(this is annie)

...kind of.

I hadn't been home since September, and I wasn't home for 10 minutes before I walked out to the backyard and burst into tears. It's strange how home — the place I spent my first 18 years, and significant moments of the ensuing 13 — can develop an unpleasant patina. Everything has a different weight.

For instance: The backyard is where I had a little zip line and Annie's Roost, the treehouse Dad built for me. Both are gone now, and the yard isn't as meticulously maintained as it once was. So I go there and remember, but I also see the absence of what used to be. I miss my father terribly. I am embarrassed to admit that a day hasn't gone by without me crying about missing him, because then it seems like I'm a depressive. But if I can't be sad about this, what can I be sad about?

I am just getting home from a night out with Jesse, JC, Miles, and (unexpectedly) Tim and John and Jimk. While I don't miss certain aspects of Chicago (pollution, sprawl, noise) I miss my friends and family terribly. I miss walking into my old haunts to meet them and then running into other friends because this is where we go and have gone for 10 years. There is always a friend there. I don't have that in SF, not even after almost three years.

One thing I've learned lately is that your old friends really are often the best ones, because they know all of your sullied parts and love you anyway. And vice versa. I am lucky to have them, and am equally grateful for newer friends who will be old ones in 10 years' time.

Labels: chicago, dad, jesse

After work, I decided to take the train to 16th Street. It was a bit of a roundabout way to get home, but when the sun stays out later than it used to, you might as well enjoy it. My little limp comes out if it's rained recently, but the important thing is to keep walking despite the ache, and so I did.

I have taken thousands of steps on Valencia Street, but no matter what happens there, it always reminds me of the afternoon I arrived in San Francisco. I'd been driving for days and was excited and scared to be somewhere new. Dad was in the passenger seat, taking in the details of a neighborhood he'd never seen. "I think you're going to be happy here," he said.

"I hope so," I replied.

Before sunset, we drove up and down the steepest parts of Russian Hill. The experience filled both of us with glee, and Dad's delighted laughter revealed a glimpse of the little boy he'd once been. Even then I knew it was a moment I'd always remember. I was freshly 29, he was 76, and while pushing our way up those inclines, we were young together.

Labels: dad, san francisco

Mourning is a cycle, spinning over and over, and I'm not sure when it will stop. The five stages of grief exist, but they don't necessarily happen in order, and they don't happen just once. They keep moving in a general loop, yet they're unpredictable; the intensity sometimes fades, but the pattern keeps repopulating itself.

I am able to reach acceptance, but there's no triumph in that accomplishment. It is a sad place. It isn't a place I really want to be, so I slip back into denial. Then I have to plunge into the icy water of reality, mentally replay the loss, and sit with the absence for a while. It's lonely.

I am not yet used to how different things are now, and I have to frequently remind myself to create new behaviors and responses to replace long-established habits. For instance: When I travel, I instinctively look for a postcard to send to Dad. It is OK to think of him, of course, but it still takes me a few seconds to remember that I can't really send him a card. Or if I did, it would never reach him, because he is gone.

I haven't slept well in months, and this is doubly frustrating because dreams are the only place where my mind can regress beyond denial and temporarily bask in an extinct existence. I can dream about the life I used to know, without the internal scold whipping me into looking at the cold, sad facts. I know the happiness is not real, but the escape is still welcome whenever it comes. Dream-Dad comforts me as he would if he were still here, and things feel better.

Sometimes, if the air and light are just right, I let myself forget while I'm awake, too. Just for a minute. The last time I did it, I was walking down 21st Street on a quiet morning. For a city block, I allowed myself to pretend. The sun on my back felt like being loved, and I slowed my pace to feel less alone for a little bit longer. Eventually, I had to turn left on Mission, where buildings were blocking the light. I returned to accepting the unwelcome truth, but for a tiny sliver of time, I got away from it.

I don't know if this coping mechanism is normal. I'm not sure it's completely healthy, but it’s not like I do it often or stay stuck in that reverie. Occasionally it is what I need to do just to get through the day, because sometimes the absence is overwhelming. I know things will get easier as time passes, and that I will be able to think of my father without feeling so sad, but right now it is still difficult. I need him, he isn't here, and so the cycle begins anew.

Labels: dad, emo spice

It's funny: I started telling stories before I could write them down. I remember sitting at the kitchen table with my mother, and she'd take down the tales I dictated. (Sample title: Paddington Bear Goes to the Mailbox.) In grade school, Jim and Mike and I were an accelerated-reading trio that we called The Rainbows. We wrote Choose Your Own Adventure-type stories in BASIC, and I still remember the password to get into the most adventurous levels. (Blueflashfalcon10mx.) Later, there was WSBS, the "radio show" we hosted over the school's PA system. (The poor nuns.) After a stint as the editor of The Good News Bears, I went on to high school to eventually run The Critic, and after that I edited The Michigan Independent. Post-college, I have always made my living from words.

Other talents elude me. I can't draw; my recent attempt at sketching a dog resembled lumpy oatmeal more than any sort of mammal. I cannot sing very well. Dorky dancer. Asthmatic, clumsy, bad at sports.

So that leaves writing, one of the roughest interests a person can develop. I never trust people who say it's easy to write. Maybe it is for them, but they should just shut their traps, because for the rest of us, it's work. Often-thankless work that compels an otherwise well-balanced person to tinker with a paragraph for hours or ponder the placement of a single comma, all for the chance that there's a tiny seed of something great growing in the copious amounts of crap you've produced. And the better writer you become, the more you can spot what isn't quite right. (For instance, the first paragraph has far too many parentheses, and now I've added one more. Agh!)

I've always liked this take on writing from Truman Capote:

When God hands you a gift, he also hands you a whip; and the whip is intended for self-flagellation solely.

I don't think I have some sort of magical talent or anything like that, just an attraction to words and a need to share them. Still, I put on my red writing cap and crack that whip. Sometimes that pushes me toward improvement, and I'll get into this rare and amazing mode where everything flows as it should. Other times, the whip is cruelly critical, and it makes me think I'm a bigger hack than Nicholas Sparks. Then I get upset because Nicholas Sparks' books are the Precious Moments figurines of literature, and yet he finishes his schmaltz, so why don't I write some schmaltz of my own? See? Whipped. But I can't not write. Frankly, I don't know what else to do.

All of this is an lengthy prelude to what I wanted to say in the first place, which is this: I like taking photographs! I enjoy snapping scenes all around town, stealing shots of strangers, and trying to get the cats to stand still for a portrait of Minou as a feline Henry Kissinger lookalike. (Glasses, jowls.)

Unlike writing, taking pictures is easy for me. This is because I have no idea what I'm doing, and I don't measure myself by the end result. There are no high expectations, no need to get a perfect shot, no aspirations to do much more than capture a scene. I might look at a photo and think, "Oh, look how well it turned out!" instead of looking for something to improve. In other words, it's fun.

