Archive for August, 2009

Since I know thousands of you have been sitting on the edge of your seats waiting for the final installment of my 20 year old sob story, I figured I should let you know it will be a little bit coming yet.

I hurt my back on Wednesday last week and after  a trip to the doctor on Thursday have been in Vicodin and Prednisone land ever since.  Not to mention flat on my back.  All of which is hardly conducive to reflective thought.

So part three is coming, as is a proper blog post.  But probably not till next week.  I know, I know, you’re all disappointed.    In the meantime, I direct you to the awesomeness of my blog roll, which should keep you more than entertained in my absence.

The call came at 2:30 am Thursday night/Friday morning.  Within minutes my mother and I were speeding toward the hospital.  I don’t think either of us said a word during the short drive, each of us lost in our own private terror.

We arrived at the hospital and reached the floor of  my dad’s room.  We are put into a waiting room.  Told to wait.  Speechless, we sit, and we wait.  Each minute seemed like hours.  A nurse comes in to tell us the doctor will be in shortly to talk to us.  She cannot say any more.  We overhear that the doctor and nurses are “still working on him”.  Sound carries very well in places like that.

Finally the doctor arrived.  The news isn’t good.  Dad suffered a massive heart attack.  The nurses found him on the floor of his room, in between the bed and the wall.  He had been unconscious long enough, his heart not beating, that we knew there was brain damage.  Even if he survived, which the doctor told us was probably not possible, he would be basically a vegetable.

Fear and grief makes people react differently.  Some people cry, some don’t.  At that moment, I yelled.  Screamed. I was angry.  Afraid.  I was angry that we had been told to rush to the hospital, only to be put into a room and wait.  I was angry at the nurses, whose station was right outside my dad’s room, did not hear him fall, yell for help.  I ranted, I raved, I threw a box of tissues (the only thing I had on hand) at the doctor.  I was a pissed off, terrified teenager.  I remember my mother trying to calm me down. I am not proud of how I behaved.  I apologized later, feeling terribly foolish for having caused a scene.   I was afraid.  What would we do?  How would we survive? Life without my dad?  Even though we knew his disease would cut his life short, we were not prepared.  Is anyone ever really prepared to lose a loved one?

Dad was transferred to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU).  It was hours before we were allowed to go in to see him.  By then, I remember phone calls being made at the pay phone.  Our neighbor, Linda and her husband Jim.  Aunts, uncles, cousins.  My grandmother.  Plans were being made to travel.  We knew it was the end, it was just a matter of time now.  I was so torn about going in to see him.  I wanted to, but I didn’t.  I didn’t want to see him that way.  I wanted to remember him the way I saw him last.  The night before when mom and I left to go home.  He was sitting up in bed, smiling.  As we left, I said “I love you, Daddy.”  I didn’t often say it anymore, being a teenager.  I don’t know what prompted me to say it that night.

In the end, I went in.  It was like being a dream.  That couldn’t be my dad lying there with a machine making him breathe.  Tubes everywhere.  That terrible ashen pallor to his skin.  I kept thinking I would wake up.  This wasn’t real.  It couldn’t be real.  How could he be so alive just hours before, so normal, and now this?

So much of that night is a blur. I’ve blocked out the memory of it, and the next day for so long,  details are fuzzy now.  I remember at some point our neighbors, wonderful friends, showing up.  Mom insisting that I go home with Linda and get some sleep.  My aunt and her son arrived some time early that morning.  It was light out now.  Another dreary winter day.  Colder than usual.  So cold.  Linda drove me home to shower and take a nap.  She would be back to get me in a few hours.  I showered.  I cried.  Tears mingling with water until it wasn’t clear which was which.  I dressed, crying.  I sat on my bed.  Crying.  The first time I had really cried.  Rocking back and forth.  Sobs that racked my body.  In that moment, I had never felt more alone in my life.

