Got Through All the Firsts; What About all the Rests?

Dear Dad, today is your (earthly) birthday.

While I’m thinking of you, and truly missing you more so today,

I stop and wonder, whatcha doing up there in eternity?

Do you get a trip; a ticket down here

unbeknownst to us?

When I talk or even think; do you overhear?

Where ya perched on the corner of my bed?

While I delayed getting outta it,

knowing it was another holiday without you?

Or is that any old day or eternal moment instead?

When I think to visit your grave,

are you more there;

just cuz that’s where your remains lay?

As if you’re its slave?

Today you would’ve been sixty-five.

In the grand scheme, still young.

Why couldn’t we revive,

you from the cancer that claimed you;

why didn’t you survive?

As I stare out the window glass,

through the bare branches,

and partly cloudy sky, that tell me it’s a,

California winter,

I wonder if this winter,

this mourning; this grieving;

will melt away more and the flowers will show,

its colors to me again.

Or better yet; when?

As much as I acknowledge,

this long winter isn’t,

at it’s harshest;

that the patches of snow are melting.

I wonder when the full colors,

of spring will renew me,

finally, 

and the sorrow and grief will be all but abolished.

Steams of memories; like streams of consciousness,

I cling to.

Your voice,

you facial expressions,

The way you hugged,

the mannerisms you carried yourself with,

I hang on to.

And if I’m honest,

I’m scared if I don’t preserve your memory,

I’ll be letting you go; and losing you that much more.

Walls and pages of photographs,

that tell your story,

through your ages,

hit me like a double edged sword.

While it’s the only way I can see your face,

and it heals me temporarily,

it also makes me wish the picture I was stroking,

could be your skin or any kind of trace.

Being past the year mark,

of your passing,

I’ve heard, many a times:

once all the “first” holidays,

are behind,

some more peace seems to disembark.

And while I will agree,

I wonder,

what about all the “rest?”

When will I truly be set free

and feel truly like me?

This past Thanksgiving, spent with your side,

was indeed comforting.

And while tears inevitably poured,

the grieve of your loss was truly at low tide.

Perhaps the presence of your brother,

Mike and his family,

made your presence more pronounced,

and the grief hadn’t sustained like any time other.

Even this Christmas Eve, as I sat,

in the church pew with Joey on my side,

and Mom in the choir loft singing carols and alleluias,

I wanted so badly,

for times of Christmas Eves pasts where you,

were there, 

on my other side. 

And it didn’t end there…

Unwrapping gifts addressed from one parent,

that obviously didn’t include you,

hit me like the stomach flu.

And so, I wonder…

while your death isn’t as fresh,

as it was, almost sixteen months ago,

what will every other holiday

without you be like?

When I turn thirty,

without you, and thinking of you;

will I be sturdy?

Ten Christmases from now,

when I’m possibly married,

will your physical absence allow

stories to be recalled,

of the father you were

to some children of my own

will you be around then, when they’re

all grown;

to admire and watch over your grand-kids

like you have so many times for me?

Even in the short span

your physical self, departed,

I can recount times I felt

your spirit around me.

One recently, when a van ran

a red light, and nearly hit me and my sudan.

Times like these, give me comfort

of your long love, and continued care

amist my declining despair.

Still, I remain patient

of that unceasing and amazing grace from both Him and you. 

Second, First Impressions

Take a poll of random people and ask them if they will attend, or attended their high school 10 year reunion and odds are the data likely will be polarized.  On one end responses might come back like the following: “why would I go to my 10 year?  Isn’t that what Facebook is for?”  “I haven’t talked to any high school friends in years; there’s probably a reason for it.”  “Why would I want to see people who made my youth so awful?”  “What’s the point?”  “I don’t feel like I need to go and see people and prove myself, or feel judged by such a forced fake setting.”  On the other end some responses might come back like this: “I haven’t seen these people in years, and we just lost touch, I can’t wait to reconnect with people.”  “Yea, it’ll be cool to see people, catch up, and see how people have changed.”  “Yea, I’ll go, it’ll be cool to show people how I’ve changed or have grown.”  Speaking personally, I fell on the latter end of the spectrum as I attended my own high school 10 year reunion just last month.   

After a false start to my ten year back in August, I attended (and convinced my high school best friend to tag along) a makeshift and somewhat spontaneous happy hour organized by the class president in placement of the postponed reunion.  Walking into our high school’s small town El Torito I was met with a couple of hand fulls of familiar faces – now just a little more adult looking.  A pocket of former jocks; some ASB kiddos; and mustn’t forget my high school click – some bandos!  The casual setting was decent.  A couple drinks, some chips and guacamole, and defiantly got to chat with old friends, acquaintances, and even some of the cool kids I never did back in the day.  As the afternoon was winding down, and classmates were bowing out, I approached the class president and offered to help with the now postponed reunion.  Without getting into details, there was too much of the responsibility on her plate, and I wanted the reunion to happen just as much as anyone else – so by some impulsive decision on my part I found my sleeves pulled up in weekly meetings and a steady stream of committee tasks for the next two months. 

As the anticipation built for this highly anticipated reunion, so did mine – as well as my stress.  Make no mistake, I was happy and actually enjoyed being part of putting the night together, but there were definitely moments where I thought I bit off more than I could chew.  Sleep deprived nights, tons of emails, plenty of meetings, and errands later the night had finally arrived – and for the first time I thought to myself: ah, this is the part where I can relax.  And at that moment I finally felt excited – it was the first time I could be excited.  Up until that point my nose was to the ground, and I had my alter ego coach side screaming at me yelling “GO! GO! GO!”  Finally, everything was done: contract was finalized with Dave and Busters; centerpieces were made, being placed and spruced up; question sheets and bingo cards were printed and set out; slideshow; videographer; prizes; DJ; photobooth; check, check and check!  The ladies on the committee, as well as myself, could finally take a sigh of relief.  The night was finally here, and we – along with our arriving classmates – could finally enjoy this moment!   

