Staying in Place

The other day, I had a "come-to-Jesus" (CTJ) meeting.  As defined by me, it's a meeting where someone close to you confronts and threatens to beat the hell out of you. 

It's not important to go into the details about what we talked about.  It is, however, important to know this:  It takes a lot of love and care to have one of these meetings.  Between rounds of tears, various compliments, being told to just shut up and sit down, and for god's sake just anchor the damn boat, I began to face my demons and make some peace.

One important discovery during the meeting -- life is now different in ways I hadn't thought.   It all changed at 3:30 in the afternoon of April 15th, 2013.  I now have no reason to run away.  I realize now it was my parents I wanted to run away from.  Not that I hated them, but because I had a high level of fear of hurting them.  This all relates to the anger towards myself for not being who I am.  I didn't want them to see the real me.

Last week, I told three different people that I was "selling out" and "moving away" because "things just don't work out here for me."  These words were the main focal points of the conversations.

The most significant life-changing discovery from our CTJ meeting was that I no longer had to "sell out" and "move away" and should start believing that things would work out for me right here.  In other words, stop trying to run-away! Invest here.  And let yourself be invested.  Yes, it means settling, but it can be good settling.  I have friends here.  I have people who love me here.  I have a good job.  And I have reasonable goals.

We also talked about my travels over the past few years.  After each trip, I came back refreshed.  I had seen some other part of the world.   I had left my home only to realize it is home.  I haven't traveled in a while.  That's also part of the problem.  Easily fixed.

In hindsight, the words "selling out", "moving away", and "things just don't work out here for me" no longer served any purpose except one.  They served as my clues as to where I was in grief.  I had hit bottom.  Now, I would began to bounce back up.  The words are not new to me.  I've said them other times when I thought "I just can't do this anymore."  Dealing with both of my parent's sicknesses and saying goodbye, changes in my job, feeling lost or alone, and now saying goodbye to my childhood home.

The bottom line is, dear readers, I want to invest in you whether I know you or not.  Keep reading.  I know some posts are dull and boring, but I didn't promise you perfection.  And remember, this is my scratch pad for practice.  My books are the bigger goal.

And second, I would like to apologize to those people who listened to me go on about leaving and selling out.   It isn't happening.   I don't need to.  I hope you will invest in me as much as I have or want to invest in you.

CSM

On Being Mad at Myself For Wanting to Be Myself

I'm mad at myself.  

I'm so mad for not standing up more during the first half of my life and saying "I am who I am."  Part of my anger that I'm feeling towards my parents is really anger directed at myself for not being me, for standing up and saying "Hey!  I pay the bills in my house.  If you don't like it, too bad!"

The idea of "pleasing your parents" is a tough one to get over.  From my earliest days, I wanted my parents to be proud of me.  I lived the ideal of "pleasing my parents."  Graduating high school, going to college, getting a good job, getting married...  Wait.  Stop.  That's right. I can't get married in Indiana.  I guess Minnesota/New York/Massachusetts will be in my future... 

I wanted to please my parents...  even if it meant hiding a big part of my life from them.   My secret life.  Or at least I think it was a secret.  Please, every parent knows.

I remember my Father making comments, in reference to other people, "I don't care, I just don't want it in my face."   My Mother was quoted one time for saying "We're waiting for the other shoe to drop."  At first, I respected my Father's comment, but now all this time later, I realize what I gave up to "please my parents."

Damn!  I am so mad at myself.  

The bottom line is... It doesn't matter now.   They're gone and now they probably know, but it's still an important process for me.  That moment that you come out to your parents.   I denied myself that opportunity, mainly out of so much respect, but also out of so much fear.  I feared the possibilities.

Now that it's out there, I don't feel any different.  And I have no fear.  I'm not afraid anymore.  Yesterday is today and tomorrow will be today all over -- another thought for the therapist.

Then I stop and think...  They came from a different generation.  They had their secrets, too.  I'm sure there are ones we know nothing about.  But for me, this is one of those that I have to let out into the world. 

Sorry, but I just don't feel the need to please you two any more.  For the moment, I've got to please myself.  There's just no reason to have fear anymore.

