When my dad was really sick, it took him a long, long time to move from Point A to Point B, even if the points were only a few feet apart. Lack of oxygen takes its toll on a body. On the rare occasion that he left the house, it was in a wheelchair (which nearly did him in), but in the house, he used crutches to help him keep his balance as he struggled from point to point.
Watching him struggle -- this man who had always been so independent and full of energy, who had always been my fixer -- was incredibly difficult, to say the least. I'm sure he knew this, though we never acknowledged it. Instead, we used humor to deflect the discomfort and pain.
I remember one time, about six months before he died, we were having a cook-out to celebrate my then-husband's graduation from Virginia Tech. Dad, connected to his oxygen machine, legs swollen with edema, made his way ever so slowly from the kitchen, through the garage, and to the deck. I followed behind and after several minutes, I said, "For crying out loud, old man, will you just hurry up?! Rob will have his master's degree before you get out there!"
My dad didn't stop moving... he didn't say anything... but he held up his arm, hand balled into a fist... and extended his middle finger.
(I said we used humor, not manners.)
Another time, a few months later, he was making his slow way down the hall, from the living room to the bedroom. Again, I was behind him. He stopped, wiggled his backside, threw his leg out to the side, and said, "I gotta dance!"
I very nearly wet myself.
That lesson -- that pain doesn't have to erase The Funny -- was one of the most valuable my dad taught me. And when my Funny goes into hiding, I remember his 'dance.' The memory works hard to coax The Funny out...
The Funny is being stubborn this time.
Maybe I should channel my dad...
And dance...
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Monday, December 16, 2013
Smile For Me
My name was supposed to be Sharon... Sharon Heather. But my dad used to say that had they stuck with that name, my initials would have been 'SHH', and that simply would have been wrong.
I don't know what he meant by that.
Heh.
Instead, I was named for a song...
This one...
My Diane, by the Bachelors
Actually, the song is just called Diane, but my dad always called it My Diane, so I do, too. It came out the year before I was born and it was one of his favorites.
He used to sing it to me when I was little... and when I was big...
I love the lyrics...
Smile for me, my Diane
I'm in heaven when I see you smile
Smile for me, my Diane
And though everything's dark all the while
I can see you, Diane
You have lighted the road leading home
Oh, pray for me when you can
But no matter wherever I roam
Smile for me, my Diane
They make me smile.
And whenever I used to hear the song, especially if I was in a terrible mood, I couldn't help but smile... which was all my dad ever wanted when he sang it.
And my smile?
Made him smile.
To know that your smile can change someone's day? That it can turn the dark to light?
That's some powerful mojo, let me tell you.
When I was in college and worked at a restaurant in town, we had a customer who came in every day... he was very old, grumpy, and incredibly non-communicative. He never spoke. Never. So I made him my own little project, bound and determined to make him talk to me or even just smile. But he never did. And suddenly, after months of daily visits, he was gone. I worried about him but I knew nothing -- not even his name -- and I had no way to check on him.
And then, weeks later, he came back in. After he got his food, he asked me to sit down at his table. Astonished that he'd spoken, I, of course, sat. He told me that he'd been coming in during breaks from the hospital, where he'd been visiting his wife, who'd been battling cancer. He said they married when they were in their twenties, and his visits to the restaurant were brief respites from having to face losing the woman he'd loved his whole life.
He stopped coming in because she died.
But he came back to the restaurant because he wanted to thank me; he wanted me to know that there were days when my smile was the only thing that got him through.
The only thing that got him through.
Once, many years later, in a job interview, the human resources manager asked me if I always smiled so much.
I told her I did.
I do.
Because sometimes?
A smile can turn the dark to light.
I don't know what he meant by that.
Heh.
Instead, I was named for a song...
This one...
My Diane, by the Bachelors
Actually, the song is just called Diane, but my dad always called it My Diane, so I do, too. It came out the year before I was born and it was one of his favorites.
He used to sing it to me when I was little... and when I was big...
I love the lyrics...
Smile for me, my Diane
I'm in heaven when I see you smile
Smile for me, my Diane
And though everything's dark all the while
I can see you, Diane
You have lighted the road leading home
Oh, pray for me when you can
But no matter wherever I roam
Smile for me, my Diane
They make me smile.
