I am afraid to be happy.
There.  I’ve said it.  I’ve written it.  It’s true.

I have come to realize several things about myself in recent weeks.  Some are small things.  Some are not. I am not entirely sure what to do with these self revelations yet.  Right now they are slowly unwinding, like thread from a spool.  What I do know is that I seem to have an inability to relax.  A need to constantly hold my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Waiting for some unknown, horrific event that will once again shatter my world. There have been a lot of them.

I spent most of my childhood waiting.  Waiting for the next time I’d be yelled at for not living up to my parent’s expectations.  Waiting for the next time I’d make a remark that would result in a spoon to the face.  Waiting for the next time a classmate would shun me, because I was overweight, because we didn’t have money.

Once my dad passed away, I pieced a life together.  I was definitely not the same, but eventually I stopped holding my breath.  Then two years later my aunt died.  The aunt who was more of a mother to me than my mother.  The aunt I ran to when I couldn’t talk to my mother.  The aunt I sought solace with when yet again, I was berated for not doing things “The right way.”   Once again, I stood in the cold rain of the cemetery, the same one that we had buried my dad in a scant two years prior, and watched as someone I loved was eulogized and buried.  One by one, I began a slow death march back to that cemetery, almost every year for five years.  Great aunts, great uncles, my only “real” uncle.  I began to look around me and wonder who would be next.

During that time, I met, through my significant other at the time, a darling woman.  A good ten years older than me, a good 100 pounds lighter, born in a different country, but my twin in every other way. Her name was Beth.  We became inseparable.  At the time she and her husband were living in Chicago.  We spoke on the phone daily.  Then, one day, discovered she was pregnant after almost 10 years of trying.  Deciding they wanted to raise their child in a more laid back environment, Beth and her husband decided to move to Mississippi.  They bought a house not 30 minutes from my house.  I was over the moon.  We shopped together, decorated their new house together.  Her husband watched us with great amusement, grateful he wasn’t the one being drug from furniture store to furniture store. I was there when her girls were born.  All 3 of them.  Triplets.  After ten years of waiting, she had an instant family.  I was godmother.  I was part time nanny.  I lived with them for three months helping out.  I was there a scant 9 months later when her son was born.  I was there for so much. We were there for each other.  She helped me through marriage.  Through a divorce.  She never judged.  She was open.  Honest.

Then Columbine happened, and the school shooting in Springfield, OR.  Beth was afraid to send her children through school in the US.  She and her husband decided to move back to her native country, to England.  So a few months before I made my move across country, I helped her pack for a new life, a life that would lead to a great distance between us.  I hugged her tight the day she left.  She held my face in her hands and said, “this is not goodbye”.  It was the last time I ever saw her.  Two years after moving, Beth and her husband were hit head on by another car on a small country road.

At some point after this the walls I built around me got even taller.  More impenetrable.  I stopped letting people in.  Too afraid of getting hurt.  Too afraid of those goodbyes.  I watched my daughter fly through the air on a swing yesterday for the first time ever.  Her hair fluttering in the breeze, an excited smile on her face.  Part of me smiled and laughed.  Part of me cringed inwardly.  I wanted to relax and simply enjoy the day.  But that part of me that keeps waiting for the bad to come will not let me.  I am afraid that if I let my guard down and  revel in the good times it will be an even bigger shock when the bad one comes. Like somehow, if I’m on guard, watching I can prevent it.  If I see it coming it won’t hurt so much.

Which of course is silly.  The logical part of my brain knows that bad things happen and I can neither prevent them nor ease their impact by being vigilant.  The emotional part of my brain is stuck in that cold, wet cemetery.

Disclaimer: This is a cop-out post. The one that is going in place of anything deep and meaningful because I don’t have the energy. I am coming to terms with some things that I had hoped weren’t true, but in the end I can’t deny reality. It’s sad and it hurts, but I’m facing it at last. I just can’t write about it yet.

So, because I know every single one of you got up this morning with the same burning question on your mind “What did Jenna do this weekend?” I am here to answer that question.

Things that happened this weekend:

I scoured the clearance racks of clothing looking for overalls for Miss Avacakes. She has hit the “I’m stripping all of my clothes off and running around naked” stage of toddler hood. The two things she can’t strip out of are footy pajamas and overalls. So guess what she’s wearing today?

I got my oil changed and car washed. The car washing was long over due, seeing as how I couldn’t remember what actual color my car was anymore. I’m also pretty sure there are cheerio plants sprouting in the backseat, too. What? Cheerios don’t grow on trees? Dammit!