And what a slew of moments that night was!  There was so much that made my reunion incredible, and as much as I’d love to dish out a play by play of the night, I also know I don’t want to lose readership.  Taken a minuet to define the night I’d wrap it up in a few similar sentiments: meeting people all over again; second first impressions; expectations shattered; in essence – people redefined!  Not just my classmates redefined – but myself as well!  And yes, it was quite a parttayyy!

With a photobooth, class elections, bingo cards as an ice-breaker, our videographer interviewing people with fun and potentially funny questions from high school, a DJ with a dance floor, plenty of food and drinks all around the night had something for everyone.  The night had a natural ease to it, and even half way through people’s dance moves were finally being dusted off – thanks to one of our animated classmates who became our unofficial M.C.  All jokes aside, there was also plenty of mingling and a genuine nature among classmates.  Taken a general consensus – people had a great time!
   

This whole experience – at least for me – was very serial.  You see coming from someone who was just a bit of a wallflower in high school it was pretty ironic, that I, one: attended, and two: that I was actually on the planning committee for the reunion.  Alright, maybe it’s not too farfetched that I attended, but that latter of that statement is kind of a bombshell.  Seriously, I would’ve been the last person you’d peg to be part of the planning for my high school’s 10 year.

The high school experience I had was neither delightful nor dreadful – it lay somewhere in between.  I was neither the socialite, nor the target nerd.  Honesty, I was a bit of a wallflower, who – like many – struggled with self-esteem and confidence, which had a lot to do with being raised in a very sheltered environment, and being on the chubbier side.  Where I’d hear, watch and envy peers who had effortless confidence, as they strutted across campus and approach and talk to anyone they wanted – jock or cheerleader – I kept to myself.  House parties were not in my vocabulary till I hit collage; contrary to the cattiness of most adolescent girls (just watch Mean Girls) I backed down from any drama; and the delicate art of flirtation that is rampant in high school I was totally ill-equipped for!

This isn’t to say I didn’t have a decent time in high school.  Yes I had my band friends – fondly referred to as bandos.  And yes, I had a mishmash of rag tag friends from other clicks: drama, hipster, choir, gamers, and surely I’m missing some.  Dances – I went to my fair share of ‘em, but always with a “friend” (seriously had no game in high school – which I can chuckle at now).  Football games – only went because I had to perform at the half time show with colorguard, band and drumline.

Colorguard was my safe place and where I spent most of my time in high school.  This was where I channeled much of my adolescent strifes, through the aggression you need for the equipment work, as well as some expression in the movement below the flying objects.  It was a place that was safe for me; a place I loved; a place I found a bit of myself – really and very therapeutic!  Matter of fact one good friend of mine – who shared the leadership role with me of captain and co-captain senior year – couldn’t make it to the reunion.  Truth be told, I missed having her there at the reunion.  But I digress.  

So 10 years of life after graduation I wasn’t the girl I was in high school that greeted people at the door.  Truth be told it was a really remarkable, and quite a flattering experience to have multiple people make mention of it.  Aside from just having the confidence that night I lacked in high school, as one of the committee members who hosted of the evening, there was a deeper initiative in me to make my rounds with everyone (not just lost connections of friends) but yes even the cool kids I never had the nerve to talk to on campus.  Was there a tinge of hesitation? Nope!  Genuinely, I wanted to say hello, and ask how they’ve been.  The return was always received well and actually with open arms.  No more high school fake façades – just adults with a shared youth experience.  Being received by my former peers in such a positive way – who I envied and was too shy and intimidated by to approach years ago – was such a gratifying feeling.

To have one of our valedictorians who was one of those all-around guys approach me immediately as he arrives to spill how much he’s envied me for years came as a bit of a shock to me. When asked why he lists off my marathon runs, travels and writings as things he’s always wanted to do – my heart glowed with grateful flattery.  Really what an authentically sweet thing to say!  Make no mistake, this is not said with vindication or even a feeling of revenge – but rather a feeling that yes I have grown up, but more so grew that confidence.  And as much as my old friends and peers were happy and proud of my accomplishments, so too I was for them and theirs!  There was a genuine reciprocation.  Was it wonderful to have classmates complement me – yes, I won’t lie about that.  Was it a treat to reconnect with old friends – indeed it was, and I look forward to what that’ll look like.  Was it neat to exchange numbers with some of the cool kids, with a mutual respect and express a wish to connect after this evening affair – totally!  Reminds me of a conversation; as I’m talking to our class elected “most clueless” from senior year (who’s now in a PhD program studying medical physics – talk about ironic!) we connect mostly on the topic of travel as conversation flows easily.  I make fun of the fact that we never talked or associated in high school, as he chuckles in agreement he says to me: “Barbara, you’re really cool, how come we weren’t friends in high school?”  “Simple, I was really shy in high school, and you were kind of one of the cool kids.”  We laugh at the reality of the past, and agree that we should definitely connect the next time he’s off from PhD studies. 

Above all the smiling faces and laughs I encountered I am most appreciative of the time I got to spend on the planning committee – really it’s something I am proud of.  As stressful, and at times ridiculous, it was (ladies on the committee know what I’m talking about), I was able to connect with my best friend from high school, as well as really get to know the other two ladies on the committee – again, who I didn’t really talk to or associate with while in my adolescents.  That time together, is especially valuable to me because the four of us had time longer than 5 hour reunion span to connect.  There was more reminiscing, more catching up, and more respect built for each other.  Aside from my obvious high school best friend, I can say with confidence I earned two new friends.  Cheesy sounding – but how cool!