CSM

One of the Grieving Stages

From what I've read, somewhere during the grieving process you experience... Anger!  Right on target! Oh yeah!  P.O.ed!  Hot under the collar!  Could spit nails! Can't see straight!  Fuming!

I got so damn mad the other day at both of my parents I could hardly concentrate.  It started out as a simple conversation with them in my head about some trivial found item that led to a three day rant and rave.  I was at my apartment where I did get somewhat vocal, but for the most part, it was in my head. 

Over the weekend, I did dish a little to my Sister.  Trying to hold it in, I found that I could no longer do so and started right after dinner.  We hadn't even left the restaurant yet.  She did get off easy.  I held most of it in and maintained a level head.  The next morning, I laid in bed and just went off again.

To be honest, I don't even remember what the found object was and how it set me off, but I knew that the "Anger" stage had arrived.

My Father had control issues.  He'd complain to my Mother about her books, then about her work, then about what she was cooking. Then he'd bitch about what was on TV.  Then he bitch about how my Brother never called.  Then about my Sister and her kids.  Then he'd bitch about my Mother again.  And God help you if you had to drive in the car with him!   I remember when my Mother stopped sitting in the front seat and made me sit up there.  Now I realized why.  Numerous times I missed the landscape because I had my eyes closed.   First, it was the other drivers going to fast... Oh great!  Now it's "someone's driving too slow."   He inherited this from his Mother.  The "fly-off-the-handle-get-mad-immediately" attitude.  Unlike my Mother who held her temper, but once she got there, you got out of her way!

Even from beyond the grave, my Father wanted to control.  I found out that he wanted us, meaning we three kids, to get along after he was gone.   Well, I'm sorry, but isn't going to happen.  My Sister and I will always be close.   Nothing will ever come between us.   Maybe a treat from Dairy Queen, but we'll survive.   If he really wanted us to get along, he and his siblings should have set the example.   I remember my Father complaining about my Aunt Carolyn calling and talking about stuff he couldn't have cared less about.  And as far as my Uncle Ron goes... HA!  I can't even remember the last time they talked on the phone.

My Father was the maddest man I ever knew.   He was always mad about something.

And yes, I love both my parents very deeply, but sometimes, they just make me so mad.

How funny... Here I am complaining about someone else's complaining.   I must have gotten it from my Father.

CSM

The Roughest Memory in My Room

My Mother died on July 2, 2008, about 3:30 in the morning.
  
About 3:00, I crawled into bed.  It felt like only a moment later when my Father came into my room. His exact words -- "I think she's gone." Five months of waiting, anxiety, fear, and desperation had brought us to this one moment in time.

It was pitch black outside. The house was still.  The lights dim.

My Mother was gone. 

I can still see her.  She laid on the twin bed we had brought in, making it easier on us to take care of her.   The cancer had taken its toll.  Her neck and chest all red and swollen.   Her skin pale.   She looked old, not like the young vibrant Mother I had once known.

That moment changed my life.  I didn't bother holding back.  I cried, slumped down on the floor right beside her.  I reached up to touch her arm.  To this day, I can still feel her arm.  It was ice cold.   What a horrific feeling to remember.  Not something I want to remember during that moment.

It was all over.  No more feeding tube.  No more coughing up phlegm.  No more bottles of liquid pain killer.   The anxiety of waiting for this moment ended.   

Seventy-three years accumulated to this final moment. 

July 2nd.  Two days before my birthday.

Funny how the Fates, God, Allah, whoever had planned it.  Thirty-eight years earlier plus two days, she said "Hello."   Thirty-eight years later minus two days, I said "Goodbye."

CSM

Cleaning and Packing Up Someone's Life

There's something eerie about cleaning and packing up someone's life, even though they were a big part of yours.   I remember when we first arrived at my Grandmother's after she died. I looked like she got up and just walked away. It was the same with my Father.

My Sister and I have been cleaning out what is left at my Father's house.  After my Mother died a few years ago, I took the initiative to say "let's clean out the house now and not wait." So now, our job is a little easier, but not any less teary-eyed.

Seventy-seven years of memories and family history.  Boxes of photographs including pictures with Santa, retirement portraits, family vacations, special events, weddings.  Stacks of no longer used handkerchiefs.  Art work and report cards from grade school since 1949.  High school yearbooks.   Family Bibles.  Piles of crocheted doilies made by my Grandma Alford.  Embroidered table linens by my Mother.  Red Men Lodge stuff from my Father.