I discovered Ava likes meatloaf. Not my, yummy, bacon and cheese filled meatloaf. Oh no. The meatloaf that comes from the grocery store, shrink wrapped and microwave ready. Yeah. Stab me in the heart, kid..it’d be less painful.

Things that didn’t happen this weekend:

I still didn’t make it over to Sears to pick up the prints of the Christmas photos we ordered. In November. Yeah.

We didn’t take the Christmas lights down from the ledge in our living room. Hey – at least they’re not on the outside of the house. Only we are aware of our redneck-ness.

Me relaxing. I guess one weekend a year is good for that, right?

Spending enough time playing with Avacakes. There never seems to be enough time for that. Each weekend is filled with laundry, trips to the grocery store, cooking and napping (her, not me) that I always end up feeling like we just didn’t spend enough time just being.

So now that I’ve filled you in on my fun filled weekend – What did you do (or not do) this weekend?

I discussed a while back my challenges with getting Ava to eat. We went through about three weeks with her eating very little at all. I know all toddlers hit that “Hell no I don’t want to eat, I have better things to do” stage. However, Ava was losing weight. That became a concern.

I turned, as usual, to my Twitter gals, who plied me with ideas for us to try. After discovering that my little non eater was nursing a stomach virus (that she passed to me, thankyouverymuch) we worked on getting her over that and then tried to tempt her with new, exciting and previously forbidden foods. Anything in an attempt to get her eat. Chocolate chip waffles. Fish sticks. Macaroni & cheese. Chicken nuggets. Most of it was still turned away, except for the waffles, which turned out to be a big hit.

And then? Once day she must have decided she was hungry, because she just started eating again. Huh. Okaaaay, then.

What I find odd about this kid is the choices she will make. Last night she wanted nothing to do with the Mac & cheese (which I have gotten her to eat on a few occasions) and instead gobbled up a plate full of smoked salmon and pear slices.

Let me repeat: She chose SMOKED SALMON over Mac & cheese. What 20 month old do you know that does that?? She has also professed a love of blue cheese, salad, lemons (yes, you read that right) and beans of any kind, shape or form.

Things she won’t touch: Hot dogs, bologna, chicken nuggets, fruit juice, burgers, fish sticks. Pretty much if it’s a typical “kid’s food” she won’t touch it.

Also, after months of her pushing away any homemade food that was placed in front of her, we finally found victory with my beef stew. She picked around the meat, but loved the carrots, potatoes and celery. She liked the broth enough to turn the bowl up and slurp the last of it. Success!

We put Ava on the scales and she has gained back all the weight she lost, plus another pound. Which is awesome to say the least.

My only concern, considering her current eating habits, is how long before she demands only lox & bagels for breakfast, insists on eating on the fine china and turns her nose up at “domestic water”. It seems I’ve bred a little food snob here. But as long as she’s eating, that is just fine with me.

Today is just another Tuesday.  Except it is not just another Tuesday.  Today marks the 20^th time another year has rolled around without my dad.  Another year that I mourn for what might have been.  What should have been.

I don’t grieve in the same way I did 20 years ago.  Time has softened my emotions.  Grief that once was sharp and raw has now become dull and scarred over.  Events, smells and sounds can bring back the memories, but they no longer have the power to cripple me as they once did.

Mostly now, I look at Ava and regret that my dad is not around to see this wonderful human being that has his genes running through her veins.  Sometimes she makes a face, and for a second, I see a flash of my dad.  What I would give to see Ava sitting in his lap, eyes wide with excitement as my father told her one of his famous stories.  I wish I could see her giggling with delight as he tickled her the way he once tickled me, as we curled up on our sofa together.  I will never get to relive my childhood with my father through Ava.  My past and my present can never collide.

My biggest regret, the source of most of my sorrow, is that to Ava, my dad will never be more than a concept, an abstract idea.  A faded image in photographs.  She’ll never hear the sound of his voice or know the warmth of his hug.  No matter how much I talk about him, or show her pictures from the past, he will never be as real to her as he is to me.  He won’t be any more real to her than my own maternal grandfather is to me.

My mother’s father died long before I was born.  Although she spoke of him often, he remained a black and white image in a picture to me my entire life.  In his pictures he looked stern and gruff.  But my mother called him “Daddy” and told tales of him playing with her and her siblings.  She spoke about how much he changed after the war.  The war being WWII, and my grandfather having been drafted into Hitler’s army of old men and children toward the end.  In my head I see flickering black and white images, the grainy film of a news reel.  That is all of my grandfather I have.  I never once met him, or even spoke to him.