Now a month later, looking in the rear view mirror of the reunion there is still a genuine high of all the old friends I reconnected with, and all the second first impressions I had.  High school is such a fascinating time.  It’s a time that can be so full of life and possibilities, but truth be told, it can also be a battle field.  Regardless, it’s a pivotal time shared for four years with a slew of personalities – and with fake facades, raging and changing hormones, as well as the status quo in the way, it’s almost impossible to see people for who they really are.  Maybe that’s why these reunions exist.  Given time and space to live and grow outside of the high school bubble really offers people a chance to meet again without all the (excuse my French) bullshit getting in the way.

  

Check out the video from the night here.  And if you enjoy that check out Rob's website for any event you need filming for!  
http://www.bigbotproductions.com/

A Year Later, I Stand in the Shadow

A year ago today my father passed away in the wee hours of the night from terminal stage 4 lung cancer.  It was a long, hard, but a privilege of a journey.  Following the days of my dad's death, I wrote and spoke my father's eulogy at his funeral.  Goes without saying the task wasn't easy - least of all emotionally - but I was so honored and proud to do that for my father - to honor his life in that way.  For reasons to lengthy to explain I decided NOT to post his eulogy a year ago, but now, as I sit in the shadow of his death, one year later, reasons have changed.  So, to both friends and family alike (regardless if you were at his funeral or not) I would like to share my words of my father with you; words I spoke at his final respects. 

Before I get started, I want to sincerely thank each of you for attending my father’s funeral Mass.  My mom and I were saying the other day, (when more and more people spoke of coming) how stunned my dad would be to see all these people making it out to pay him final respects.  Truly he’d be honored. 

Many lines come to mind when I think of how to describe my dad.  He was hardworking and determined; he was dedicated to his commitments; the man was mild mannered and had a way of not sweating the little things. 

Being born in the middle of a family of 13 children in Saint Joseph, MO, my dad learned at a young age the value of hard work.  Before he reached the age of 10, he had his first job as a golf catty, to pay for Catholic School tuition, that he was told he would go to, and pay for.  This virtue of hard work would be one of his greatest branded assets.  To say the least nothing was handed to him, or any of his siblings for that matter.  As a matter of fact, I recall him recounting the experience of saving months of wages to go to his senior prom; of which he paid for all on his own.  This story, of course and appropriately crossed my ears as I wanted x, y, and z for my senior prom, but had no job to pay for it.

But I digress...

Immediately following his high school graduation, my dad hopped on a one way flight to California as he attended community college briefly, while living with his brother Pat, before he enlisted in the Air Force in the height of the Vietnam War.

Four years was spent serving in the Military while studying to attend a four year University; and he saved every penny he earned while in the Air Force to put it straight to his education.  And so he was bound for the University of Chicago upon completing his service to his country.  Putting himself through college – a top notch one for that matter – was indeed one of his proudest achievements; and one of which I enjoy bragging about when it comes to my dad.  Seven years in Chicago; 4 years as an undergraduate, studying economics; and the remaining years were spent pursuing a Masters in economics.  My dad always described himself as thought out and an analytical man; and his colleagues he met after college have, and can attest to his intelligence.  

Sometime after his return to California, my dad and mom met at a local Catholic parish in Buena Park; worked in youth ministry; and later began dating.  When I say my dad was mild, it holds true to his proposal to my mom.  After popping the question, and not getting an initial response, my dad patiently waited for my mom’s answer.  Any other man might not be as even keeled after a marriage proposal – it was one of his gifts for sure – that peaceful serenity that is.  

As a father and a husband, my dad was dedicated to making sure we were all taken care of; and that he provided for us.   He did this well!  Being a valued employee for Arthur Anderson, Arden-Mayfair and H&R block, he put more than bread and butter on our table.  My brother Joey enjoyed Tai-Kwon-Do; my older sister Katie enjoyed flute and marching band; my younger sister Gabriella enjoyed cheerleading; while I enjoyed colorguard through junior high and high school; among family camping trips, amusement parks, and occasional family vacations to coveted locations.  Truly, we had what we needed, and some of what we wanted.

For those who really knew my dad, knew he was a man of few words; more actions than a lot of talk. Unless of course you get him talking about Quigley family archive stories, or economics or politics; then good luck wrapping up the conversation.  At any rate he’d only speak if the matter was truly dire, or of moral right or wrong.  For a man, and for a father, who chose his words wisely and thus frugal with them, it was something that my siblings and I didn’t always understand while growing up.  Truthfully speaking, it wasn’t until recently, that I’ve come to understand this kind of spirit and way of being that characterizes my dad.  In short, he spoke when it mattered; and when it mattered he meant to make you hear and understand him.

 

Another quality my dad possessed was his financial intellect.  Having his bachelor’s degree in economics, working as a computer programmer and doing tax returns for H&R block, numbers was his hobby.  And even as a father, he made sure to impart all kinds of financial wisdom to my siblings as well as myself.  No matter if we were 10 years old and half listened, he made sure to give us his financial talks.  As one of his children, I know our financial well-being was an aspect of our lives he greatly desired for us.   

Truth be told though, I didn’t always understand my dad.  Much of my adolescents and sometime after high school was spent grabbling with a disconnect I felt from him.  It wasn’t until demons from his childhood came to surface, that I came to understand wounds from his past, that hadn’t fully healed; and how his one vow as he became a father was to break the cycle he endured.  For a father who I had trouble understanding, I could finally appreciate his actions to save my siblings as well as myself from a youth of pain.  Suffice it to say he kept his promise; which again I sensed he felt was another notable accomplishment for him. 