Now, what happened next you can dismiss as sleep deprivation, or a hallucination brought on by grief, my mind playing tricks.  As I was sobbing, I felt a hand on my shoulder.  I whirled around to see who the hell was in my house.  Had Linda come back?  There was no one there.  I can still remember the warmth of the touch.  A firm, but gentle hand.  I took a deep breath.  I stopped crying.  I felt at peace.  I slept.  I’ve never been a super religious person.  I believe in God, but I hadn’t given the Almighty much thought up to that point.  But I believe at that moment, God saw my heartache, felt my loneliness and reached out to me to let me know I was not alone.  That I could survive this.

That afternoon I went back to the hospital.  Not much had changed.  More relatives were there.  The doctor came in and spoke to Mom and me, telling us that soon we would have to think about making the decision on removing Dad from life support.  He had no brain activity.  Several times they had tried to see if he could breathe on his own.  He could not.   I felt like I had been kicked in the gut.  I did not want to make that decision.  How could I make that decision?  I know my mother would have deferred to me.  How I know that is a whole other post.

My mother wanted me to go home with Linda (our neighbor) and sleep that night.  She wanted to stay there, close to Dad.  I protested, but my aunt said she would stay with my mother, for me to go, get some rest.  She told me I would need it.  The coming days were going to be hard and my mother would need me to be strong.  So I left.  To this day, I regret that decision.  Not that it would have made any difference.  Dad did not know of our presence.  We were not allowed to stay with him.  Only fifteen minute visits once per hour.

But I was not there when he died.  I was not with my mother.  I was at my neighbors house lying on an air mattress watching television.   We had been home about an  hour when there was a knock at the door.  Linda opened it and I saw my mother.  I knew there was only one reason she would have left that hospital.  She looked at me and said “We lost him.  He’s gone.”  She had no tears.  I grabbed her, holding as tight as I could.  My daddy was gone. The man I loved and respected most in the world had left me.   What now?

Tomorrow, Part Three

The call came at 2:30 in the morning.   I had a phone right next to my bed, so I was the one that answered the phone.  I was sixteen.  It was the hospital, asking me if this was the family of Mr. Ausburn.   Even through the fog of sleep, I knew something was wrong.  My heart was pounding, it felt like it had jumped into my throat.  I yelled into the phone. I kept asking what is wrong.  I got no answers other than we needed to get to the hospital immediately. By then my mother was awake and I had to tell her something was wrong. I didn’t know what, but I knew it had to be bad.    Within minutes we were speeding toward the hospital, terrified of what we would find.

Hospital visits were frequent for my father.  He was often hospitalized several times a year, often for weeks at a time.  This visit was no different than any other.  It was completely different than any other. He was due to be released that Friday, January 12.  Instead, it was the day he died.

It was January, 1990.  My father had been hospitalized for the umpteenth time.  He had a lung disease that he was diagnosed with when I was 3 years old.  I never knew my dad as a healthy person.  He was always ill.  Throughout my childhood, he grew progressively worse each year.  At the end of his life, he was pretty much housebound and required oxygen twenty four hours a day.

His disability was hard for all of us.  It was hard on my mother, who, for 14 years  had to take care of him, me and our home, which included an acre and a half of land.  It was hard on my father, whose mind was still sharp and wanted to plant gardens, tend to flowers, cook meals, take his daughter fishing.  His mind wanted to do so much more than his failing body would let him.  He had to be content with watching the gardening shows on PBS on Saturday and Sunday.  Watching someone else dig in the dirt, get excited over a new tomato hybrid.  He loved food and cooking.  But he could no longer get in the kitchen and cook the meals he once did.  Instead he and I would pour over each new copy of Southern Living, him picking out the recipes he wanted to save and me clipping them out and organizing in his notebooks.  I would paste them in, he would go back later and make notes in his own handwriting.  I still have those notebooks.  If there ever was a fire, they would be one of the few material things I would make a point to grab.

We bought fishing poles when I was about 10.  We had moved to the country the year before, and my cousin, who lived up the road, had a small pond on his property.  Dad promised to take me fishing.  For years those poles sat, gathering dust.  He never felt up to going.  I would pass by them almost daily, glancing at them as I went by, a tangible reminder of his disability.

