PERHAPS THERE WAS A PLAN

Here I sit after a prolonged absence with nothing to say.

Well, actually, I have a lot to say, but don't know which words to put out there.

I feel I need to be careful about the amount of time I devote to my grief on here. You know? I don't want any of my ones of readers to come over and say "Is she STILL talking about her dad's death?" But then again, it is MY blog. It is being written for my own memory and for my children; and I'm hoping that someday, should they be facing grief like this (and they are sure to, because it is a part of life) that they might draw something from my own experience, as unique as it is... WAIT! I've just convinced myself to grieve all I want to on here.

I am swayed so easily. Now you all can see how muddled my mind has been the last few days. I have lost countless items, forgotten events that are coming up, failed to know what day it is (seriously)neglected to fix supper, forgotten common household chores, and allowed myself to become completely overwhelmed at the thought of participating in the neighborhood yard sale. So much so, that my husband, who is in such a hurry to rid our house of crap...I mean junk... I mean somebody else's treasure...is taking Friday off work to do the garage sale because "I simply cannot focus on doing that right now. I do not have the energy or the desire..."

In other news...I had lunch with Marilyn yesterday. My grandmother and my aunt also joined us. I was struck, sitting at the table in Steak-n-Shake, that four of the most important female relationships in my dad's life were sitting there - his wife, his mother, his daughter, and his sister. And isn't it funny that he had two wives (at different times of course) two sisters, and two daughters. Of course only one mother. But each of those vital relationships was represented. I wonder if he would have been struck by that as well.

I cannot get Marilyn out of my mind. She is driving home today and it will be her first time to be in their home alone. I offered several times to drive back with her, but she insists she must do it sometime so she might as well do it now. She also said she has not really had a chance to sit alone and cry and she needs to do that. Yes, she does, and she will do it often, I'm sure. So I told her if she gets home and decides the solitude is indeed too painful, to call and I can be there in a few hours.

I've learned that grief is one thing, but the worry for the others who are grieving is another very difficult thing for me. I cannot quit thinking of my brothers and sister. I cannot quit thinking of Marilyn or of my aunt who spent the final moments with her big brother. I cannot quit thinking of my grandmother who knows the heart wrenching pain of burying a child and how, even if he was 64, she must surely wish she had not lived to feel that pain.

And I cannot quit thinking of the last day I spent with my dad, in his house, sitting on the couch holding his hand; and wondering if he had a fever because his hand felt hot. He told me a funny story about trying to buy shirts that were on sale but he could never find the actual sale items and he kept taking the wrong things to the checkout counter, and he finally ended up paying full price for everything he bought that day. THAT had to be VERY painful for him because he was indeed one of the cheapest people I've ever known. But he laughed. He could certainly laugh at himself, and had a great sense of humor. Five days before he died, he was sitting up on his couch making me laugh. I still cannot wrap my mind around that.

Given my past with my dad, I never thought I'd miss him so much. But my how I miss him. The last eighteen months were indeed beautiful for me, given the time I got to spend with him and Marilyn helping them at their house.

I have found myself wondering if perhaps God had a plan. Eighteen months ago, when Dad had taken his first chemo treatment, and Marilyn broke her foot mowing the yard, did God have a plan that would lead me back into their lives, that would lead them back into my life? Because it was ME that he called for help - the one child from whom he had been the most distant. He called ME.

And I feel some peace in knowing that he got to know the person I've become. He told me how proud he was of my giving nature and my willingness to go anywhere and do anything for them. He told me how he appreciated that nothing seemed to be a bother to me, and that I seemed to make everything fun. And those were hard words for him to say, because he was a quiet, private man -not given to expressing himself. As hard as the words were for him to say, they will be in my mind forever as a reminder that perhaps I have turned out OK after all. Because no matter the relationship you have with your parents, you want them to be proud of you.

Also during those eighteen months, I got to know him as a person, apart from the biased words I had heard from my mother all my life. I got to know him as the man I thought I remembered from my early childhood years - quiet and funny. That's how I have always described my memories of him and, strangely enough, that's how everybody described him during the week of the funeral - a quiet man with a great sense of humor. I certainly cannot brag about the kind of father he was, but I loved him as a person. I liked him as a person. I enjoyed him as a person. He made me laugh and he made me feel loved for who I was and not for what I could give him.

And it is that person who keeps me awake at night and muddles my thoughts through the day and causes tears to creep up on me at the oddest moments.

It is that person that I miss so terribly.