I laughed at the stuff I found gently tucked away, saved for prosperity's sake.  The tasty recipes from long ago that you loved as a kid that now the fat-in-food Nazis would frown upon.  Postcards from that trip to Europe and one from Grandma and Grandpa Marshall in Florida saying they "hope you come visit soon."   High school graduation cards from 1954 from friends and neighbors now long gone.

I cried at the recently purchased red-striped cotton shirt, still crisp and creased, that didn't get the chance to be worn. The fresh food that filled the refrigerator. The laundry still in the dryer waiting to be folded and put away. I realized that I was seeing the last moments of someone's life.

As I started the process, I found myself putting things away into their assigned space like the silverware that lived in the drawer immediately to the left of the sink.  A small sign of lingering denial.   It took years to go through some of my Mother's possessions, to admit that she wasn't coming back for them.   I finally could let most of it go, except for those most cherished items.

It was and has been a bittersweet process.

CSM

Trudging through the Room of Rough Memories

And what a crowded room it is.  It is a room only found in my head.  It's not as full as the rooms of great memories, but still, there's a lot to clean out. 

Opening the mental room's door of rough memories and stepping inside has been tough.  But it's time to clear it out.  Some stories I will post; others I will not.  (Yeah, I know -- maybe I just spiked your curiosity, but too bad.)   Pulling out boxes of now old bones that once had been the bodies of horrible memories.   Sweeping up a pile of dust and cobwebs to reveal things long forgotten.  There's some really putrid-smelling fresher ones.   Some are unrecognizable.   Maybe my Sister might be able to help.

I've decided to no longer keep this room for the purpose of rough memories.   I've bust a hole in the wall to put in a window so the sun can shine in.  Painted over the black walls with several coats of robin-egg blue.  Re-sanded the grimy and blemished wooden floor and put a fresh coat of varnish.   I have decided to add a cedar chest and a couple of old trunks to temporarily store those rough memories in.  The key words are "temporarily store."

I'm finding this blog and posting on it to be the best cathartic way of working through my grief as well as build hopes and dreams.   And not to mention the best way to practice and form my writing style.

I've written about the painful current events -- the death of my Father and all the lingering effects and experiences that came and come with it.   I have not, however, written about the death of my Mother.

My Father's death was painful, but not as painful as my Mother's.  I focused on this one thought the other night.  Why was his not as difficult as hers?   I came to a few conclusions.  The biggest one -- she went first and it prepared me for the second one.   I was conditioned, by my Father, that he would go first, but life played a joke on him.  

I also had to ask this question -- Why did my Father go second with all the health issues he had?   Diabetes, heart disease, a serious bout of sepsis, high blood pressure, high cholesterol... the  list goes on.   My Mother had better health.  Her conditions maybe weren't as easily managed, I guess.  Hypothyroid and high blood pressure.   I've learned not to dwell too much on this unanswerable question.   I may never know the reason.

We had a conversation about it later.   I told him God was teaching him lesson.  Don't prepare too hard, it may or will get changed.   It didn't help that my Father was also very dramatic.   We were not prepared for my Mother.   It just didn't seem possible that she would die the way she did. 

From the moment of her diagnosis, I knew grief would be a big part of my life over the next few years.   I would grieve for her then.  My Father's health wasn't good and he would be gone sooner than later.  And now, 5 years later...

CSM
 

Memorable Movies

Movies were always a big part of my Mother's and my life.   She had a scrapbook full of articles and photographs of movie stars from the late 1940s/early 1950s.   I could just imagine my Mother in a sweater and skirt with saddle shoes and bobby socks, being the typical teenager swooning over Red Skelton, John Wayne, or whoever else was popular at the time.  I have tons of DVDs of loved films from all eras.  Some I could never live without.

I have some great memories related to movies.