Lately I've found another reason to keep the camera battery charged. Since my father died, an increasing number of my pictures look like his paintings. The bright colors, the empty space, clean lines — they're all him. I laughed while writing this because I just looked up at a painting he did of an awkward girl next to a cruiser bike; this morning, I snapped exactly that scene while waiting for the bus. I don't go looking for this overlap; it just happens every so often. Every time it does, it's like he's here for a moment, looking at the world with me.

Labels: dad

Cool Hand Luke and I had plans to hit up this arepas cafe, but by the time we made it down to the East Village, the place had stopped taking names for tables. So we walked around in the cold, crisp air in search of another place to eat. Mexican? Maybe. Thai? Not feeling it. We snaked through the streets discussing my ophidiophobia. (He thinks it can be cured; I disagree.) Then we saw an interesting-looking restaurant, glanced at its menu, and saw that it was another arepas place. We decided it was a sign.

I'd never had Venezuelan food, but it's pretty straightforward. The menu consisted of tapas, arepas (stuffed cornmeal patties), and meat and fish dishes topped off with a light drizzle of crude oil. Our server had a birdlike energy, all angles in her gait and back-and-forth eye movements. She recommended the tofu arepa, but I feel like most Venezuelans don't eat tofu, so I went with beans and whatever. We ordered too much food, agreed that it was decent but needed tomatoes or something else to balance its dryness, and drank red wine (CHL) and sangria (me).

The restaurant closed at midnight but the music kept playing, and a few people began to dance. Their sense of movement was natural, their rhythm inspiring. I enjoyed watching them. Then CHL said two words that struck fear into my heart: let's dance. Oh no!

It's not that I don't like to dance. Quite the opposite. Do it all the time at home. The problem is that I am absolutely horrible at it. I explained this and hoped that we could do The Chair. It's the hot new dance move. You sit down and wait for the server to bring the check. It's huge in Venezuela!

"Oh, come on," CHL said. And with no real defense or valid excuse to save me, I was pulled out of my seat. The other dancers were doing some hip-wiggling thing that the nuns back in grade school would have surely disapproved of.

In an attempt to be a good sport, I decided to give it a whirl. I asked myself, "WWPSIDDD?"* I then realized that the answer, too, would involve hip-wiggling. I couldn't do that. That's how you throw out a hip! So I pulled out my usual thumbs-in-the-air, torso-twisting moves. It looked almost as impressive as this. "Why don't you let me lead," CHL offered.

So he led. I tried to follow. It didn't go well. I spun the wrong way, nearly flung myself into the bar, and wondered if a second sangria might have helped me forget this embarrassment in the morning. "I need those numbered feet," I muttered. We laughed. Eventually I started getting the hang of it, or at least I stopped being completely inept. I may even have had a good time.

While dipping down and spinning around, my mind went back to dancing with my father. He used to take my hands in his, and I'd put my little feet on top of his shoes. He'd get a little sparkle in his eye while moving us around and making me laugh. I was sad when I grew too big for that, but as I let myself be led in the restaurant, a small part of that feeling came back. And better yet, I was able to share stories of that memory, of my father, while smiling. I think my dad would be happy to see me dancing. Even—no, especially—when I didn't think I could.

* (What would Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing do?)

Labels: dad, new york

In the mornings, I like to watch other commuters as we ascend from the underground. Most of us are trudging off to work, and sometimes I force myself to walk slowly. This is one good side effect from those awful days of crutching. Slowing down means I notice more details, like whether the Examiner-offering man's eyes are bright or defeated.

Yesterday morning, an elderly man was about ten steps in front of me. He was about six feet tall with trimmed gray hair peeking out from a tweed flat cap. He wore brown leather shoes, tan trousers that were a mite too large, a navy twill jacket. His ears stuck out a little. From behind, he looked almost exactly like my father.

Rationally I knew that this wasn't my father, but he shuffled his feet so similarly that my heart instinctively hurled itself toward him anyway. I wanted to know what he looked like. If only I could see his face, I'd see that he'd look nothing like Dad. Even if some bizarre twist of fate gave him an identical face, it wasn't Dad. I knew this, and yet I felt simultaneous urges to run away and run toward this stranger.

His gait was slow, so I tried to catch up to him. No matter how much I stretched to see his lightly whiskered face, I couldn't see any of it. I'd get closer, and just as I found the right angle to steal a sideways glance, he'd shift his path. When he disappeared into the news and candy shop, it was too late.

I tried to keep it together by looking up at the tops of buildings. Gravity kept the tears from brimming over at first, then my preference to never cry at work did. Hours later, upon crossing the apartment threshold: release.

This morning, I retraced my steps from train to street. I looked around. Not-Dad, of course, wasn't there — it's a big city with lots of people and patterns, and paths sometimes cross only once. The truth is that the man I'm looking for will never be there, at least not physically. I'm still wildly unused to living without my father. The grieving moves forward in sine-wave formations. But at least it's moving forward.

I was up before dawn again and called my mom. She made me feel better. Before work I stopped by Walgreens to buy a Valentine's Day card for her. It's her first v-day without my father in more than 35 years, so I hoped to make it feel a little less alone.

Hallmark — oh yes, I do care enough to send the very best — had a dorky selection. The flowery "For you, Mother" cards were mawkish. The music-playing cards were gimmicky. I considered a greeting from the Chipmunks, but she hates rodents. In the end, I went for a card whose theme truly captures the sentiment and depth of our relationship. I think it'll show her how much she means to me. Let's hope she likes the Jonas Brothers.

Labels: betty, dad, emo spice

When Betty came to visit, she gave me a single paperwhite bulb. I didn't have a proper container to force it, so I jury-rigged one out of a votive holder and some tin. Within a few days of being given water, the roots began to reach down and a tiny green shoot began to work its way out. This week, the flowers bloomed, and looking at them brings me peace. The plant is so fragile just floating there, but so pretty, too.

After taking this photo, I deleted some recent shots to make more room on the memory card. Other photos have remained on the card for months, to stay indefinitely. Even though they've been downloaded and saved online, I worry that those copies might somehow get lost in a hard drive crash or a data outage. I cannot bring myself to remove the files from my camera, because it feels like I'd be erasing the people in them, too. How can I look at the last photograph of my father and press delete?

I like — perhaps need — to collect tiny pieces of people. That makes me sound like a serial killer, but you know what I mean. I have a box of souvenirs: photo booth strips, emptied matchbooks, a scrap of my grandfather's tie, a gelato wrapper, a thread from a wool dress, an expired RATP ticket, an origami crane, a drawing on a post-it, lakes cut out from a topographic map, a pressed maple leaf from the day my father died. I feel compelled to pour the importance of a moment into something small and tangible, so I can hold it and prove to myself that it existed.

When it comes to our autobiographies, we are all unreliable narrators. Our minds translate personal fictions into personal truth. So this is why, when I click the camera's wheel backward and spin backward into time, I linger on those photographs. They are evidence, they are a link to the past, and in some cases they're all I have left.

Labels: dad, emo spice

When I was young, probably around four years old or so, my father designed some holiday cards and had them printed. He arranged 25 letters alphabetically, five by five, and sent them to his clients and colleagues. I thought it was the most clever idea in the world.

