Good Morning World...it's still morning somewhere. I'm sitting at my desk with literally 4 projects to work on for my "day" job, projects that will turn quickly into invoices, which turn into cash, which goes into my pocket and yet I am terribly unmotivated to work on them, preferring instead to sit here and stare out the window and think a bit about how I have a lot of work to do (without actually doing it). In the immortal words of Gary Allan, "Life ain't always beautiful..."
My father passed away almost 8 months ago after suffering through 16 months of Locked-In Syndrome subsequent to a stroke. Imagine laying there being able to see and hear and think but unable to communicate in any significant way, save for blinking your eyes to answer questions posed to you by others. I miss him. That 16 months was hell on all of us, spending every moment outside of work that I could in the hospital or nursing home with him. It was exhausting but the time I spent with him was some of the clearest, most focused time I have ever spent. I've always got quite a lot going on upstairs, my mind doesn't slow down that much. But when I was with him it was pretty easy to put everything else down and focus on him, talking to him to tell him what was going on with him and with me or to encourage him to move his fingers or his toes or his arm or anything at all. Some days he could do it, others days he seemed tired. My father always possessed the gift of a very expressive face, so even after the stroke you could tell what his mood was. Four months into the ordeal I figured out that we could get him to respond to questions with his eyes, he correctly identified me and my mother while we were in there and answered other questions. That was a pretty cool day, he had a voice again. If memory serves that was on my mother's birthday, not a bad gift. She sometimes struggled with asking him yes or no questions, things that could be answered by looking up or looking down or blinking, which was kind of funny sometimes, though probably maddening to my father. He drifted away in December, not strong enough to fight off the myriad of antibiotic-resistant infections our society has created. My grief since then has been mostly silent, every family needs a rock and that role seems to be mine, the listener, quietly offering encouragement or fond memories, quietly uncomfortable mourning his passing out loud. Everyone grieves in their own way but as the weeks turn to months people assume you are all better and that life is looking forward once again, more than back. But sometimes it is hard to stop looking back, catching last glimpses of a friendly face, a mentor, a parent.
I'm pursuing more dreams now after seeing all too clearly that life is short and that you had better make the most of it. Though I still drift off sometimes and stare out the window and remember him.
My father passed away almost 8 months ago after suffering through 16 months of Locked-In Syndrome subsequent to a stroke. Imagine laying there being able to see and hear and think but unable to communicate in any significant way, save for blinking your eyes to answer questions posed to you by others. I miss him. That 16 months was hell on all of us, spending every moment outside of work that I could in the hospital or nursing home with him. It was exhausting but the time I spent with him was some of the clearest, most focused time I have ever spent. I've always got quite a lot going on upstairs, my mind doesn't slow down that much. But when I was with him it was pretty easy to put everything else down and focus on him, talking to him to tell him what was going on with him and with me or to encourage him to move his fingers or his toes or his arm or anything at all. Some days he could do it, others days he seemed tired. My father always possessed the gift of a very expressive face, so even after the stroke you could tell what his mood was. Four months into the ordeal I figured out that we could get him to respond to questions with his eyes, he correctly identified me and my mother while we were in there and answered other questions. That was a pretty cool day, he had a voice again. If memory serves that was on my mother's birthday, not a bad gift. She sometimes struggled with asking him yes or no questions, things that could be answered by looking up or looking down or blinking, which was kind of funny sometimes, though probably maddening to my father. He drifted away in December, not strong enough to fight off the myriad of antibiotic-resistant infections our society has created. My grief since then has been mostly silent, every family needs a rock and that role seems to be mine, the listener, quietly offering encouragement or fond memories, quietly uncomfortable mourning his passing out loud. Everyone grieves in their own way but as the weeks turn to months people assume you are all better and that life is looking forward once again, more than back. But sometimes it is hard to stop looking back, catching last glimpses of a friendly face, a mentor, a parent.
I'm pursuing more dreams now after seeing all too clearly that life is short and that you had better make the most of it. Though I still drift off sometimes and stare out the window and remember him.
episkey:
I'm sorry to hear about your father.. It's a hard thing watching your family in that state. My grandfather has been fighting cirrhosis of his liver for about 4 years now and he's finally at the point where if he doesn't receive a new liver he won't be with us much longer.. I've had to watch him on life support and watch his lifestyle slowly deteriorate.. It's a really good thing to remember your father though. He will never truly be gone until your heart ceases to remember the way he made it feel.