And whenever I used to hear the song, especially if I was in a terrible mood, I couldn't help but smile... which was all my dad ever wanted when he sang it.
And my smile?
Made him smile.
To know that your smile can change someone's day? That it can turn the dark to light?
That's some powerful mojo, let me tell you.
When I was in college and worked at a restaurant in town, we had a customer who came in every day... he was very old, grumpy, and incredibly non-communicative. He never spoke. Never. So I made him my own little project, bound and determined to make him talk to me or even just smile. But he never did. And suddenly, after months of daily visits, he was gone. I worried about him but I knew nothing -- not even his name -- and I had no way to check on him.
And then, weeks later, he came back in. After he got his food, he asked me to sit down at his table. Astonished that he'd spoken, I, of course, sat. He told me that he'd been coming in during breaks from the hospital, where he'd been visiting his wife, who'd been battling cancer. He said they married when they were in their twenties, and his visits to the restaurant were brief respites from having to face losing the woman he'd loved his whole life.
He stopped coming in because she died.
But he came back to the restaurant because he wanted to thank me; he wanted me to know that there were days when my smile was the only thing that got him through.
The only thing that got him through.
Once, many years later, in a job interview, the human resources manager asked me if I always smiled so much.
I told her I did.
I do.
Because sometimes?
A smile can turn the dark to light.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
500th Post: Her Daddy
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who loved her daddy.
She was small and blonde, with blue eyes and his nose.
She called herself Di-I, so he did, too (and sometimes Bella... and sometimes Aggie).
And when she was very small, she would stand on his feet and he would dance her around the room to Frank Sinatra and Glenn Miller records on his stereo. She would hold his big, calloused hands to keep from falling, and look up at him, laughing, as they danced.
When one of her toys broke, she would hand it to him and say, "Daddy fix," and he would say, "Me fix, Di-I. Me fix."
And he always did.
When she said to him at breakfast one morning, "Me no ike eggs, Daddy," he told her that she was eating soufflé and not to worry because, "Di-I ikes soufflé."
And she did.
As the little girl grew, her daddy taught her Very Important Things.
He taught her how to put up a tent. And how to ride a bike. And how to fold the American flag properly. And how, if she got stuck at the top of the monkey bars at the playground, he would always come to rescue her.
When she got a bit older, he taught her how to shake hands "like a man." He taught her how to drive a stick-shift, to check her own oil, and to never let the gas go below a quarter of a tank (though she didn't always [and still doesn't] mind that last one).
He taught her how to tell a story, how to make everyone laugh, how to pour a beer properly, and how to swear with aplomb.
He taught her to stand up for what she believed in and about the importance of having her "ducks in a row."
He taught her about community service and giving back, and how, even if you have little, you still have more than someone else who needs your help. He taught her to always be kind and friendly to service personnel, to tip waiters and waitresses well, and to stack her dishes to make their jobs just a little bit easier.
And when the little girl had grown into a big girl, her daddy, reluctantly so, let her go her own way. He allowed her to choose her own path and think her own thoughts, even when she made big mistakes... even when he didn't agree (and he often didn't agree).
And when she came home with some broken thing, including her heart or her ego, he'd reach for it, saying, "Me fix, Di-I. Me fix."
And he always did.
When he got sick, he taught her that even when there is pain, there is humor, and that the best way to make people feel more comfortable when they are hurting is to make them laugh.
He made her laugh. He made her laugh so much.
And then he died.
And she realized there was one thing he didn't teach her.
He didn't teach her how to live without him.
She has had to learn that all on her own.
She is still learning how.
She will forever be learning how...
She was small and blonde, with blue eyes and his nose.
She called herself Di-I, so he did, too (and sometimes Bella... and sometimes Aggie).
And when she was very small, she would stand on his feet and he would dance her around the room to Frank Sinatra and Glenn Miller records on his stereo. She would hold his big, calloused hands to keep from falling, and look up at him, laughing, as they danced.
When one of her toys broke, she would hand it to him and say, "Daddy fix," and he would say, "Me fix, Di-I. Me fix."
And he always did.