This was our last Christmas together at the house, in 2007.


And this was our first and only Christmas at my apartment, in 2005. We took things very seriously, as you can see.


Generally speaking, we had a good time together. I miss my dad a lot today, but I've enjoyed remembering past Christmases we've had. It's been a bittersweet day. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have important things to do, like slipping a fuzzy wreath collar on an unsuspecting dwarf cat.

Labels: betty, christmas, dad, milo

Really, is there anything worse than having to go to a party when you feel utterly, fully, and plainly defeated? Well, yes. Scabies, for example. But within the microcosm of social obligation, not really. I had some good conversations tonight, but the surrounding giddy festivity only accentuated how alone I feel lately. So I quietly sipped my Welch's and waited for my ride home.

The collective "they" are right in saying that the holidays are hell for the bereaved. Months ago, when my father's death was fresh, people asked how I was doing. "I think things will be harder in a few months, when it all settles in and feels real," I'd say. Well, guess who's a regular Miss Cleo. I wish I'd been wrong like you wouldn't believe.

Labels: dad, emo spice

More than anyone else I know, my father feared death. It always hit him hard. When my hamster Bernice died 20 years ago, he wiped tears from his eyes as we eulogized her. "She was a good hamster and she loved her wheel," he said, solemnly shoveling dirt on top of the cardboard-box coffin we'd made for her. He'd also fashioned a small wooden tombstone for her; it's still standing at the base of an old oak tree in my parents' front yard.

In late August, we found out that he had eight to 12 weeks to live. Or was it six to eight? I can't remember, and it doesn't matter because the doctor overestimated his time anyway. I knew what my mother was going to say before she said it; I read the news in her eyes. "Does he know?" I asked.

He didn't.

If Dad had been Dad, we would have given him the bad news. But he was Dad only in pieces. During his last months, he often became confused and forgetful. You could tell him something simple and he'd forget it in five minutes. Then again, he might surprise you by remembering the minutiae of a conversation you'd had months earlier. For instance, in the same hour, he confused me with a nurse but remembered the name of a friend's dog who he'd never met. We had no way of knowing what information would remain lodged in the folds of his brain. What we did know was that he wouldn't feel his body slow down; it would be a painless death.

The doctor gave the prognosis to my mother, not to my father. We talked about what to tell him. If we gave him the news, we wondered, would it sink in? Would he remember the terrible reality or would it slip in and out of his understanding? I imagined him going in and out of full lucidity, re-remembering that he was going to die over and over again. Learning that death is close is painful enough; learning it for the first time more than once is just cruel. Or if he did remember the fact that death was coming, wouldn't it torture him? I imagined him going to sleep each night, feeling alone and wondering if he'd wake up in the morning. There was nothing anyone could do to stop the inevitable, and since we knew it would terrify him to know how little time he had left, we settled upon a merciful lie.

We tried to make his last weeks as happy as possible. He laughed with his children, all five of us. He enjoyed chicken fingers and chocolate ice cream and all of the other dietary disasters normally forbidden. I took him outside on a warm day and helped him paint his last painting. On the way inside, he began telling me about his youngest daughter, who lived in San Francisco and just came back from Spain and has two beautiful cats.

During a nursing-home visit, my mom went outside for a smoke or something, leaving my dad and me sitting on his bed. "I want to talk with you," he said. Serious face. "Now, I don't want you worrying about that hospital visit. Doc says I have a good ticker and I'm going to be around a long time."

I tried to smile, but instead I burst into tears. "I'm sorry, it's just that I miss you so much," I told him. "I wish we got to see each other more." I buried my face into his shoulder and he put his hand on top of mine. That was one of the most difficult moments of my life.

Some of my friends judged us for making the decision we did. They said it wasn't fair to hide the news from my father. "Wouldn't you want to know you were dying?" they asked. With the mind I have now, yes. With the mind my father had in his last months, no. No, because emotions get stripped to their rawest state when the mind can't handle complexities. Between the fearful knowledge of certain death and the simple love of family, I would prefer to spend my last days surrounded by the latter. Which is strange, because generally I'd rather deal with cold, brutal truth than a pretty falsehood.

Sometimes I wonder if we should have told him everything. Then I imagine what he would have thought if he were able to fully understand what it all meant. He would have felt small and scared and helpless. I couldn't do that to him. So I think we made the kindest decision possible, given the circumstances.

When Bernice the hamster died, I sobbed and worried about whether her death had been painful. To comfort me, my father said that she probably went to sleep and died without feeling a thing. I believed him because I needed to. This year, he believed me because I needed him to. I'm not sure if I needed him to believe me for his benefit or mine. Maybe both. Whatever the reason, it doesn't change the fact that I acutely feel his absence today. I miss him so much, fiercely and ineloquently.

Labels: dad, emo spice

Today my mother and I distracted ourselves so that we wouldn't feel the ache of our first Thanksgiving without my father. Our plan worked for a while, and I got a kick out of seeing how excited she was to cruise around Marin in a rented convertible. But then night fell, and just as I was about to say that we should call Dad at the nursing home, I remembered reality and missed him. It is so strange to spend decades as a family trio, and now it's just me and my mom. This is an uncomfortably unknown experience. Today I thought about my dad while watching waves crash into rocks, while passing the spot where we ate sourdough together, and while eating olives. (He always loved olives.) I am thankful for many, many things. Getting through today is one of them.

Labels: betty, dad

You know the phrase "live every day as though it were your last"? That is better advice in theory than in practice, because it's fairly likely that our last days won't offer us the chance to do as we please. Some of us will spend our last days hooked up to a respirator; others will have lost their mental faculties months or years before. A few of us will be lucky enough to be completely present in our last moments, and others will begin their mornings without knowing that they're drinking the last coffee of their lives.

I know I'm not making much sense; I'm really just rambling while ruminating. But having spent a decent amount of time among the dying this year, I can't help but think that "carpe diem" is a better credo. Not only is it more succinct, its meaning is slightly different. It's more positive, like blooming into life — whereas living like it's your last day implies that you're running from death. I keep thinking about hope and fear as motivators. Both have propelled me into action, but the decisions I have made out of fear have been the ones I've regretted. I regret the things I didn't do more than the things I did.

Three things happened this year that radically changed my perspective on the way I want to live. First, I traveled through Spain with a man I barely knew. It was a crazy idea, but instead of being typically safe and saying no to it, I said yes. And I'm so lucky that I did, because in doing what I wanted instead of what I thought would be safer, I wound up falling in love. It doesn't matter that the relationship ended. Well, it matters, but you know what I mean — I don't regret the decision. Decades from now, when spots cloud my vision and my bones are tired, I will still be glad that I took the risk, Katherine Mansfield style.

Number two! Breast lump. The moment I felt it wobble under my fingers, I knew that it definitely did not belong there. I was scared but somewhat calm about the whole thing. It's not like I could worry myself out of cancer if I'd had it. Because the lump is benign, the doctor said we'd monitor it rather than remove it. In a weird way, I'm glad it's still there, because it's a physical reminder to appreciate simply being healthy. I know that sounds corny, but it's true.