As a brother to Marcia, Henry, Ernie, Suzie, Jean, Mike, Bill, George, Tom, Peggy, Jim and Gerald he was known at times to be mischievous, roughty, and competitive, but also quite the peace maker at other times.  As an uncle he enjoyed introducing new card and board games, with the occasional motorcycle ride.  As a husband, he took great care of my mother; always having a way of easing her worries, and showing her great and profound love.  He loved and still loves my mom very deeply!  One way I have of knowing this was upon asking him what he’d miss the most of life; he stated without hesitation: "your mom."  Next to my mom, I know he also deeply loved my brother, two sisters and me.  He always wanted the best for us.

Being a man of faith, his Catholic identity was first and foremost something he wished to impart on his children; and something he always held close to his chest.  He didn’t always talk personally of his faith with God; and spent some time away from Sunday Masses; but you could tell it was always there.  Honestly speaking, watching him come back to Mass, and being in full participation delighted us as a family.  And even after being diagnosed with stage 4 cancer, I never witnessed anyone asking for more confessions and anointings of the sick.  In his last months before his last breath, as his speech slowed, and his body slowed, there was a prayerful presence to him, be it on the porch, laying down, sitting.  His thoughts were with God.  I found it such a gift that two days before he past, Father Jack was able to give him last rights, as his brother Pat, his sister in law Susie, a close friend of mine, and our family surrounded him in that moment. 

As much integrity and hard work as my father lived by, and raised his family by, the moments of leisure were few and far between.  That being said, I know he was grateful for the last year of his life.  No, none of us were grateful for the illness that took his life – least of all him.  Yet, the fact he was essentially forced into retirement gave him that intentional quality time with his wife, his children, and his siblings; it gave him time to travel and see tourist destinations he had always dreamed of walking past: such as Rome, Paris, Lourdes and Hawaii.  This past year gave him time for heart to heart conversations that time hadn’t allowed before; it gave him time to find that final lasting peace between him and his family, his wife, his children, his siblings and their family; it gave him time to uncover demons from the war, from his youth, and conquer them; and in turn be at lasting peace with God.  As it were, and before cancer wreaked havoc, I witnessed such a peaceful serenity in my dad about his life and mortality.  In his own words, “I’ve lived a full life.  I went to and finished college, I had a successful career; I got married and had a family, and did a fair amount of traveling.  I’ve faced and dodged death a number of times, and I’m at peace with what I’ve accomplished.”  Simply put, my dad didn’t fear death.  So a mist the pain (emotional and physical) there was grace in this last year for him; as well as our family.  What a gift!    

Upon reflecting on this serenity my father held, it reminded me of a quote by Morris West…

“We all fear death, we shrink from the suffering which may precede it.  We quail from the mystery of the last leap, which we must all make, into eternity. But we are followers of the Lord, the Son of God who suffered & died in human flesh. We are the inheritors of the good news which he left with us: That death is the gateway to life, that it is a leap not into darkness, but into the hands of Everlasting Mercy. It is an act of trust, an act of love, by which, as lovers do, we abandon ourselves to, become one with, the Beloved." 

It goes without saying my dad was ready and at peace with that final leap that final Amen into eternity with the Beloved.  

"Don't Get Too Close, It's Dark Inside, It's Where My Demons Hide"

Just as a disclaimer: this post very well may be somewhat provocative!  Read with caution, and read with an open mind and heart.  In no way do I mean ANY disrespect – least of all to my late father.  This post is to share more of the man my father was, the demons he battled, the ugliness yet profound human experience behind his moments of weakness, and the impact it has had on me – his daughter – and how it defined and redefined the relationship I had with my father. 

This photo was taken just a couple weeks before my dad entered hospice.  Santa Barbara, Summer 2013

Having an emotionally available father as a kid is a simple yet profound benefit to a child’s own emotional development.  As a child myself, I always questioned and wondered why my dad was so distant from me; and from my brother and two sisters for that matter.  Often I speculated why more often than not I didn’t feel like I could run to my dad for comfort, consolation or compassion.  It sounds cliché but I wasn’t his little princess.  And even, a handful of times (quite literally) his harbored anger would come out towards me; or displayed itself to me - much to my horror. 

My dad and me.  Not sure how old I am here.  =) 

I can remember, one morning (as my dad was likely on an important phone call) I persistently pulled on his pant leg for some good old fashioned daddy attention (being five the world revolves around you). I was shocked and shaken when he lost his cool, yelled and pushed me to the ground.  Another time at Disneyland my family and I were paddling in the canoes and the skill and art of paddling was lost on me – unfortunately my dad was sitting behind me in the canoe and reaping the benefits of my lack of paddling skills.  What I didn’t expect was when he ripped the paddle away from my grip, somewhat publicly shammed me for my lack of skills, and scolded a line that silenced me for the rest of the time at the Happiest Place on Earth. Yet another time, my parents took us to Sea World in San Diego, and while eating lunch, I blurted something out inappropriately (don’t ask, I don’t remember), and my dad turns to me as he scolds red in the face: “you had to open your fucking mouth!” Again I was silenced for the rest of the day.  Other memories are clear when my dad’s anger would reach a boiling point of throwing a coffee mug at full force to a wall as I listened and watched the shards shatter; or even being horrified when he threw a lawn chair straight through our back yard glass door in a fit of rage and argument with my mom, and hearing the clash, and watching the spikes and daggers of glass fly in an infinite number of directions, as I stood – powerless to stop it or his anger.

My dad and me.  

Admitting, I feared my dad.  Heaven forbid I’d beg or plead with him for any ounce of freedom, or took longer to get ready for school in the morning, or got a bad school report – his temper would seep through his crumbling façade.   