This was one of my Father's favorite stories to retell.  The year would have been about 1973.   I remember my parents taking me to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.   I can still see the bright lights of the marquee on the State Theater in Downtown Anderson as we walked in.   In the lobby, a cardboard advertisement showed the characters from the movie.  I stood in the seat between my parents to see the movie.   In one particular scene, Dopey is walking up the steps with a candle holder in his hand.   Just as he is about to open the closed door of the dark bedroom, I yelled out "Just go on in.  Nobody's in there but her."

Another great movie story happened in 1977.  I was eight years old.  A new movie was playing at the theatre behind the Mounds Mall, the only shopping center in Anderson.   My mother, her friend Janet, and I went to see a cheesy film that would spark a frenzy of imagination over the next year.   It had a stupid sounding name, but we went.

I can still see the front lobby of the theatre. Very modern looking with the concession stand along the back. Cardboard cut-outs and poster hung everywhere.  The movie was playing in the right portion of the theatre.   We sat down, waited, watched the previews...

Then the film started.   Big gold letters flying away from us back into outer space.  Gold-colored words scrolled followed the film title into space.  They sat the stage for the action, since we were coming in on the middle part of the story.   Then over our heads, the sound surrounding us, flew a small spaceship being fired on by a humongous spaceship...  And for the next two hours we were sucked into an intergalactic struggle to control the universe.   The story of good vs. evil.   Star Wars became more that just a movie; it shaped the make-up of toys in my toy box.

CSM

A Sick and Twisted Thought to Have, But...

You may find this quote cruel, mean-hearted, rude, uncaring, etc.   Just a warning...

Mrs. White, played by the hilarious Madeline Kahn, in the movie Clue has the following line when being asked about her late husband: "Well, it's a matter of life after death. Now that he's dead, I have a life."

I love that line. It's true that it's coming from a woman who didn't care about her husband, so that makes a difference.  I thought of that quote the other day... Yes, after my father's death... Yes, in relation to my father's death.  It's the best quote that I have the this time.

Now, before you start writing me and say "That's just wrong, Christopher," let me explain my point of view.

My Father turned to either my Sister or me on numerous occasions after my mother died for various levels of help. I was the one who went to the hospital and helped him make tough decisions. I had to accept his decisions whether I liked them or not. That's the way I was raised.  My anxiety skyrocketed. My stomach ached, often so hard that I wasn't sure I was going to make it through the day or even sleep through the night. In other words, it was rough.

I will miss him.  I still miss my mother.  To this day, I have horrific memories of her last few months of life.  Some of them I have tried to sponge away, but no matter how hard I scrub, they're there.   However, I'll live with all my memories and still laugh and cry.

Life didn't give me a choice. Don't get me wrong, I hated it when both my parents died. Like I said, I had no choice. Life almost cleaned off my slate. I have no mortgage or major debt. I'm single. My parents are both gone. My childhood home is gone.

What I do have is: a sister, a nephew and his family, a cozy apartment, a few dear and wonderful close friends, money in the savings, my health, practical skills that I can apply anywhere, and one hell of a void.

So, what do I want to do? Where do I want to go? The slate is ready. The chalk is ready. All I need to do is write some goals and away I go.   If it's that easy, why am so scared? What if I miss out on something wonderful here? What if I move away and say "My god! Why didn't I do this sooner?" or "Dear god, please take me back home!"

I have a life to live.  I want to live it to the fullest.

My father, or my mother for that fact, wouldn't have wanted me to sit around and mourn for the next 40 years.  What kind of a life would that be?   As the old song says, "gotta lot of livin' to do."  The world is a wonderland and I want to play. So that way, when my time comes, you can say "He enjoyed a great life." 

And when I meet up with my parents, I can tell them all about it.  

CSM

To the Confessional, Batman!

To the confessional...   I have several things I should be confessing or sharing.  In time, I will.  Please don't judge me to harshly.  This is tough for me to write.  Some of you may have already known this, but for this post, here it is...

I have a thinking problem.   

I think too much.   I over-analyze.  I've staggered to and from my bed, drunk on thoughts.  I've spent many times over the toilet bowl, heaving thoughts until I was sure I would see my shoes.  Good thoughts.  Bad thoughts.   Obsessive thoughts.  Stupid thoughts.  Big thoughts.  Little thoughts.  (Don't worry, no suicidal thoughts.  I'm too eager to see how the rest of my life plays out.)