(Number 2a: Closely related to Lumpwatch 2009 is the lesson of the broken foot, which is that sometimes you have to realize you sometimes can't change a single thing about a situation. Sometimes you have to accept your fate, ask for the help you need, and get through the shit the best you can. Preferably without crutch fetishists tracking down your photos.)

Finally, the third. My father's death has had the most impact of these three things, but it is the most difficult to articulate. One thing I do know is that — oh god, this is so hippie-ish, forgive me — life is brief, and death is very real, and I want to live more courageously until my time comes. I know that sounds like some new agey shit, and maybe it is, but after he died, I felt more urgency to become a better person. No more rinky-dink procrastinating, no more excuses, no more holding myself back from fear of failure. I want to share more, to love more, to write more, to be more giving. I want to have a remarkable life and to create stronger connections, or at least die trying.

I don't have life figured out. I don't think anybody ever does. But I think this year will stand out as a turning point. I don't want this to come off as some sort of pretentious, know-it-all "Oh, I'm going through a MAGICAL SPIRITUAL TRANSFORMATION" thing. I readily admit that if I were a Transformer, my name would be Megaflawed, and I would clumsily shift into an Edsel or a unicycle. Still, it feels like something is happening. I feel acutely alive, and that is a very good place to be.

(I am so sorry for all of the boring me-me-me blather lately, but I am mostly stuck at home and I'm trying to attack this emotional stuff rather than bury it, and it's my website anyway. When I can walk again, expect thrilling tales of public-transit weirdos and the return of Assclown of the Week.)

Labels: dad, emo spice

Sometime in the last quadrant of his life, my father began incorporating the numeral 2 into his paintings. Whenever he showed his art, people would inevitably ask about its meaning. "No significance," he'd say. "It's just a visual device."

Even I did not believe him.

After a few art fairs, he could predict the question by seeing the look on someone's face, and I think he grew tired of delivering the same answer. It wasn't that he was an artiste who wanted people to interpret the 2 on their own. (He loathed purple-prose artists' statements and the like.) He just didn't like unspooling the same old story. If there was indeed a lofty meaning, he hid it pretty well. Either that, or it was a long-running poop joke.

He eventually told me, and then others, what the 2 was about. He'd been honest in describing it as a visual device; as a former commercial artist, he could look at the world and know how to correct imbalance or introduce something new — at least with acrylics on masonite, anyway. When he was working on a painting and it had too much white space, or had subject matter weighing it to one side, he'd paint a 2.

But why two? Why not eight or three or any other digit? "Two is a stable number," he explained. This made no sense until he walked me through it, and this is the best I can do to remember and paraphrase his logic. It will help to look at the numerals and imagine them as though they were sitting on a line:

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

And now we examine each. Zero is too similar to a circle, and it rolls over anyway. One is stark and thin, and half the time it just looks like a plain vertical line. Three, five, six, eight, and nine can't stay standing on their own. Four is top-heavy and teeters; seven tips to the right and lands with a thud.

Two, though! Two is solid. It curves and bends, yet remains anchored by a steady base. Maybe its shape really is the only reason he chose to put 2 on so many paintings, but I have my doubts. I like to think that he was quietly highlighting the human quest for connection, that basic and near-universal wish to find someone who helps to keep us grounded as we live our messy lives. For who among us would not want to believe in that possibility, to hope that two is indeed the most stable of numbers?

Labels: dad, emo spice

Until September, I always had eight-plus hours of sleep every night. It was a gift; I genuinely enjoyed sleeping, especially because I remember the odd details of at least one dream when I wake up. Lately, though, I stare at nothing for what feels like hours, and after finally nodding off, I wake around sunrise. I used to sleep like a baby, and now I sleep like I have a newborn.

This is why I managed only half of a smile when a way-too-chipper man boarded the bus this morning. Boy, was he a talker. How'd you break your foot, my wife did that too, hey nice watch, on and on and on. I felt bad because he was friendly in that car-salesman way, but I was tired, and I couldn't inject my voice with enough of the polite interest that decorum silently requests.

He hopped off at Market, and an old man boarded with fishing poles and a bucket in his hands. He looked nothing like my father, but my throat tightened immediately. Even when he was alive, fishermen made me think of our countless evenings spent chasing bluegills at the lake. So there I was, smelling the faint but unmistakable odor of worms in the bucket, thinking, "For god's sake, don't cry over bait." I couldn't reasonably get up and move, because the old man had a sad and tentative look on his face, and I didn't feel like explaining my emotional drama to keep him from thinking that he was offensive somehow. He looked vulnerable and a little worn down, so I stayed and held my breath until my eyes were less wet.

A morning drunk stumbled on a few stops later, and he began roaring at the old man. Something about the fishing poles infuriated him. I was glad, then, that I hadn't moved, and I gave the old man a sympathetic smile. Furious George stayed on for only two stops, then practically fell to the sidewalk. I watched the city go by until we reached the last stop. The old man gave me a slight nod and smile, then slowly climbed off the bus. I did the same, then watched as he sank down the hill toward the bay.

Labels: dad, sleep, strangers

Super 8 movies have always had a unique allure. They're so beautifully slowed-down and sun-dappled, immediately delivering the blurred warmth that otherwise comes as time soften memories. My family never had a video camera, but we took pictures; the late-'70s light washes everything in tan, and I imagine that's what it must have looked like back then.

When I found out that my dad was terminally ill (odd phrase, that) I kicked myself for not having my video-ready digital camera with me. Since then I have leaped into small puddles of panic, drowning in the possibility that I may someday forget his movement, his laugh, the sound of his voice. I can still see and hear everything if I close my eyes, but what if that changes? What if I forget some nuance of his gestures or tilt his cadence a half-step? I am petrified, heart pounding like a child bolting awake from blood-drenched nightmares, that I will somehow lose my father more than I already have. And if that happens, even if I misremember only a sliver of him, I fail both of us.

On Sunday, Betty brought me his old Nikon. Even though I have no idea how to take pictures with it, it's enough that it was his. It's still attached to the avocado-and-tan camera strap that I remember resting on top of his dark blue sweater in London. Inside, there's film of moments captured years ago, long forgotten and only possibly preserved. Someday, when I'm ready, I will have it processed and be the first to see a sliver of time through his eyes. For now, it sits on top of my dresser, its unfocused lens guarding me while I seek my father in my sleep.