He loved to tell stories.  On warm summer nights we sat on the front porch, Dad in his rocking chair, enthralling and terrifying me and my cousin who lived next door.  He would tell us stories about how the lightening bugs we saw were really wolves eyes. Other times he would try to convince us that the tadpoles we caught would really turn into large snakes.    My little cousin often had to be walked home.   He also regaled us with funny stories from his childhood.  He and friends of his were apparently quite the cutups in their day.  Fun that seems innocent now, sneaking into watermelon patches, swiping one or two to eat.  Freaking out teachers by showing up dressed in their mother’s clothing.  By all accounts, especially his friends,  he was a very cheerful, happy soul.  He loved nothing more than a good joke, a good time.  He still loved those things, but the good humor was tempered by pain.  Mental and physical.  I cannot imagine how it must have been for him.  To be trapped in a body that would not do what your mind wanted.

One of the highlights of his life in later years was grocery shopping.  It was a hassle for my mom to take him, as it required the wheel chair, oxygen and someone to push said wheel chair.  Plus, my mom was the type who gets in, gets what she needs, and gets out.  Not so for my father.  He wanted to go through each isle, looking for new products, new ingredients to try.  A trip with him to the grocery store could last hours.  Once in a great while we were able to go to a larger city, 30 miles away, which had an even larger selection.  Needless to say, you could plainly read the joy in his face as he went through each isle.  It was his adventure.

He loved visitors.  Being pretty much housebound, he couldn’t visit his friends and relatives.  So when they came to see him it was very special.  He would holler at mom to put on a pot of coffee, and bring out whatever cake, pie, jar of pickles, etc. that was the latest creation from our kitchen.  Often visitors came loaded down with fresh fruit or vegetables from their gardens.  He looked at that and saw a challenge, and was grateful for the food that would help feed his family.  I looked at it and groaned, only seeing work ahead for me.  How stupid I was.  He often took homemade goodies to his doctor when he went in for check ups.  The two of them would sit and talk about peppers and tomatoes far longer than the actual “exam” took.

Dad almost never disciplined me.  He spanked me once.  He cried harder than I did.  I remember hearing him tell my mother that he would never ever do that again.  And he didn’t.  He yelled at me only one time that I can remember.  He was disappointed in what I had picked out for a Mother’s Day present.  I think he was yelling as much out of frustration that he couldn’t do the shopping himself as much as the present itself.

He was my companion, my friend, my cuddle partner on the sofa.  I was his little girl.  A definite Daddy’s girl.  That phone call was the beginning of the end of our journey together.  I was a frightened sixteen year old, driving into an unknown, unsettled, discomforting future.

Tomorrow, Part Two

It’s oddly appropriate timing for the subject of GTT this week.  (This is my first GTT post, btw).  I commented on a blog last week about music and its significance in one’s life and it was suggested that I blog about my comments.  Thanks, Jenn!

I have a special relationship with the music of Edwin McCain. He’s my favorite artist in the world. I’ve had the pleasure of seeing him in concert numerous times and the honor of meeting and speaking with him on several occasions.

His music is ALWAYS my go to stuff, no matter what the mood. Sad, upset, happy, there is something there that speaks to me.  In a good mood, and happy?  “I’ve Got To Stop Thinkin’ Bout That” or “Do Your Thing” is on the play list.  Feeling sad and wanting my music to match? “Sign on the Door” or “Prayer to St. Peter” is wafting it’s soulful notes through the air.

When my husband and I were in the beginning stages of our relationship, we lived 3000 miles apart.  We’d met online, and spent hours upon hours on the phone with each other.  Our phone bills were the approximate amount of the GDP of a small nation.   I wasn’t sure what we had or where this relationship was going.

I had only recently discovered Edwin, but was already in love with his music.  I was driving to my aunt’s house one weekend, and had my latest Edwin CD,  Messenger, playing.  As I was listening to “I Could Not Ask for More” the lyrics hit me like a ton of bricks.  ” Smiling just to see the smile upon your face”  “These are the moments I thank God that I’m alive” So many lines in that song resonated.   THIS was the one.  HE was the ONE.  I was in love.   That night I told him how I felt.  Terrified I would scare him off, but I said it anyway.  Turned out he felt the same way.  Would I have realized it without the song?  Probably.  But who knows?

Another song in particular has special meaning. The name is “Shooting Stars”.

