Is there anything more wonderful than walking on a sunny, crisp autumn day, scruffling your feet through all the dried, fallen leaves?
I have had a mental image for as long as I can remember: Me, brown hair, walking home from school to greet my mom, leaves falling around me. Someone reached into my head and captured it:
http://www.electricboogaloo.net/wordpress/archives/2006/10/24/woooooo-fall/
Dear Family Who Lost a Loved One,
October 24 was the 4 year anniversary of the death of your loved one. You must still feel that loss heavily and greatly. My family celebrates that anniversary, too, because of the gift you gave us. You lost your loved one suddenly, unexpectedly, tragically. It was too soon. Your loved one was healthy. You are heroes, though. Through that horrible surprise and pain, you gave a gift of life. Your loss prevented another loss.
I will probably never know what you went through. Who this person was to you, what he or she meant to you. All I know is that your loved one, and you, gave a god-like gift. My dad received your loved one’s heart.
I saw my dad four days before the transplant. He was laying on the couch, grey, cold. He feebly asked my husband for a glass of water. He was too weak to get up. This had been going on for some time, of course, in and out of the hospital, the weakness.
My dad had always been a proud man, though, an extremely independent and successful man. He put himself through college in his 20’s, and never stopped. He didn’t ask for help. He worked hard, he sacraficed much of his family time and family life, all to give us what he felt he owed us. We never wanted for anything material, thanks to him.
For this man to ask someone (an in-law, no less) for a glass of water – well, it broke my heart. As we pulled out of the driveway that night I cried. I said to my husband “I can’t stand seeing him like this. I don’t want to visit anymore.” He was so close to death, and it hurt too much to witness it. Those were dark, scary times.
Four days later, he called me at work. My dad is not one to talk a lot; normally any phone calls were initiated by me, and his “conversation” consisted of asking me if I had my oil changed in my car, and how was my job going. The fact that he called me was significant, and touching. He told me they had found a heart – your loved one’s heart.
The drive to Ann Arbor and subsequent surgery is all a blur to me. I’m sure that time period for you is also numbed by the pain and loss you felt. And as you were likely burying your loved one, I was entering my dad’s hospital room, crying, as he grasped my hand, squeezed it, and said “I love you.” He was warm, he had color – for the first time in years. He made it through the surgery, weakened as he was, and your loved one’s heart found a new home, beating in the chest of this man.
What does it mean to give that gift? It means you lost someone. If there can be any consolation in that, though, I want you to know that you gave my dad a life. A life to live again, to start over. My mother has been by his side for almost 45 years. She has put up with so much from him, and put up with so much without from him. Not only have you given him his life again, but you have given her time. Time to get the love and companionship she has always desired and deserved. My sister, my brother, myself – all of us have gained time with our dad. Our dad was frequent in his absences as we grew up. Now he is here. He makes use of his time here; he calls us, he spends time with us, he dotes on us.
I have two children. They were 8 and 4 when the transplant happened. They had never known him not to be sick, not to be tired, not to be cranky and preoccupied. I think that one of things my dad consciously decided after the transplant was to spend more time being a grandpa. My children didn’t realize they were about to lose someone, but instead, they have gained someone. Your gift did that. Your gift gave these two kids an attentive, doting, loving, funny, patient man they call grandpa.
These words are trite. They cannot begin to touch on what your loss is to you, nor can they adequately describe what life you gave to us. Thank you. Every day I thank you.
I always find it amusing watching those white young men walking around in their ill fitting polyester suits, carrying backpacks or briefcases, going from door to door. They are even funnier when they are riding bikes.
Most overused phrase in my office:
“You know what I mean?”
YES I know what you mean, I just heard you say it. I know I only have a bachelor’s degree compared to your subpar 12 grade education, but really, I know what you mean.
I have been on the computer far too long today. I’m tired, my eyes are blurry. I just left a comment on a very popular blog. You know how it says “your name” and then your email, your url, etc? Well obviously you put your “fake” name there if you don’t want your real name used, and/or you wouldn’t list your url if you don’t want your real name associated with your blog. Unless you are a dumbass like me. I see a form, it asks for my name, I fill it it. No thinking. I see a request for my url, I enter it, like typing a password so often you don’t even realize you are typing it.