Labels: dad

I apologize for the abundance of dreams and other similarly self-focused subjects lately. Part of it is due to me working through some heavy losses, and part of it is because my immobility keeps me from regaling you with tales of the city. Sadly, unless you are fascinated by the sleeping patterns of the dwarf cat, you're stuck with what's in my head. And it's my website, anyway, so if I record nocturnal turnings, it's more for me to analyze. If you are just dying to know about last night's anxiety dream that violently threw me out of slumber, here you go.
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Labels: dad, sabs, sleep

For five days a week, I sit in bed and have little to look at but the house across the street. Ideally, I'd feel like Debra Kerr in An Affair to Remember. Realistically, I'm sitting next to a short-legged cat who, despite his own charms, is no Cary Grant. Two days a week, I make the trek to the office. On the plus side, that allows me to talk with people and see things other than the house across the street. On the minus side:

Yesterday it took 70 minutes to get to work. Seventy minutes. The lengthy commute was mostly due to the difficulty of walking two blocks to the train. It was drizzling and my backpack was unusually heavy, which made me have to stop to catch my breath every five feet. Then I had a hard time getting on the train, and after I did, some guy with a mustache accidentally kicked my feet. (Maybe he knew about my anti-mustache activism and wanted me to pay for it, who knows.)

As I ascended the stairs from the subway, I thought, "Oh, it's been at least a month since I've written to Dad. I should really send him a postcard." It wasn't until about five seconds later, while considering where to pick one up, that I remembered. There are so many habits to change and no more letters to mail.

Labels: dad, i can't walk

Tonight I crutched my way down to the Latin American Club, where the ceilings are high and the drinks are stronger than you'd expect for $5.50. (Since I drink rarely, I enjoy good value for my dollar.) Dorothy was in town for Jauntsetter, and she and Eric had been out together already. They were there when I arrived, but I got held up at the door by the ID checker. He was very chatty — "Oh, how'd you hurt your leg?" and so forth — to the extent that I was about to ask him if he needed to see my driver's license. But as it turns out, dude wasn't checking IDs at all! Sneaky. "Well, I don't know you and you don't know me, but that cast is really cute," he said before leaving the bar. Immediately, unfairly, I thought, "Oh no, you're part of that online community of cast fetishists!" Then, to make matters worse, Eric called me out by my full name, which means that Fake ID Checker knows who I am. Latin American Club guy, if you are reading this, I am sorry if I was weirded out, but I thought you were looking at my cast in that way. I thought you might be a crutch-loving man who furtively snaps photos for online forums. (Fora? Enh.)

When I asked JC how he thinks I should handle my stress in a healthy way, he laughed and said, "I don't know how to do it in a healthy way, but my advice is to get rip-roaring drunk and spend the next day on the couch with pizza and movies." I try to not be self-destructive, and I generally succeed, but I'll be damned if a drink didn't take the edge off. If anybody has suggestions that are better than his, I'm all ears. And if not, at least it's almost time to dream. Happy birthday, Dad. I miss you.

Labels: dad, i can't walk

Labels: dad

My father died penniless — well, almost. We kept a $10 bill in the drawer of his nursing-home nightstand, because he became anxious without a little cash on hand. But aside from that, he had no money. (I don't care.) I've been thinking about the intangible things my father gave me, the inheritance I've already been carrying around.

The nose: I have my mother's eyes and my father's nose. It's crooked and a little too large for my face. Hypothetically I've thought, "If you were able to change it, would you?" I wouldn't. I always knew that at some point, it would be one of the few parts of my dad that I'd have left.

The sense of humor: He was always telling jokes, always making people laugh. I'm far more serious than he was, but I like to think I picked up some of his wit. The older I get, the better I am at laughing.

Stubbornness: My father could be incredibly obstinate, often for no apparent reason. I am similarly stubborn. JC says I stand on ceremony, and Scott said something about me holding to my convictions too tightly, so I think it is safe to say that it's my way or the highway. Not a good thing to inherit. Working on this.

Certain tastes: My father liked to eat some crazy shit: scrapple, shit on a shingle, liver. (Liver!) I forgo those but share his love of chocolate malts, pecans, chocolate chip cookies, hard-boiled eggs in salad, olives, Ovaltine.

Laziness: I love my dad, but he was not an industrious man. If he loved doing something, he was happy to throw himself into it head-first. But he avoided household chores and often cut corners. I am not dirty or an ultra-sloth, but spending an afternoon cleaning the oven is not my first priority.

Creativity: My father was a painter, and family ties aside, I like his work very much. Unfortunately, though I was surrounded by paint and markers, I have none of his artistic talent. I can draw bunnies and Milo, and that's about it. But I did develop the need to express myself one way or another, and although I am not the great writer I once thought I could be, I have this bizarre need to record, to write, to capture. So there's that.

Forgiveness: I didn't realize this until the last couple of years, but my father taught me to forgive. As far as I know, the only person he didn't forgive is the man who broken into our house when I was young; a decade after that, I'd find out that he'd told my father what he wanted to do to me. I don't think my dad ever let go of that one, but I never remember him holding grudges. So his ability to forgive is something I try to cultivate in myself.

Labels: dad

I was cleaning the cat litter box, once again marveling at my cats' predilection to create fetid evil out of innocent kibble, and out of nowhere I began to miss my father. I managed to finish the job, and then I completely lost my ability to do anything except sob. I'm trying to let myself feel what I need to feel (hence all of the writing, here and in paper journal) but it's impossible to predict these emotional shifts. Sometimes I can tell people about him without crying, and sometimes, well, I begin crying while holding a bag of cat shit.

I know it's good that my dad didn't suffer, that his death came relatively quickly, and so forth. People keep telling me these things, and I understand that they mean well, but it doesn't make him any less absent. It doesn't make me miss him any less. I feel myself regress to my youth, and in this moment, with the panicked one-note desperation of a child, I want nothing other than to have my father here again.

Labels: dad

I dreamed that I still worked at a job I hated, with the same person in charge of me. She kept giving me vague guidelines for finishing a project, and she expected me to work while mourning my father. "But we sent flowers," she said.* This is true; it was a bouquet of black and white tulips. I had to drive a rental car, and I thought I was in a line for a car wash. Fortunately, I wasn't, and I drove past a McDonald's (thought about getting a meatless cheeseburger in case it was the last food for a while, decided against it) and to a toll booth. A large truck carrying foundation makeup pulled up behind me and tried to clip itself to my car; I wouldn't let that happen.

Then I was home, but it was a not-home sort of home. It was Easter and we decided to go to Wal-Mart. (In real life this would not happen.) I was driving with someone, like a younger version of my mother, and she said that M-43) was about to change. It went from being dotted with houses and greenery and billboards to being flat, barren, dry. We got to the Wal-Mart parking lot and a man told us that you can't shop on Easter. So we decided to go to the nursing home instead.

I couldn't find the right door to open. They were a sickly shade of mauve. Teresa opened the door for me, and I walked in, and Dad was there. He was still alive. I tried to hide my shock. He was walking around, his chest bruised and purple, and he was in good spirits. "I'm going to be around a long time," he said, echoing what he'd told me in real life two weeks before he died. I held back tears.

I tried to call Scott (beau, not brother), because I wanted him to meet my dad. "Get here soon," I said. I wanted to ride on the back of his motorcycle, but he had only one helmet, and I knew my scooter helmet had been sold years ago. I sat to the left of my father and put my hand on his chest.
---

Not that dreams are that exciting to read, but this is more for me to remember it and analyze it later.