As they say on TV, the fact that I recognize I have a thinking problem tells me I am not too far gone.  The question is...

 "What is the cure?"   How do I cure this thinking problem?   I realize that right now the death of my father has made me think more, so it will lessen in time.  I'm not sure that I will be completely cured by that alone.  Time alone won't help.  I need professional help.  I wonder if Lucy Van Pelt is available.

CSM

On this Mother's Day

One of the people I admired the most was my Mother.   When I look back at her life and what I knew of it, I am awed.  

But first, I have to stop and focus on a previous statement -- "what I knew of it."    OK, everyone stop and try to picture this...  Your parents having sex.  GROSS!   Don't make me do it!  I used to have a very difficult time picturing this.  No, I don't actually picture it, I just can to accept it.  My parents were human like everyone else.  They weren't perfect.  I often wonder what parts of my parents life I didn't get to see.  I know I didn't share everything.  It's the mystery I enjoy the most.

But, I digress...

My Mother had two lives.  The first half of her life was the homemaker and mother for my brother and sister.  The second half was mother to me and Conner Prairie (CP).   When my Mother began working there, she took control of her life and headed down the most fulfilling path in her life.  I honestly think it was there that she became a real person to me and not just my Mother.  I have many stories that I can tell and will about her (and my) life at CP.

My Mother got very involved with many people there and made numerous friends -- Kathi, Gina, Gretchen, Michelle, Joyce, Leisa...  The list goes on.  

I remember one field trip in particular, that I have tried to expunge from my memory with some success.  A trip to Shaker Village at Pleasant Hill in Kentucky, not only to visit the museum, but also meet "the silk ladies."   There were five of us in a van -- Terry and I sat in the front, while my Mother, Joyce, and Leisa sat in the back.

The most memorable part of the trip was the conversation that erupted in the back.   I'm not sure how it began, but Joyce lead it.   The topic was "going to the gynecologist."  Joyce made comments about the stirrups.  I believe Leisa and my Mother chimed in at some point about the examinations.  Lights, action, camera, Popsicle sticks, legs up and out...  OMG! The whole story!

Terry and I just sat in the front, trying not to listen...

To be honest, it has really turned in blur.  Probably for the best.   Who really wants to hear about their Mother's trips to the gynecologist anyway?

Happy Mother's Day, Mama!   Glad you brought me into this world, cared about me, and gave the love and support when needed.  

CSM

The Stages of Grief

The other day I read about the stages of grief.   Denial, depression, anger, bargaining, acceptance.   The book said that not everyone goes through all the stages and some may take longer to emerge. 

I can say without a doubt that I had been in the denial stage since October, when the Doctor told me he had about 6 months.  Now in hindsight, I was pretending that it wasn't happening.  That this was just another "trip to the hospital" or, as they call them now, "an episode."  But, as it turned out, I was wrong.   I couldn't and/or wouldn't face the truth.   Reflecting back, I started the grieving process then.

Now, I feel bouts of depression and anger.   The depression is manifesting in waking up between 3 and 4 a.m.   My mind whirling, thinking about this and that.   As the Carpenters song goes, "I'm wide awake at four a.m. without a friend in sight, hanging on a hope but I'm alright."  I have such a love/hate relationship with that damn song.  And of course, the anger is coming out by being short-tempered and great desire to punch a few people in the face. (Especially the second one...  Any volunteers?)   I also feel anger towards people who have done nothing at all.  I have to stop and remind myself "They have their own problems and lives.  Don't take it out on them."

I have to admit I don't see the need for the bargaining stage at this point.   Nothing will bring him back.  I guess I could bargain for a long, successful second half of my life.  Not really sure that would get me anywhere.  Just guessing.

And I think acceptance is just something...  well...  I have to accept.   My convictions are riding high right now.   My father didn't just die and that was it.  I like to think he's off with my mother doing who knows what.  Heaven, another astral plane, the fourth dimension, the promised land, the great wheel in the sky, whatever you call it...  He's there.  My mother's there.  A bunch of other people are there and they're all running around doing... Well, I'm not sure.  Whatever they do.   Hopefully something fun.  Mark Twain thought Heaven looked boring, just sitting around in white robes and playing harps.  I agree with you Mr. Twain.