            The temper I recall from him as a young girl had somewhat subsided and was somewhat replaced with this emotionally removed and blasé scene of a father figure.  Maturing into my adolescents (if ya call it maturing) I’d secretly wish for my dad to take more of an interest in my life beyond my grades, household chores and financial future.  My dad majored in economics after all and was an accountant, so perhaps that was his way of “connecting.”  As much as he’d talk to me about the importance of Quicken, I equally wished he’d ask me about my high school social situations or teen crushes - but he didn’t.  As much as he’d give me political talks about his ideology, I wished he’d wait up for me to come home some nights from the Prom or Homecoming – but he didn’t.  He continued to drive me to school in the morning; he continued to educate me on Quicken; he continued to keep tabs on my grades and not much else.  Needless to say his paternal behavior was a far cry from that emotionally available ideal dad I painted in my mind. 

Me, my dad, my brother Joey, and older sister Katie.

              It wasn’t till my later years in high school – college really – that I came to understand my father on a deeper level; on an adult level, and I came to understand why he placed the distance he placed between us - his children.

With no easy or poetic way to say this, so for lack of better words: growing up, my dad was perpetually beaten. Truly he faced unfathomable physical and emotional abuse – and arguably dealt with neglect as well.  Growing up in the middle of 13 kids (literally the 7th out of 13 kids, and having a twin brother on top of that), in Kansas City, Missouri (quite literally the middle of the country) he surly wasn’t alone in the routine beatings.  Without fail, one or multiple of my dad’s siblings will recount (either in a brief tongue and cheek manner, or a long descriptive manner) on any given family gathering a time they got a whipping.   

            To hear of how a spanking gone too far was resorted to bare ass whipping with a marbled stone belt shocked me!  To hear how my grandma Quigley would fly off the handle (on a number of occasions), lock her pack of kids in the basement seller, scream, rant and rave about how she’d burn the house down with the children locked inside, till finally my alcoholic grandpa talked some sense into her and ultimately let the traumatized kids out – hours later – sickened me! To hear so many scenarios of how my grandma habitually would insult and put down my dad for being analytical; her common line was, “oh you’re just so damn slow!”  I was appalled!  And to hear how my passive grandpa would resort to a bottle of liquor every night and black out on conversations he had with my dad the night prior broke my heart!  

My dad's entire family; all 13 kids plus his parents.

            Not only did he face perpetual abuse throughout his childhood and adolescents, but he was deeply wounded (mostly emotionally) in his time serving in the air force at the height of the Vietnam War – a largely unpopular war. Clearly a topic for another post. 

After disclosing to me the traumas of his youth under an alcoholic father, an extremely abusive mother, and the pains of an unpopular Vietnam War, I came to understand the deep, long and wide wounds that he bared.  In simple words my dad was a scared man!  He shared with me at some point in college: “when I became a father for the first time, I vowed I wouldn’t repeat the cycle of abuse; I vowed that I would spare you and your siblings from the horrors I faced as a kid; and there are some things from the child abuse I will never share with you, and I will take it to my grave.”  In the latter of his statement he was indeed successful; for I can only imagine what level of abuse he kept a secret.  And by and large he was indeed successful in breaking the cycle of abuse, and his way – the only way he knew how – was to cut himself off emotionally.  It took me growing up into a young adult to get it; I didn’t and sometimes still don’t understand his means, but I am deeply touched by the ends.  More so though, I came to understand for years he had been conditioned to not be affectionate; not show emotions; not talk about his feelings; much less indulge a daughter or son for that matter in their feelings.  As a father he was in uncharted waters, and was likely terrified of dealing with emotions.  He was emotionally constipated. All jokes aside though.    

            Even after I moved away for college and then to Philadelphia my relationship with my dad was a strain.  Don’t get me wrong, I was grateful for some clarity, but I couldn’t help but think: “well com’on now, shit is out on the table, so let’s try and move forward; I get where you’re coming from, so try and understand where I’m coming from.  I need an emotionally open dad!”  But it was a process, and for my dad a lifelong process – till his dying day.

My folks and I on my graduation day from SFSU. 

I can say with confidence my dad’s role in my life was a large component to my shy and cautious state growing up; something I’ve overcome.  I can say with confidence my dad’s behavior in my life has made me skeptical, guarded and weary when it comes down to anyone I’ve dated; something that’s gotten better yet I'm still working on.  And I can say with confidence my dad’s tendency to retreat from anything that required a touch of emotion was one component to my lack and sense of self-esteem; again something I’ve overcome. Among many remedies for these "issues" I have to give credit to years in therapy and spiritual direction. It's fascinating to think of how my grandparents on my dad's side parented; how that (obviously) affected my dad's parenting style; and ultimately how that has shaped me (for better or worse). Just makes me think - isn't there some Bible verse about inheriting the sins of your ancestors? While it's not meant to be taken literally, it does force me to think about the cycle of dysfunction. But I digress. 

Now because of or in spite of my dad’s cancer battle, it perhaps, and likely made it possible for him and I to finally have some lasting conversations, closure and ultimately forgiveness about his child abuse and how it determined the role he played as a father in my life. In that last year, I heard him tell me how proud he was of me, for going off to and finishing college.  In between chemotherapy and radiation treatments I’d hear his admiration for my, (as he called it) “wanderlust spirit,” going from Rome for a semester in college, off to San Francisco to finish my BA, and moving across the country for two years to teach in West Philly.  I smiled when he'd say I take after his analytical mindset; his perfectionist mindset and his photographic memory - which I can vouch for. More importantly though, I saw him face the reality of his own mortality; something to be grabbled with.  And with that, not only was he able to let years of harbored emotion out, but we were able to let years of harbored emotion out – together. In that year I saw my father cry more than I ever saw him cry - ever. He spoke to me of his deep pain and regret that he wouldn’t get to meet the man that will take me as his wife; how it pained him that he wouldn't get to walk me down the aisle or meet his grandkids - all of which are also deeply painful for me.  These were some of many closure like conversations I had with my dying dad. 

Fall pumpkin festival at the Orange County Great Park; Fall 2012.

