morning practice of meditation)
your brilliant comments about reality and evil more (see two entries back)
running in the wet woods while listening to Dr. Trance and Van Morrison
gluing things
homegrown tomatoes
talking to you
Love,
Jen
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6 responses so far ↓
1 florida333 Sep 15, 2006
Jennifer,
I cannot overstate how much your blog is helping me come to terms with my own father’s decline. You are just about 6 months ahead of me in what you are dealing with, and every time you share your soul, I bless you (and others who post in response) for showing me that there is a path through this grief and that it is not a sin to grab beauty and laughter in the midst of it.
Please never doubt how much your writing means to people. The ripples in the pond are tremendous. Your words have single-handedly brought forth in me a new feeling that I can cope with what is to come.
Love from the bedridden broken ankle girl,
Sandy
PS I thought you came across GREAT on your podcast! It was so great hearing your voice! I know you’ll be able to grow that podcast (if you want to) without any darn Martha Stewart radio show.
2 Tracy Sep 15, 2006
I echo Sandy’s sentiment – ‘never doubt how much your writing means to people’! Reading your posts is like checking in with a good friend who doesn’t sugar coat her words so that everything feels ‘nice’. Life isn’t always ‘nice’, but it is ‘real’ if you allow yourself to truly experience the highs and lows. To me there is no greater beauty than feeling real, and interacting with people who aren’t afraid to be real. I’m sure its not always easy to pour your heart and soul into your posts Jen, but you need to know how much it is appreciated and how deeply I am inspired.
sending you love and continued strength,
Tracy
3 Lauren Sep 16, 2006
Yes, yes — I love your utter lack of phoniness, and how you are sharing the full dimension of your complex and contradictory psyche with us – which mirrors the complexities of our own. This is archetypal stuff. Thanks, too, for sharing your email from Dawna Markova, who is one of the deepest and most lyrical writers I know. I saw her in person about 10 years ago during a day of other speakers – I had never heard of her, but I was riveted and enormously lifted by her talk. Her book “I Will Not Die An Unlived Life” is lush, contemplative, and to be read again and again… always receiving something new, depending upon where I am on the journey. Thanks for the reminder of Dawna, and thanks again for being just you… know you are loved and supported by many! Lauren Miranda Gilbert
4 Susan Sep 16, 2006
Oh Jennifer. My heart joins with yours. I remember holding my youngest sister in a tight embrace as she alternately cried and cursed outside my father’s hospital room. She – the physical therapist – our medical “expert” to whom we turn for advice, she who rarely lets her emotions go, she who was now nearly sobbing gritted her teeth and and almost hissed “It shouldn’t be this HARD.” I looked at her and asked what shouldn’t? She said “Dying. He shouldn’t have to work so hard to die.”
I was sure that I didn’t want to be in that room when he won his fight. I was sure I couldn’t handle it. But two days later when we were all standing around him saying goodbye, I have to tell you it was the most incredibly peaceful, spiritual, healing, soul-empowering experience I have ever had. I remember sitting in the room afterwards and looking at him – or should I say his body. I remember whispering to my sister, “Look at him. It doesn’t even look like him anymore.” It was like a cicada bug – an empty shell. It was SO obvious that his spirit had left its shell behind and he was gloriously released.
I believe more and more that until you’ve lived it, you just don’t “get it”. My best friend doesn’t understand why I always sense the date my father died coming up on the calendar. I just smiled and told her its because her father is still alive. She’ll get it one day.
Maybe that’s why they say youth is wasted on the young. Hugs and giggles…Susan
5 suzie km Sep 16, 2006
God before e-mail: my seed thought for the week. Thanks for that!
Love,
6 Helga Sep 21, 2006
I debated for a while whether to post here or not because, even after 4 and 6 years, my parents’ passings are (a) still painful, and (b) so amazing that I can never truly describe them. But, since I somehow keep coming back to this post, I may be meant to share here:
I was not present when my father died. Fortunately, I got to see him about 3 weeks before, when he told me that he wouldn’t be around much longer. He was not seriously ill physically, but at 86 he’d simply had it. I told him that it was entirely up to him to decide to go, he thanked me for my “permission”. We hugged tightly. It was a 3-minute affair, but knowing him, I could tell this was good-bye. I am grateful we parted with this deep understanding and a feeling of “all’s well between us”.
After trying valiantly to live without her husband of 59 years, a year and a half after his death my mother finally decided she couldn’t do it. Physically ill, she went into the hospital for 2 weeks. One particular update from my brother told me that she was preparing to leave, so I went to Germany where all my blood family lives. After I explained that it wouldn’t be a fun trip and likely meant being there when grandma died, I gave my daughter, then 7, the choice to come along or not. She decided to come so she could say good-bye. Sure enough, it became quickly obvious that mom had decided to pack it in. Her doctor thought he could patch her up to last a while longer, but truly understood me when I told him that there was absolutely nothing in his arsenal that would keep her alive now. Wonderful man, he kept her comfortable.
It took mom about a week. During that time we talked little – other than loving words there wasn’t that much to say – but we were more physically loving than ever before. I massaged her aching back, rubbed her swollen feet, made her more comfortable in her bed. The last two days were rough: her body figured out where things were going and rebelled in panic. Tiny and light as feather now, mom would calm when I held her like a child with her face nestled against my neck.
Without childcare, my daughter had been with me 24/7, and it had been so diffcult for her seeing grandma distressed that I wasn’t going to bring her anymore, but didn’t know where to leave her safely. The universe heard me: Fifteen minutes before the hospital called to say that mom was passing, a great playdate manifested out of the blue. I was free to fully be with my mother.
When I got to her room, she was lying on her side, breathing shallowly but not laboured. I was told she was not responding to any stimuli anymore. I climbed in bed with her, gently stroked her hair, took her hand, and held her. She relaxed into our spoon. I said that I loved her, thanked her for everything she’d done for me, and that we’d all be fine. I told her what a great job she was doing now, to not be afraid, that dad was waiting for her, to take his hand and let go here. She weakly squeezed my hand, than relaxed, and exhaled a last gentle breath. She was gone. I had come into this world in her arms, she left it in mine.
Her doctor, watching from the corner with his staff, said he’d never seen anything like this scene. I replied that I hope he’ll see it lots more. And I hope that as many of us “kids” as possible will have the opportunity of seeing our parents off to the next plane. The gift of witnessing something come full circle is momentous and forever lifts our hearts with awe at times of sorrow.