I might be really paranoid. And I might be really stupid, and naive. But I don’t know how to go back and delete that comment, or make it so my name isn’t there, or my blog. I doubt I’ve ever written anything for which I could be fired, but I certainly have written things that I’d rather NOT have my employers, or my family, reading about. I guess this is the (very obvious) lesson to be learned about writing personal things in a very public forum, and pathetically attempting to keep my identity private.
So, how fucked am I? This particular blogger does not give an option anywhere (that I can see) so I could email her and ask her if SHE could go in and change my comment. I know there is another way I could get ahold of her, but I feel way too stupid. So I guess I just take my chances, and hope that no one will read her blog (not possible), not read the comments (not likely), and not click on my name for my inane comment (much more likely).
The way my chances go though, I can expect a phone call from my mother in the near future. “How can you put all that out there for the whole WORLD to see? I thought you were over all that gay foolishness years ago! Don’t you care about us at all? And your language!” Mother, seriously – do NOT even make that phone call. Just don’t.
“This town’s energy reminds me of Denver. There’s an upper class, a middle class, and a lower class.” Fucking brilliant!
If you need translation, let me know. I read little girl quite well. Aparently we’re going to Chicago for her birthday and staying at the TipTopTap. I love the part about “get the dolls of my dreams”. She’s as dramatic as her mother, poor thing.
I’m taking the Nestea challenge, I’m taking the plunge, I’m going for it, Game On, Count Me In, etc. I may end up writing every day about how how cold my coffee was by the time I got to work, but dagnabbit, I’m going to write once a day for the month of November. Check it out at Fussy!
Why don’t you try, too? And if you don’t have your own arena in which to write, try commenting. I love commenters as much as I love getting new shoes.
Top Ten things I would grab if my house were on fire:
1. kids, husband, dog
2. Lucy’s favorite baby (“BabyLucy”)
3. Lucy’s two other favorite babies (the Bitty Twins, Hannah and Morgan) AND her American Girl doll
4. GMan’s stuffed bunny, (“Mr. Bun”) and as many more of his “guys” that we could toss into a garbage bag
5. my favorite doll (Drowsy), plus my teddy bear (Black Eyes – original, I know!) and the Charlotte doll (from Little House In the Prairie) that my babysitter Margaret made for me when I was 7
6 the teacup my grandma gave me
7. The rug from my grandma’s house
8. the photo album that D made for his kids
9. the giant Rubbermaid container under our bed that has all the kids’ save-worthy school items
10. The other photo albums, plus the other Rubbermaid containers full of pictures from the last eight years that haven’t made it into albums yet.
I’m going to update this later tonight, with pictures, and I’ll bet I think of more things to save! Yikes!
OH MY GOD – How could I have forgotten?
11. My Donald Pliner leopard print shoes and my Kate Spade pink purse and my Lulu Guinness housecoat purse!
At the end of the weekend I do a mental rundown of what I will say to the inevitable question on Monday of “What did you do this weekend?”
Most often I say “not much”, “nothing” or something of that ilk. I give myself no credit. This is the “not much” I did this weekend:
-slept until 10:30 on Saturday
-went back to bed at noon for a 3 hour nap (ok, I realize I’m not really bolstering my argument here)
-did a load of laundry
-made dutch baby for my kids and burned my arm in the process
-went out with DTE and a group of friends and drank beer and Pink Ladies until 2 a.m.
-walked to Starbucks and got us coffee this a.m.
-went for a walk with DTE and the dog
-did 3 more loads of laundry
-raked the leaves
-walked to the grocery store and only bought what was on my list
-cleaned the kitchen
-cleaned the upstairs bathroom (floor, toilet, sink AND tub)
-vacumed the entire first floor
-went back to the grocery store with the car and bought over $100 worth of wine
-went to my mom and dad’s to drop something off
-picked the kids up from Sunday school
-had my parents and sister over for homemade pumpkin pie.
Not bad for “nothing”, huh? When I am asked the question tomorrow you can bet I’ll say “oh, not much. We went out on Saturday night but that’s about it.”
And one other fun fact that makes me think I’m doing better in this life than I give myself credit for…a flyer that came out regarding Sunday School made a plea to parents:
“Children learn by your example. Attend mass! Beat the statistics and be a part of the 30-50% that comes to Sunday mass.” Wow – never in a million years would I think that I was part of a MAJORITY in the catholic church. I can’t tell you how much guilt I usually feel about not ever going to church and yet making my kids attend Sunday School. Turns out the rest of them (50-70% of them) are doing the same. hee hee.