Now I don't know if it took me moving away multiple times (having time and space away from my dad perhaps gave me space to have my own bit of clarity) and then returning to Southern California a different and grown woman, or the reality of terminal cancer to provoke these conversations between us. Nevertheless, I can say that there was a genuine humility and great goodness in the way he spoke to me in those last years (not just his cancer battle year, but especially in his cancer battle year), and that there was remarkable forgiveness, lasting peace, and profound confidence in the deep love my dad has for me.  

Sweet Dreams till Sunbeams Find You

It’s no secret people have thought of dreams as a way to your subconscious and a gateway for things outside this physical world to pay visit to ones left behind.  Even in the Bible itself there are plenty of examples of how saints and prophets had some divine intervention through their very own dreamland.  Native Americans have thought of dreams as a way to connect to mother earth and use them and analyze them as a way for guidance towards life altering decisions and actions.  As for myself, I have had some dreams about my dad; one of which was within the week leading up to this past patriarchal day.  Having dreamt about my dad before this recent dream I found it peculiar that it wasn’t surrounded around my dad visiting me in my dreams.  He was more like a commercial break if you will.  Nevertheless I do remember distinctly my dad in the dream.  Please understand as I’ve gotten older, I dream less.  Yet since my dad’s passing I have had a few clear and distinct dreams about him; some of which were haunting and gruesome and two that have been very peaceful and sweet that leave me simmering in his presence.    

While fast asleep some nights ago I found myself in a dream that involved my younger brother and another friend – who will remain nameless.  Now I couldn’t tell you specifics of the dream, why my brother was there or why my friend was in the dream, or how the three of us interacted in the dream, BUT I do distinctly remember my dad briefly in the dream, and before the dream continued, again not remembering specifics of the rest of the dream; just that my brother was there and my friend was there.  In that brief moment of clarity, I was walking into my brother’s bedroom, when out of my peripheral I noticed someone sitting.  Upon glancing to see who it was, I yelled “DAD” in shock as my eyes fell on my father: healthy, peaceful, content and happy.  I instantly fall to my father’s knees, bury my face in his lap and wrap my hands and arms around his sitting waist as he laid his hands on my back in comfort.  What he spoke was simple and short (as most of the time it is); truly a man of few words. 

“Live your life.”

And with that I got up, the clarity of that moment passed, and the hazy dream went on.  The last specific thing I remember was after getting up and walking towards my brother (as I originally intended to do in the dream), I looked back to get another look of my dad, but he had gone; and on I went. 

Now normally, since having dreams about my dad, I’ll wake up and instantly remember I had dreamed   about him, and the bittersweet emotions typically follow.  But this time, he wasn’t my first thought after opening my eyes to morning sunbeams. It wasn’t until I set my coffee maker that his memory in the dream caught up to me, as did the tears.  What got me the most about this particular dream was a couple of things.  One: he wasn’t the main focus of the dream; he wasn’t the majority of the dream; he was simply part of the dream – like that quick commercial break if you will.  Two: the fact that even though most of the time in the dream wasn’t him, he was the only moment of clarity.  Sure, I can name two other people in the dream, but specifics – nope! Three: and most obviously his line to me, “live your life.” It’s a line I’ve both been striving and struggling to do. 

In one sense, I continue to work towards a goal of going back to school beyond my bachelor’s degree.  In fact, I have an entry exam morning set in less than a month’s time.  In another sense I’ve continued with interests and hobbies like salsa dancing, running, writing, and beading to name just a few.  Professionally, I’ve invested myself more in my work place, and taken on several roles at the school I teach at.  Personally, I’ve made some summer travel plans to return to Philadelphia for a week in August and take advantage of some quality time with some quality friends out there; and more so I look towards some international travel plans in the near future.  More personally, I’ve widened my circle of friends up to new people and others I simply looked at as acquaintances I can now call friends; heck I’ve even dated a bit since my dad passed.  So by every appearance, I am indeed living my life.  Then that feeling is contrasted with the unpredictable emotions of sheer grief.  And when those moments come, despite every effort of mine to suppress them, I cannot. 

It gets the better of me when I have a couple of close friends over at my place, and in friendly conversation I have to get up to do the dishes (anything to move and stay busy) before slamming things as the tears follow. Or when I’m feeling particularly sensitive and needy and it comes out through heightened tensions with a friend, and the conversation ends with fingers pointed, tears and frustrations.  This whole grieving process has an annoying way of making me A LOT more sensitive to anything and everything, and A LOT more needy.  Surly, I gotta give it up to some key players – i.e. close friends – who are pulling up their sleeves and getting their hands dirty with me.

It gets the better of me when on a socially packed Memorial Day Weekend – as I was invited to a graduation party, a dual birthday party, and an anniversary party three nights in a row – I decide to bow out by 10 in the evening each time, because I can’t get my energy level even half way to the level of everyone else’s.

It gets the better of me most times I go home and spend time with my mother and as we talk about my dad, emotions are evoked. 

And it gets the better of me when I don’t have my father on Father’s Day – certainly it got the better of me then!         

I suppose the fact that Father’s Day was yesterday has some prompting to this reflection, and perhaps more so to the content of this post.  Like all the “first” holidays and birthdays following my dad’s death on September 3rd they are emotionally taxing.  Yet for some reason, I told myself it would be different for Father’s Day.  Maybe it’s because I’m tired of the heavy emotions associated with my dad’s absence, and perhaps I envy those around me who actually feel happy on special occasions and holidays, and maybe I miss that part of myself.  Whatever the case, I thought to myself, “mind over matter Barb, you can do this; you can get through another holiday and not cry because you miss your dad.  Just focus on the beautiful California almost summer weather, just distract yourself with family, AND distract yourself by telling stories, AND distract yourself by catching up with family, AND wine, don’t forget that wine, AND put up that façade of hair, makeup and choice of attire.  You got this Barb.”  Well my alter ego while ready to take on the day, proved to be no match to the reality and significance of the day, and this first Father’s Day without just that – a Father. 