When she said to him at breakfast one morning, "Me no ike eggs, Daddy," he told her that she was eating soufflé and not to worry because, "Di-I ikes soufflé."
And she did.
As the little girl grew, her daddy taught her Very Important Things.
He taught her how to put up a tent. And how to ride a bike. And how to fold the American flag properly. And how, if she got stuck at the top of the monkey bars at the playground, he would always come to rescue her.
When she got a bit older, he taught her how to shake hands "like a man." He taught her how to drive a stick-shift, to check her own oil, and to never let the gas go below a quarter of a tank (though she didn't always [and still doesn't] mind that last one).
He taught her how to tell a story, how to make everyone laugh, how to pour a beer properly, and how to swear with aplomb.
He taught her to stand up for what she believed in and about the importance of having her "ducks in a row."
He taught her about community service and giving back, and how, even if you have little, you still have more than someone else who needs your help. He taught her to always be kind and friendly to service personnel, to tip waiters and waitresses well, and to stack her dishes to make their jobs just a little bit easier.
And when the little girl had grown into a big girl, her daddy, reluctantly so, let her go her own way. He allowed her to choose her own path and think her own thoughts, even when she made big mistakes... even when he didn't agree (and he often didn't agree).
And when she came home with some broken thing, including her heart or her ego, he'd reach for it, saying, "Me fix, Di-I. Me fix."
And he always did.
When he got sick, he taught her that even when there is pain, there is humor, and that the best way to make people feel more comfortable when they are hurting is to make them laugh.
He made her laugh. He made her laugh so much.
And then he died.
And she realized there was one thing he didn't teach her.
He didn't teach her how to live without him.
She has had to learn that all on her own.
She is still learning how.
She will forever be learning how...
Thursday, November 14, 2013
The Bottom of the Bun
When I was little - around 6 or 7 - I watched a telethon about starving children in Africa. Little souls with dark skin filled our black and white television screen, their bellies swollen, feet bare, eyes sad, and expressions hopeless. I was stunned. To that point, the only exposure I'd had to Africa was through Curious George and Babar; I'd never even seen any brown children in person; and no one around me was hungry... not that I knew, anyway. Though my parents had little money, I didn't realize that. We ate big meals together, around a Formica table in a happy, orange-painted kitchen. My days were filled with friends and school and the playground one-street-over; my nights were spent tucked into a cozy bed with clean sheets, in a room filled with dolls and books housed on shelves my dad made for me and painted pink.
I did not understand this desperate need.
I remember tearfully begging my parents to send money to save all those sad children. When they declined (we must help people in our own country first, you know, and the money you send to those organizations doesn't make it to those children on the television, anyway), I offered up all my dinners for the next month or two (the liver and meatloaf especially).
And I remember crawling onto my dad's lap and asking how God could allow such bad things to happen.
Now, my dad was no philosopher. And he wasn't always good at explaining things on a child's level (his description of communists gave me nightmares for years). He was also not a religious person (though he was a Believer), and my throwing God into the mix threw him. He told me later, when I was much older and we revisited this topic, that he knew even then I wouldn't accept the pat "God's plan" sorts of answers.
I could be a difficult child.
I thought the way he wound up explaining it was pretty good. Pretty damned good.
"You have to think of the world like a hamburger. You know how there's a top and a bottom to the hamburger bun, right? You can't have two tops or two bottoms, can you? You must have one of each. And the top part of the bun is bigger than the bottom, right? Well, think of the good things in the world as the top part... and the bad things in the world as the bottom. You can't have the good without the bad... or the bad without the good. And, hopefully, the good in the world is bigger than the bad."
To my discerning little-girl psyche, it made perfect sense.
To my discerning big-girl psyche, it still makes perfect sense.
I'm not a religious person. I'm not even a Believer. I feel so terrible for people who, when faced with a great loss, plead to God to help them understand why; why he felt it necessary to take from them. I don't need to ask why bad things happen... I don't try to understand how... I simply accept that they do. They have, they do, and they will -- forever and ever.
Amen.
It makes it easy for me. But though I don't try to look for reasons, I do try to look for lessons. I try to learn something from every bad situation I see or face myself. I try so very hard to pull the good from the bad and I believe so strongly that there is something positive to be found in every terrible thing that befalls us.