I'll sum up with this.  On my mother's flower arrangement for her funeral, I had the florist put "See you later."   I didn't do that for my father.  He knew how I felt.

Back to the stages of grief, there's one point I didn't see in the book I read.  A stage or period that follows acceptance -- I call it "filling the void."

Both of my parents are gone.   My childhood home will be gone.  The family structure will be gone.  It's crumbling as I write this. 

What happens next?  There's a large void in my life.   What will take its place?

The usual suspects come to mind -- booze and wild sex.  Ha! Sorry, not for me... Well, maybe a bottle of wine...  OK, and maybe a little wild sex...  But only one bottle and a few hours of sex...

Don't worry.  I have a bigger plan.

CSM

A Balloon, Dog Food, and Other Tidbits

My earliest memories are blurred snippets; so thankfully my sister, Robin, was able to remember one of them.  Unfortunately, she doesn't remember the other ones.

When I was about one or two years old, we took the bus to Florida to visit my grandparents who wintered around Land O' Lakes.   The "we" included me, my mother, my sister Robin, and my Aunt Carolyn.   My father meet us down there later and we drove home in the family car.  According to Aunt Carolyn, she said all they did during the bus ride was change my diaper.  Anyway, I have this vague recollection of a middle-aged man with a tan driver's cap on and a blue or green balloon.   My sister confirmed that the bus driver really took to me and gave me a balloon.  Odd piece of history to remember.  It's a fact, use it as you wish.

Another early memory is about my sister.   I could spend a lot of time writing about her, but unsure of what kind of wrath she would send my way.   What I remember is my sister in the garage feeding our mother's dog, Pepi, a small frail-looking dog with a black and white coat and big round black eyes.  I think she was a chihuahua.   The only part of the story I recall goes as follows:

My sister is putting dog food into a dish.  "Hey, this looks like something we eat," said my sister, referring to the dog food.  I then see my mother come out into the garage with a look that meant someone just said the wrong thing.

Too bad I don't remember the rest.  My sister doesn't recall the episode.  Maybe she's repressing it... or it was repressed for her. 

Of course, she also denies accosting me with a piece of bologna when I was maybe around 4.   My father was working night shifts and I had crawled into bed with my mother.   My sister must have been working a late shift as well, probably at the Shrine Club in Anderson.  I can see her silhouette coming into my parent's bedroom, hair wrapped up in a towel and another around her body.   For whatever reason, she tried to accost me with a piece of bologna. I defended myself by knocking it out of her hand.  She got annoyed when it hit floor.  I suspect she ate it anyway.  You know -- the 10 second rule.

CSM

Never Prepared

No matter how much I prepared.  No matter how much I tried flashing the images in my head beforehand, hoping to make the initial blow easier.

I was never prepared for the initial shock of seeing either of my parents in a casket in a funeral home.   Baskets of flowers on each end.  The off-white walls.  The soft glow of indirect lights.  That odd feeling.  Soft music playing.

The first time I saw my Mother, I looked only for a few seconds and walked away.  Although I had been at her side moments after she died, I still wasn't ready for the last time I would see her physical body.

I had other experiences.   My Grandparents, cousins, friends of the family.  But never, never, my own parent.

The second time was softer, but not any less painful.  I looked at my Father for only a few seconds and had to walk away.  Take a few moments to let the scene absorb into my mind and try to fully understand.  Work my way past the numbness.  Let the image be processed and filed into my mental vault where I knew it would stay and never leave. To this day, I can still feel the initial shock of seeing my Mother in her casket when I pull up that segment of my life and re-watch it.   I will never forget either of them, laid out in final repose in the clothes that we selected.

I was never prepared either time.   The odd smell of embalming fluid.  The paleness of their skin.  How odd they felt.  I have nothing to compare that feeling to.   Their hands no longer warm.   They felt hard, not soft like they were only a week before.   Their faces cool to the touch. Their eyes closed behind their glasses.  

I also recall thinking "That doesn't look like my Father."  I thought the same thing with my Mother.   I had to study them to make sure I was actually seeing them.  Stepping back to view their profile.   Forcing myself into accepting that this was my parent.

Never prepared.  Never... Never... Never...  No matter how hard I tried.

CSM