So even though I still have my moments when grief grabs and grips me, the simple line of my dad in this recent dream resonates with me: “live your life.”  In this encounter with my dad there is twofold.  There is gratitude for one thing; the fact that my dad came to pay me a visit is comforting.  But more importantly there is that permission I suppose I’ve been seeking to indeed live my life without the guilt that sometimes follows that I’m enjoying myself while I “should” be more solemn because my dad isn’t around to enjoy life with me.  This dream, that encounter, has given me some clarity that I’m not without my dad, but that my dad is in fact with me in a different kind of presence.  Thanks Dad!  =)  

Those Morning Routines

Growing up my dad was the one - most of the time - that would get me and my siblings to school in the morning.  From the time I was in elementary school and we had to catch the school bus in our neighborhood with the rest of the neighborhood kids, to middle school and high school with early morning zero period call times, my dad would drive us the five minuets to school.  As anyone might imagine, most mornings were the same and not many truly stick out in my mind.  Yet there are some moments or quirks of my dad I do look back on and can indeed recall.

First, I gotta say no child is ever a natural born "morning person," and was the case for my siblings and I! My dad though - having plenty of years of practice waking up early and brewing his cup of Joe - was well adjusted to the task. Matter of fact, come to think of it, my mom always had a rough time waking up in the morning; which now makes sense that my dad took that role of morning Sargent.

It always started like clock work: 5:30a.m. would roll around and was the time my dad would flick our bedroom lights on and tell us all in bunk-beds to raise and shine.  Always protesting that 5:30a.m was far too early, us kids would say 30 more minuets; 20 more minutes; 5 more minutes.  After each snooze, he'd come back progressively more aggressive; and those aggressive snooze alarms might be flickering of our bedroom lights as he'd make his voice just a little louder as he'd bellow "raise and shine;" or he'd come in banging pots and pans; maybe (if he was feeling mischievous) he'd put ice cubs in our beds, on our necks, down our pajamas; my favorite was when he BLASTED and I really mean blasted the classic William Tell Overture. Lemme tell you: no pillow can muffle the sound of that symphony; so we always resigned to roll outta bed with our groggy faces, and bed head hair.

I'll never forget how he'd walk us the 5 blocks to our bus stop: bare foot, and half dressed for work; the slacks would be on, but a t-shirt would often be substituted for the button down and tie, hair might be combed.  My best memory - now in retrospect - of those morning walking to the bus stop was the morning my dad stood up for my older sister and me.
Just to give a bit of background information: my family and I don't have an ounce of olive skin blood; we are half Irish and the rest is northern European.  So that tells you we burn fairly easily and at best we get freckles.  Living in Orange County where olive and tan skin is considered a desirable trait, we were kind of the black sheep (well conversely actually) when in came down to this feature.  Walking home after school, after the bus would drop us off in the afternoon at the same morning spot we'd have some of the older kids pick on us and call us names like "Casper the Friendly Ghost;" or taunt us to "get a tan." Being 9 and 10 years old and never experiencing any level of bullying I did what most kids did at that age and in those days: I didn't respond and tried to ignore the teasing.  Well, it got to a point where my sister and I vented to my parents about it.
Well...my dad sure had something to say about the teasing and taunting.  One of those morning - barefoot and disheveled hair - my dad walked us to the bus stop, waited for us and all the other kids to get on the bus, and proceeded to ask the bus driver if he could address all of us grade school kiddos.  His little speech made me slouch in my bus seat...
"Can I get your attention please.  It's my understanding that there are some of you kids that are teasing and taunting my children; calling them Casper and such.  I'll have you know that, that is bullying, and if you continue this behavior, I will take it up with the schools principal and have those of you expelled!"  He thanked the bus driver, proceeded off the bus, and I could feel the tension in the bus increase by 10! Literally it was one of the moments I could feel everyone's eyes on the back of my neck.  As the bus door closed shut and before we drove off, my childhood friend Steven, yelled some antagonistic comedic remark to myself and all to hear.  He was good at cracking jokes in the middle of tension - he was our class clown after all.

Other morning memories - not as memorable - surely stick out in my mind.  Like all the times my dad (especially when we'd be running late) would slow down at a green light after driving a motorcycle for years and being conditioned to anticipate cars cutting him off. There was the time, my dad ran a red light, from a full on stop.  Or the time in junior high when I talked to my dad for the first time about a boyish crush, and he told me to be myself, and that the best kind of relationships - and loves for that matter - come from friendships.

It was a simple morning routine, being woken up by my dad, and spending that time with him; be it the morning walk to the bus stop as a shy girl who wore over-sized clothes, or a preteen or teenager who enjoyed the occasional conversation or mishap in the morning with my dad.  It's a routine I took for granted; a routine I would relive in a heartbeat (even if in a fleeting dream); a routine I often think about and rewind in my head on my own - now - morning routines.

Flying the Coop

"If you love someone, set them free.  If they return they are yours." 

~ Unknown

Parents have their own way of dealing with their children growing into adults and ultimately moving out for the first time.  Never having the experience myself, I don't pretend to know what that must be like, but I can recount how my dad reacted to that fact some seven years ago when I moved away for college.

Not having a clue what I wanted to pursue after high school, I decided the best step was to figure it out through community college and not waste time and or money through University level priced tuition.  It was the year 2007 and I was finishing up my associates degree at Fullerton College, when the decision deadline was coming down to the wire.  I had been accepted to the three state schools I applied to: CSUF, CSULB, or SFSU.  The question of the hour though was, do I stay local and stay safe, or do I go out on a limb, take a risk and move up to the metropolis of San Francisco to finish my BA?