* Edited to add, this might make it seem like this is about my current job, but it isn't. It's about a job I had years ago; it still haunts my dreams.

Labels: dad, neuroses, sleep

At the nursing home, the aides would bring my father a tray with assorted soft foods — usually some sort of vegetable, chicken, dessert — and we would feed him as much as he would allow. Because he was stubborn, he'd occasionally refuse to eat more than a few spoonfuls of food, leaving me to wheedle him into having dinner. "Just one bite," I'd say. "Then I won't bother you about it anymore." I got away with this because I am the baby of the family, and because I also acknowledged his weariness of the food. Though it was surprisingly pretty good, this was a man who loved chocolate malts and chicken strips and Mexican food. They don't serve those foods in nursing homes.

When we learned that he had only a couple of months to live, I said, "Well, whatever he wants to eat, he can eat. We'll bring him chocolate malts or McDonald's or anything he asks for." Betty wasn't sold on the idea, arguing that high blood pressure had contributed to the problems that would lead to his death. "Do you want to feed your father the hamburger that kills him?!" she exclaimed. I just raised an eyebrow, and ultimately she got what I was saying.

Sort of. By the days before his death, my father had lost the ability to feed himself and speak. He showed no interest in food. My brother, however, discovered that if you spoon-fed him ice cream, he'd happily eat. So that's what we did. The night before he died (or maybe the night before that, it's all a blur) I tried to feed him vegetables, and he refused to open his mouth. For ice cream, however, he gladly obliged. I was sitting at his bedside, spooning ice cream into his mouth, when Betty spotted his untouched dinner.

"He should have a proper meal," she said. "Some of this chicken, and some mashed potatoes and gravy."

"He doesn't want it," I said. "But he's eating the ice cream."

"Well, that's not very nutritious."

"Yes," I said quietly. "But this might be his last meal, and if he doesn't want mashed potatoes, I'm not going to force it. He wants ice cream, so I'm feeding him ice cream."

Betty made one of her little hissing sighs. "Well, for my last dinner, I'd prefer mashed potatoes."

"I'll keep that in mind," I said. (I am a terrible daughter.)

Betty puttered about the room for a few minutes while I continued to feed my dad. Then she said, "Oh, just let me try giving him the potatoes." Okayfine.

"Bob?" she purred, loud enough so he could hear it. "Have some of this, honey."

Fully expecting the cold sweetness of ice cream, my father dutifully opened his mouth, and Betty plopped the mashed potato onto his tongue with a smile. As soon as the tuber hit his tongue, his mouth puckered, his nostrils flared, and he slowly turned and gave her the biggest pissed-off stare you've ever seen. Betty started laughing, apologized to him, and then switched to the dessert. That seemed to please him. Maybe you had to be there, but he was funny until the end. And yes, his last meal was ice cream. Vanilla.

Labels: betty, dad

I've always known how I planned to eulogize my father. "He was an imperfect man," I'd begin, and then I'd segue into a movingly bittersweet tribute to him. In my head, it was going to be meaningful and noble, the kind of thing that would leave people with deep philosophical thoughts about life and death. (Embarrassingly and selfishly enough, I also figured that I'd move through the speech tearlessly while switching on the waterworks in the crowd.)

Except that's not how it happened. Dad always disliked funerals, even "accidentally" showing up late to meet me and my mother before my grandfather's service. (That was one of the few times when I gave him hell.) So it made sense that he'd left instructions to forgo all the clad-in-black depressing stuff. Instead, he wanted us to have a party to celebrate his life. That was the kind of man he was, usually joking and smiling and looking at the bright side. It's not that he was without his flaws — he could be unintentionally self-centered, he wasn't the most industrious guy, he used to drink too much — but when I think of him, I don't focus on that mess. I remember the best about him.

People keep asking how I'm doing. Up and down, I say. It changes hour by hour, sometimes minute by minute. The whole Kubler-Ross thing is accurate to an extent, but it's happening as a jumble rather than a sequential progression. One minute I'm sobbing, the next I'm laughing, the next I'm numb. Softness, ache, then nothingness. The worst moments accompany the realization that he's never coming back. I mean, I know he's gone, but dying seems like something he had to cross off on a to-do list. I'm not yet used to the new, lonelier reality. When I force myself to think about that, to realize that I'll never see him laugh again, I crumple. I always suspected this would be one of the most difficult experiences of my life. It is.

Labels: dad

I laughed to myself upon waking up this morning, because I realized that my sister and I had never slept in the same room before last night. Three decades and it takes the impending death of our father to have that happen. We slept a room across from my dad's in the nursing home, each taking a spot in an extra-long twin bed with maroon blankets. I'd forgotten to pack a nightgown, so I slept in a hospital gown. The whole thing would be ridiculous if it weren't appropriate (I was bandaged underneath) and sad (for obvious reasons).

It has been another long day, and now my mother is sleeping in the bed where I slept last night. It's like an exhausting version of musical chairs, but it is a quiet gift to be with my father during his last days.

Labels: betty, dad, sleep

A well-lived life is flush with cinematic moments, and usually I love feeling like I'm cruising through celluloid. Not this time. I am moving through days like their events are predetermined; I have no control over the script or direction. I wake up, I go through the motions, I remember little, I respond to less, I have nothing to do but wait for the end.

Since understanding what death is, I have always feared losing my father. Just thinking about his eventual death choked me up, even as a child. And I have always known that I would have to go through that final separation at a relatively young age — an unfortunate side effect of being born when he was 47 years old. That doesn't make it easier. It becomes harder now, with time working against us.

I went home last weekend. I spent hours at the nursing home, trying to record as much of my father as my mind and heart would allow. I felt an urgent need to keep him. Then I finally understood why years ago, my mother kept all of my baby teeth in a small box next to the china. The desire to preserve a moment — or who a person is in that moment — becomes frantic when such a time will never repeat itself. Most of our time slips by unrecorded, and even the important events don't always reveal themselves until they're long over. But when we know what's in the future, whether it's a child growing up or someone we love dying, every minute is weighted with significance. You can't help but mentally document each small gesture, each sentence, because it might be the last time it happens.

So last week, while watching my father nap, that instinct supplied me with a fleeting flash of grotesque thought: Could I keep part of him? I'm ashamed and somewhat repulsed to admit that I considered clipping his fingernails or snipping a lock of his cottony hair. My eyes scanned his whole body before I snapped back into the world of non-crazy. (Then, I laughed at knowing that at its morbid best, that would leave me with only the parts that were already dead.) Still, with the naive desperation of a child, I wanted souvenirs of my father. I wanted to sleep in his old shirts, to know what his favorite movie was, to record, record, record.

We still have some time together, and for that I'm grateful. But I keep looking back, recording in the present, and avoiding the inevitable for as long as we can.

Labels: dad, doom

My dad has taken to calling the new pope Adolf. "The man just looks evil," he insists emphatically. "Evil!"