And lately? I've tried to be grateful for the bad things.
Grateful.
That's not easy, let me tell you. But if you think about it, it makes sense.
When you've been sick, you appreciate your health so much more. When you've been in pain, you appreciate the relief that comes from being pain-free. When you've been sad, you appreciate the happy. When you've been flat broke, you appreciate the security that comes from having money.
You understand. Good with bad. Light with dark. Up with down.
The top of the bun with the bottom of the bun.
When you're in the midst of the bad stuff, though, it's hard to believe the good will come back. But it does.
It always does.
Because nothing lasts forever. Not the good stuff. Not the bad stuff.
Nothing.
So right now, at this time of year, when everyone is thinking about and listing all the wonderful things they're grateful for, like family and friends and health and jobs -- the top of the bun -- I'm going to think of the bottom. I try hard all year to be grateful for the good things in my life, so right now? I'm going with the crap.
The bottom of the bun.
I'm going to be grateful for the pain, the fear, the hurt, the loss, and all the dark stuff that makes me want to crawl under the covers and hide. Because when I make my way back out into the light?
And I always make my way back out into the light...
It's good.
It's so very good.
It's top of the bun good.
I did not understand this desperate need.
I remember tearfully begging my parents to send money to save all those sad children. When they declined (we must help people in our own country first, you know, and the money you send to those organizations doesn't make it to those children on the television, anyway), I offered up all my dinners for the next month or two (the liver and meatloaf especially).
And I remember crawling onto my dad's lap and asking how God could allow such bad things to happen.
Now, my dad was no philosopher. And he wasn't always good at explaining things on a child's level (his description of communists gave me nightmares for years). He was also not a religious person (though he was a Believer), and my throwing God into the mix threw him. He told me later, when I was much older and we revisited this topic, that he knew even then I wouldn't accept the pat "God's plan" sorts of answers.
I could be a difficult child.
I thought the way he wound up explaining it was pretty good. Pretty damned good.
"You have to think of the world like a hamburger. You know how there's a top and a bottom to the hamburger bun, right? You can't have two tops or two bottoms, can you? You must have one of each. And the top part of the bun is bigger than the bottom, right? Well, think of the good things in the world as the top part... and the bad things in the world as the bottom. You can't have the good without the bad... or the bad without the good. And, hopefully, the good in the world is bigger than the bad."
To my discerning little-girl psyche, it made perfect sense.
To my discerning big-girl psyche, it still makes perfect sense.
I'm not a religious person. I'm not even a Believer. I feel so terrible for people who, when faced with a great loss, plead to God to help them understand why; why he felt it necessary to take from them. I don't need to ask why bad things happen... I don't try to understand how... I simply accept that they do. They have, they do, and they will -- forever and ever.
Amen.
It makes it easy for me. But though I don't try to look for reasons, I do try to look for lessons. I try to learn something from every bad situation I see or face myself. I try so very hard to pull the good from the bad and I believe so strongly that there is something positive to be found in every terrible thing that befalls us.
And lately? I've tried to be grateful for the bad things.
Grateful.
That's not easy, let me tell you. But if you think about it, it makes sense.
When you've been sick, you appreciate your health so much more. When you've been in pain, you appreciate the relief that comes from being pain-free. When you've been sad, you appreciate the happy. When you've been flat broke, you appreciate the security that comes from having money.
You understand. Good with bad. Light with dark. Up with down.
The top of the bun with the bottom of the bun.
When you're in the midst of the bad stuff, though, it's hard to believe the good will come back. But it does.
It always does.
Because nothing lasts forever. Not the good stuff. Not the bad stuff.
Nothing.
So right now, at this time of year, when everyone is thinking about and listing all the wonderful things they're grateful for, like family and friends and health and jobs -- the top of the bun -- I'm going to think of the bottom. I try hard all year to be grateful for the good things in my life, so right now? I'm going with the crap.
The bottom of the bun.
I'm going to be grateful for the pain, the fear, the hurt, the loss, and all the dark stuff that makes me want to crawl under the covers and hide. Because when I make my way back out into the light?
And I always make my way back out into the light...
It's good.
It's so very good.
It's top of the bun good.
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