Knowing what my folks wanted me to choose, I decided (intentionally) not to talk to them about my decision.  This was going to be my decision; I had to live with the decision; so I sure as hell wasn't going have a skewed conversation pressure me any one way.  Looking back, I think I knew - really all along - what my decision would be; I just waited until the last day to finally put in my intent to register to San Francisco State University!

And I'll never forget my parents' reaction.  I'm sitting at the family computer in a fairly common area in our house, taking care of the task at hand, when my mom chimes in from the other end of the common area:
"Whatcha doing over there.?"
"Umm...taking care of some school business..."  Vague answer, I know.
"What kind of school business?"
"Umm...well I'm putting in my intent to register for the school of my choice."
My mom's interest and attention perks up noticeably.
"Oh yea?!  What school is that?!"
"Umm...(as I hesitate)...San Francisco State University."
"WHAT?!?!"

The conversation from there really is a blur of shock, surprise and a bit of 20 questions on logistics.  The following morning I went about my day as usual: class, work, etc when I recall having a missed call and voice-mail from none other than my dad.  Something to keep in mind: my dad never called me from work, unless it was an emergency, or tax related (as he did my tax return from the time I had a job).  As I listened to my dad's voice, the tone was very stern, very urgent, very shocked, but also very concerned.  The conversation I later had with him and my mother was a lot of...
"I thought you were going to stay local..."
"Why do you wanna move so far away???"
"Why didn't you discuss this decision with us before hand???" 
"Have you thought of the cost of living up there?!" 
"You know your mother and I are only paying for your tuition; which means you have to find a way to pay for books and the cost of living."
"Have you been looking into living arrangements??" 

All this was said with an undertone of...why didn't you choose Long Beach or Fullerton, it would've made more sense.. 

Obviously, I stuck with my initial decision, and that summer of 2007 leading up to my first fall semester living in the city by the bay, was quite a whirl wind of weekend road trips that included new student orientations; checking out the lay of the campus as well as the city, and not to mention meeting some distant family for the first time who are not too far from the cable car streets of SF; scouring craigslist for a place to live followed by some interesting encounters by some eclectic potential housemates and landlords.

Alls well that ended well though.  Two weeks before classes began I was moved into a house living with three other students whom all of us jived well together; I had a student loan to supplement my cost of living; I was on the job hunt; and I was completely and blissfully unaware of how much the next three years ahead were going to challenge, break, shape, and redefine me.  Arguably, those years were some of the best years of my life as I grew into myself, in a city that I truly learned to love.

Through all the tasks of preparation; road trips; and follow ups on paperwork and registration for classes my dad never said much more on the topic of my decision to move away for college.  Although, he did sometimes comment on San Francisco's "backwards politics," which he and I later often bantered back and forth on, as I began to rethink some of my own political opinions.  "San Francisco ruined you," he'd like to say to me with a playful smile.
But I digress.  He was a quite and strong presence though as he would frequently keep me on point to take care of business; even when I was lost in the process or overwhelmed, he was there to kick me in the pants. He had this saying that he'd like to often repeat to me; be it to me, or in reference to someone else...

"You're an adult.  I've done my part to raise you. As an adult, you have decisions to make, and they are your decisions alone; I can't make them for you; and it's you who have to live with the decisions; not me.  So while, I might not always agree or understand some of your choices, it's your life not mine.  And unless these decisions are harmful to you, I'm going to keep my opinion to myself."  

And he did!  I imagine it was a hard realization that his daughter was not just moving out of the house, but moving a distance away (like most things, he kept his emotions close to his chest), nonetheless he was there helping me prepare for that next chapter in my life; he was there helping me prepare for that defining decision.  Regardless if he agreed or understood my need to move away for college; regardless of the fact that it probably broke his heart to see his daughter fly the coop, he was there, supportive of the decision. And that kind of reaction - while sometimes convoluted - was and is love!  He let me go; he set me free; and you know...I came back to him, and for him.

AGAIN!

There's nothing like having a dad that will play with you.  No doubt many of us can recall fleeting memories of our dad's swinging them on their shoulders; playing catch; or racing them down the street.  While its the same for myself I also don't have one particular memory of my dad playing with me that stands out.  All the same here are a few...

I can remember being no older than five, coming home from ballet practice and running to a swing - that my dad constructed himself with a piece of think wood and two strong lines of rope - and having him push me in my tutu as I'd scream with delight, "HIGHER!"

I can remember - vaguely - being a toddler and one of my favorite things to do with my dad was having him do, "one, two, threeeeeee."  More explanation I know.  Whenever I felt a little roughly and playful, and we were in the living room, my dad might indulge me by laying on his back; legs bent and slightly elevated; I'd proceed to use his feet as a toddler roller-coaster chair, and his hands as my handle bars.  He's say "one," swing me up slightly; "two," swing me up slightly again; "THREEEEEEE," and swing me up, over his body, and I'd do a full flip and land on my feet; before saying: "AGAIN!"

I can remember when our family would be out on a family day trip (be it Disneyland, the park, or a family shing dig), and my young fussy self would get tired; he'd hoist me up on his shoulders.  All of a sudden my feet didn't hurt anymore and I had a 6"2' birds eye view of the world.  BLISS!

I can remember other times, my play time with my dad, would be as simple as being in the front or back yard and taking my dad's hands as he's swing me round and round, as he turned round and round.  Dizzy and grassy, I'd still insist in a fumbled saunter: "AGAIN!"

I can remember when he and I were more or less feeling silly, I'd sit on his lap as he'd use his hand as a mock "spider." We both referred to it as the "tickle monster," and the tickle monster would - as you'd expect - tickle me as I'd squeal and squirm, laugh and giggle in his lap and in his arms.

Sometimes it really is the simple things.