I don't know whether he's trying to drive the point home or if it's the low-grade Alzheimer's speaking, but his love of dissecting the allegedly demonic appearance of Pope Benedict is seemingly limitless. His keen interest in the Holy See puzzles me for a few reasons. First, we're not Catholic. Secondly, although the family never uses the word, my dad's an agnostic. Because my father watches a hefty share of television, I suspect that his popemania parallels that of mass media. When the television cameras move to the next story, so shall his interest. Still, sometimes I wonder if I'm going to pick up the phone one day to hear my father ranting about the cut of the pope's robe. "It's all wrong for his figure," he'll say. "Doesn't he know that you've got to keep ankles like that covered up?"

Labels: dad

When you grow up in the country, when the nearest town has a population of 200, you have to learn how to keep yourself occupied. Such is the lament of the rural teen: there's nothing to do around here. But there was, in an admittedly un-flashy way. As a young adolescent, I busied myself with endearingly innocent activities. I remember the years between ages 10 and 13 in oddly dichotomous terms. Summers were spent dodging blue racers, aqua-kicking through seaweed, and making pie from wild berries picked near our house. My idyllic days were, I suspect, a respite from the uncomfortable evenings that preceded them.

These were the days of the first Bush's recession, and my father had lost his job as a commercial artist — or what graphic designers were called back in the day. To boost the family's income, my mother took a job at a bank while my father assembled a collection of small jobs: bartender, Shell station attendant, rent-a-guard, Wal-Mart sporting goods "associate," and so on. It is both awkward and accurate to say that we didn't have very much money. We ate a lot of Tuna Helper and frozen fried chicken.

My parents argued a lot, but other times they didn't say anything at all. Their battles were fought with hissed sighs, purposefully angry clanks of coffee mugs, forceful door slams. We didn't eat dinner together as much as we used to, in part because my father worked late or went to the bar down the road. I hated that bar and the slurring men who complimented my father on "the way I was turning out." At the same time, I greedily liked it when he'd return with a snack of chicken strips or cheese sticks for me.

My father used to take me swimming at the lake, and sometimes he'd sip a beer while I splashed around (again, keeping a vigilant eye out for water snakes). I don't remember when it happened, but he started bringing two, three, four with him, and soon thereafter he stopped watching my jumps and dives. I identified the attention-stealing culprit as the cheap Schaefer cans, and I was so jealous that I once "accidentally" knocked them into the deep water off the dock. Another time, to punish my father for falling asleep with his beer, I swam as far out as I could and pretended to drown. Certainly, he would have to wake up and realize the importance of his youngest child, I believed. But my little faked yelps didn't puncture his slumber, and all that came out of my botched guilt trip was one very tired and grumpy 12-year-old.

You could hear the sputtered roar of my father's rusty Bronco from a mile away. I hated that truck not only because it was embarrassingly clunky, but also because it rattled with empty cans dribbling out stale beer. I was frozen in the passenger seat whenever my father would drive down dusty gravel roads, veering close to the shoulder.

I spent a few years like this, learning to unlove my father. I developed a near-violent hatred of alcohol, because I saw it as the thief who took our relationship and ruined it. A man who broke into our house one summer night was fall-down drunk, and so I further associated drunkenness with fear and helplessness. I cried a lot. I mutated from a cheerful child into a dark-minded pre-adolescent. I begged and pleaded for my father to stop drinking, even accusing him of loving his beer more than he loved his family. And that's how it looked, of course.

To this day, I don't really know why my father stopped drinking. All I know is that one day, the six-pack he lifted out of the grocery bag was fake beer — the kind that has .05 percent alcohol content. "I'm going to give this a try," he said. He hasn't had a drink since then.

I do love my father and I'm not trying to vilify him by writing any of this. We are all imperfect, perhaps more broken than we are whole. As an adult, I'm now beginning to understand the situation from a more mature perspective; I'm able to look back at it and see myself not as myself but as a child. That makes some memories easier and others harder, but this shifted perspective has ultimately helped me understand our family, my father, and myself.

Soon: yet another long tale about why I do imbibe now and then, since you asked. Expect thrilling anecdotes like Being Carried Home By My Boyfriend After A Wine Tasting; I Think I Could Totally Take Mr. Corduroy In A Fight; and I Guess Since The Boss Offered Me Chardonnay, I'd Better Have Some If I Want To Keep My Job.

Labels: dad, emo spice

Early this week, I learned that I didn't get a job I really, really wanted. I wasn't shocked (it's a competitive market, and all you can do is your best) but I was still disappointed. I found out the news while I was visiting my parents. That pulled down all my defenses and led to me sniffling in the basement. "I want to soar with the editorial eagles," I said to my mother. "Yet maybe I am merely a bumbling sparrow! A clumsy, moulting sparrow!" My dad gently rested his hands on my shoulders and said, "Just think of that poster with the kitten hanging on the tree branch. You just hang in there, okay?" I lost my shit (crying, snotting) when he said that, because I could tell he was trying his hardest to fix the unfixable. I could sense a mild helplessness in his attempt to make me feel better, because my problems are no longer little-girl problems. He can't make things better like he used to. And these days, I wind up helping him in his old age more often than he can help me. It's okay. It's just hard to deal with the shifted balance, and to quiet the voice inside me that wonders if he'll still remember me three years from now.

Labels: dad

My mom, reading a book: Who is... Tim Balland?
Me, thinking: (Does she mean Tim Burton?)
My mom: Tim Balland, Tim Balland...
Me, realizing: Oh, he's a rapper.

- - -

Last night, while gawking at the hundreds of channels afforded to my parents by the DirecTV, I ran across the FUSE channel. "Is that what Ophi and Tali were on?" my mother asked.

"No, that was TRL, on MTV," I responded, realizing that we were weirdly speaking half in abbreviations. "This is some other music channel."

The two people grinned on screen, announcing that they were sooo stoked about the new Morrissey video. "Mom, they're going to show Morrissey," I said. She punched the air, grinned, and scurried over to the couch. My father entered the room with O'Douls in hand. Morrissey started to lazily sway his hips. "Oh, he looks OLD!" observed my mother.

My father blinked at the television, perhaps wondering why we were watching the pomp of a graying pompadour. "Who is this?" he asked.

"It's Morrissey," said my mom. "He is old and grumpy and gay," I added. "Oh," said my father, and he, too, sat down to watch the video.

Labels: betty, dad, morrissey, music

Last night, as my father watched Antiques Roadshow in hopes of spotting his son-in-law the porcelain expert, my mother and I made my new favorite dinner. We cooked the Angelica Kitchen recipe of marinated tempeh, mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy, and freshly picked snow peas from our neighbor's garden. The three of us sat down at our kitchen table. My dad didn't notice that the meal was vegan, and in fact he eventually cleaned his plate.

But first, some backstory. Earlier in the visit, I had told my mom about a recent Saturday night date. See, this is the thing: everybody thinks I date a lot (and maybe I do from time to time) but it's fairly rare that I get squirrely about going out with somebody. Anyway, I was very excited and therefore mildly anxious about spending time with the gentleman we will call Mr. Vocabulary. I think it's because he has a certain joie de vivre, a beautifully genuine smile, and, yes, an awesome-in-the-literal-sense vocabulary. This is going to sound corny, but he seemed really engaged in doing things with his life, and I like that in people.