The basic premise is that people need to be grateful for what they have, not what they don’t. The reason this song has so much meaning for me has to do with the time Darin was laid off.  His company was drastically reducing staff and his position was eliminated.  We got by for a long time with my salary and his unemployment.  At that time it was the worst recession our state had seen in decades.   He couldn’t get a job anywhere.  FOr every opening, there were hundreds of applicants.  For months he searched while we squeaked by.  Then, the unemployment ran out.  We cashed in a 401k that got us by a few more months.   He had a job offer in California, but it meant selling our house and leaving family.  I loved our house.  It was the first thing that was ever truly ours.  Not just his, or mine, but ours.  We’d poured so much of ourselves into making it our own.  The thought of selling it and leaving tore me apart.  Then two things happened.  The 401k ran out of funds.  And the job offer disappeared.  Turned out the guy who made it really didn’t have the authority to do so.  We had about a month of house payment money left.  After that, we were looking at forclosure.

Edwin McCain released a new  CD  aboout that time.  On my way to work one morning I popped it in the player and let the music take me away from reality.  Shooting Stars came on the radio.   The line “Free your mind let your heart sing. And just remember that they’re only things” hit me like a ton of bricks. I realized the house didn’t matter. As much as I loved it, it was walls, a roof, a thing.   As long as we were together, that’s what really mattered. It was like a weight was lifted from me. Literally.

I was fortunate enough to be able to share that story with Edwin a few years ago.  After a concert, we went around to the tour bus where we knew he’d head.  I told him my story about Shooting Stars, and how much it had touched me.  He told me “Thank you, that’s the whole reason I write.” Then he pulled me in and hugged the stuffing out of me. I was shocked and touched. I think so was he.

That word describes a lot of how I’ve been feeling and what I’ve been dealing with lately.

I took a week vacation while my mom visited.  The week following that my husband and I were both sick, and as a result, were off work another week.  I was able to spend a lot of time with my daughter.  The kind of time I haven’t had with her since she was born and I was on maternity leave.

Walking away from her that first Monday morning to go back to work was agonizing.  Some of the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life.  I wanted so much to quit my job on the spot,  grab Ava and head home.  But I couldn’t.  I can’t.  We need my income.  At some point, we may be in a position for that to happen, but not now.  I’m helpless to change it.

When my mom was visiting, it became apparent for the first time that she is elderly.  She’s no longer the active, healthy person I knew growing up.  She’s getting old. Older.  I’m helpless to change it.

My father -in – law is not very involved in Ava’s life.  He sees her once a month, at most.  He never calls to ask if we would like to come over, or ask if he and his wife can drop by to see us.  I’m afraid she’s going to grow up not knowing him very well.  I’m terrified of her asking me “Why doesn’t Grandpa ever come to see me?”  I don’t want her to feel that kind of hurt.  We’ve spoken to him about this before, but with little to no result.  We’ve asked them to babysit a few times, but I am hesitant to ask anymore for fear they feel we are taking advantage of them.  I don’t know what to do to fix the situation, and I feel helpless.

Many, many things are changing at work.  Some good, some not.  Mostly, not.  Things that come under the guise of making things easier, but in reality, just create one giant clusterfuck.  It takes more of my time and energy, and taxes my patience.  I feel drained when I leave here.  I am so mentally tired I don’t have much left to give to my family at the end of the day.  I hate it, and I am helpless to change it.

The back to school commercials have begun on tv.  I cannot watch one in particular.  There is one with a mom helping her daughter get settled in at college and talking about how hard it will be not seeing her every day.  I know my baby girl is only 14 months old, but I know that day is coming.  Years off, yes, but just thinking about it now brings me to tears.  Every day I see her assert a tiny bit more independence.  She’s growing up.  Intellectually I understand that this is a good thing.  I want her to grow up to be and independent person, her own person.  My head understands this.  My heart does not.  I am helpless to stop the relentless march of time.

I know all the cliches about taking control of your own destiny, your life is what YOU make of it, blah blah blah blah.  Yeah, I get that.  Maybe one day the epiphany will come that will change where I am.  But for now, I feel stuck.  I feel helpless.