The problem was, I tried to be suave and subtle in suggesting that we get together (read: I am a chicken), so I wasn't sure if our dinner plans were an actual DATE or if they were just, you know, hanging out. I don't like to assume that men are romantically interested in women, because I don't like the whole heterosexual assumption thing myself. Or maybe he just wanted to have dinner because he likes to eat. Or maybe he just wanted to continue our scintillating discussion of Mineral's greatest hits.

While I tried to decide if I was being foolish for thinking that this was a date, I tried to get dressed. I wish that my brain could print output of my thoughts, because they are mile-a-minute and ridiculous:

Huzzah, I am going to wear my new Roxanne Heptner shirt and grey pants. Oh, wait, but then you can see the bra through the shirt. Maybe that is a good thing! No, no, this bra is not foxy and besides, if it is not a date, you will look inappropriate and tacky. Wear the white Ulla Johnson shirt instead, but dress it down with jeans so it doesn't look too fashiony. Ah, but this shirt is the sort of thing that makes men confused as to why you'd have sleeves that kinda float there...

I finally dressed myself in Levi's and a black shirt (again, Ulla Johnson, who is maybe my favorite clothesmaker) and picked up Mr. Vocabulary at his house. This is all I will say about the evening here, because I don't think anybody would appreciate the details of their Saturday night being broadcast on the interweb. Besides, I am still not sure if it was a date.

All of this weekend history leads up to dinner. My mom had been hitting the Franzia, and so she spilled the secret of my weekend maybedate. "Annie," she purred, "Did you tell your father about Mr. Vocabulary?"

Suddenly, I was 13 years old again, hoping that my dad wouldn't notice that boys existed or that yes, I was indeed wearing a bra. Was my mom kidding? Of course I had not told my father about Mr. Vocabulary. There are certain girly things that girls tell mothers, and fathers are not allowed to hear them. It's nice to let dads think that young suitors are lining up to ask their daughters on sterile dates void of sexual tension. I think it might break my dad's heart if he saw how I generally prefer to stay home alone on weekend nights, curled up with Miki-chan and dessert. Who am I to shatter his ideal?

To my mother's question I mumbled no, and then feigned a keen interest in the lonely radish sitting among the snow peas. Chomp, chomp I went on the sacrificial vegetable: mouth's full, can't talk now! Of course, my mother saw this as a sign to fill in the blanks. "Well, he's a little older than Annie," she told my father, who by this point had noticed me squirming. "And he grew up in X, which is very interesting, wouldn't you say, and he has lived in Y as well, so they can talk about that, and his name is MISTER VOCABULARY. I like that name, don't you? I mean, of course Annie would want to keep her name if they ever got married—not that that's in the cards this early, but I'm just saying that Annie Vocabulary just doesn't sound the same, does it? And get this! He is not a vegetarian and he smokes. He smokes!"

This last morsel of information delighted my mother to no end, fueled in large part by my naive teenage declaration that I would never date a smoker. She loves it when I go on even a single date with someone who smokes, because this makes her think that I will get off her back about her own habit. She is wrong about that. I considered telling her as much, but then I glanced at my father, whose interest in the mushroom gravy now matched mine in the vegetables, and decided to let it go.

Labels: betty, dad, neuroses

The holiday was about parent/child interaction. I like to spend time with my parents as a reminder of what I love about them, and how they often drive me nuts. Sometimes I wonder if anybody has a simple relationship with their parents. Is that even possible? I love my parents, but we have a fairly intense codependency going on. These visits are worthwhile, though, and I look forward to them.

Sometime over the last year or so, my father became an old man. It's hard to watch. His hair has been grey for years, but now his eyes carry the hazy glassiness of confusion and forgetfulness, and he can do less for himself every way. Yesterday I watched my mother cut his chicken into bite-size pieces at dinner. I didn't know what was sadder: the fact that he had no discernable sense of embarrassment, or that this scene was unfolding at a dining establishment called The Thirsty Perch.

Today, we drove to Kalamazoo to see Fahrenheit 9/11. I sat between my parents at the theater. My mother and I are cheap, so we smuggled in some kettle corn. My father, who does not share our frugality—in fact, his lack of fiscal prudence caused serious financial problems during my childhood, and these those directly led to my current money-saving mentality—bought a $4 popcorn. I really didn't mind, because if popcorn will satiate his 74-year-old belly, then who am I to grouse?

Except, again, he is an old man and he can't remember things very well. Throughout the first 20 minutes of the movie, he kept offering me popcorn. He was very polite about it, and I declined his offers in kind: No, Dad, I brought some, remember? No thank you, see, we smuggled this in. Oh, I've had enough, but you go ahead and enjoy it.

Since I was a child, I've watched people I love grow old with Alzheimer's. That's not quite the right description, though, because people with Alzheimer's lose their ability to function as an adult; they grow younger as they get older. Although my father hasn't been given a proper diagnosis, my mother and I can recognize the signs. It never gets any easier to witness, and it's going to get worse.

My father used to read each night before bed. Now he stares at the television for hours instead. Sometimes he remembers things that I don't think he'll remember, like what we ate at Irazu last year or the names of my coworkers. Other times, he mistakes me for my 40-something sister, who hasn't lived in the United States in 20 years and who I do not resemble. I gently correct him, and for a sliver of a second I can see in his eyes the horrible recognition that he cannot remember things that he should know without thinking about them.

Of course, we don't talk about any of this. In the idealized world of caregiver guidebooks and group therapy sessions, we'd discuss our feelings and come up with ways to cope. My immediate family doesn't do that; we are admittedly dysfunctional and so we skate over awkwardness, always moving toward the best cohesiveness we can reach. In most situations, I deplore this sort of behavior and demand to know why we never talked about this bad behavior or that hidden secret. I get all worked up about acknowledging negative behaviors and seeing how they have shaped my attitude and other self-helpy pap.

This is different. There is nothing that we can do to fix this problem. It's not like my father can try to not forget things, and it's not like he means to forget things. It just happens. My mother often becomes understandably frustrated when she has to repeat herself or worry that he'll get lost on his way to an art fair. I tell her to treat him with the patience that you'd afford a toddler. I don't know if that enables his behavior, but it's somehow easier for me to do that than to think that he has a choice in all of this. It hurts less to tell myself that he can't help it.

One of the most difficult yet meaningful moments in my life happened three years ago, as I held my dying grandfather's soft and veined hands. He could barely cough out sounds, much less articulate his thoughts. Still, I could sense that all he wanted was love and kindness, and so I stroked his hands and forehead while croaking out I-love-yous between sobs. He died an hour after I left the hospice, and I like to think that he did so feeling completely loved. My father is nowhere near death, but already I feel myself treating him gently, forgiving his transgressions, seeing him as a vulnerable old man, pulling him out for walks to the lake, reminding him of the good times, leaving out the sour parts, and finally wondering if maybe this is the simple relationship that happens to a family.

Labels: dad