It pains me that my dad missed out on being a grandfather.  I hate the fact that Ava’s family history will be told through me, missing a generation of information that my father would have provided.  There is a piece of my family’s fabric that is missing.  Today I remember.  I mourn.  Tomorrow, I begin weaving another portion.

I miss you, Daddy.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.  It’s a day when families come together and celebrate all that they have been given.  It’s a day without the pressure of gifts, or elaborate decorations.  It’s a day to just revel in all that life has given us.

Until Avacakes was born, I don’t think I ever understood truly, the meaning of the word grateful.  Like so many other emotions, it was there, buried underneath the surface.  Her arrival into my life made me realize the true meaning of joy, happiness, appreciation and even fear.

But today, let me give thanks for all that I have been blessed with.

First, for my husband.  We’ve had our rocky moments.  The times that made us question our relationship and ourselves.  But we’ve always managed to pull through it and lean on each other.  I have a renewed sense of us, and our future.  He lets me lean on him when I need to, and steps back when I need solitude.  I am thankful every day that I have this wonderful man in my life, as my partner and friend.

My daughter.  Oh, Ava.  Words can never truly express how much you mean to me.  How thankful I am to have you.  That you are happy, healthy and full of life.  Each morning brings new smiles and laughter to the house that is now a home because of you.  You remind me to take joy in small things.  Watching you grow has been the greatest treasure I could have been given.  My heart bursts with joy and pride each time I look at you.  You are the light of my life, and I am truly grateful.

Family.  The ones close, and the ones far away.  My husband’s family who took me in 10 years ago and made me part of their family.   You gave me a sense of belonging I hadn’t felt since my father passed away.  For that I can never thank you enough.

My tribe.  My online community of friends.  I am amazed by your generosity, your kindness.  I’ve seen it in the past week as everyone once again came together in a time of crisis and need.  Once again, you stepped up.  I hope I never need that kind of support, but it’s comforting to know it would be there if I did.

My newfound friends.  You know who you are.  The ones I’ve shared emails, and texts with.  The ones who let me lean on them.  The ones who trust me with their own troubles.  I am humbled and grateful beyond words to have found you.

I hope all of you have a wonderful Thanksgiving.  May it be a safe and joyous one.

I remember it was gray.  It was January, after all.  I don’t remember if it was cold.  I remember the minister speaking in generalities about my dad.  He didn’t really know my dad all that well, seeing as how my dad was not a churchgoer.  He simply hadn’t been able.

The one memory that stands out clearly from the day we buried my father was that I prayed hard to just get through the day without breaking down.  So many eyes were upon my mother and me.  Everyone looking at us, whispering in hushed tones.

I remember scattered fragments of the days between when he passed and the day of the funeral.  Buying dresses to wear.  Picking out his suit, fending off a meddling grandmother and aunt who wanted to do things their way.  Sitting in the funeral home, selecting a casket and flowers for the top.  Always my mother looking at me and asking “What do you think?”  What do I think?  I think I’m 16 years old, I shouldn’t be doing this.

But I was.  I was making arrangements to bury my father.  Making phone calls.  Taking phone calls.  One in particular stands out.

My father in his last few years had begun research into his father’s side of the family.  A side we knew almost next to nothing about.   To his delight, he discovered we had cousins in Texas, and one of them was doing a genealogy trace as well.  They spoke on the phone on numerous occasions and the Texas contingent even traveled to Mississippi to meet my dad.  I remember my cousin calling a few days before the funeral asking to speak to my dad.  I had to tell her he had passed away.  She was so shocked she hung up on me.  She called back a few minutes later, apologized for hanging up on me, and said they were on the way here.  They must have broken many speed limits along the way, but they made it to Mississippi in time for the funeral.

So many people with that same look in their eyes.  Sad.  Unsure of what to say to us.  Classmates, whose parents pushed them to say something, mumbling “Sorry”.  So many “I’m sorrys”.  Too many.  What do you say to that?  “Thank you?”  I hate that part of loss.  People tip-toeing around you, you feeling like every word, action, expression is being watched, judged.  If you dare laugh at something, you’re not appropriately grieving.  If you cry too much, you’re overreacting.

After the funeral we all gathered at my grandmother’s house.  She was in her element, holding court.  You had to know my grandmother to really understand. Honestly, that’s whole separate post.  But needless to say, she thrived on drama, and the bigger, the better.

One of my cousins came over to fix one my grandmother’s space heaters.  Despite the fact that he and his wife and son lived next to us for five years, and my parents helped him out on numerous occasions, he did not come to the funeral. He had nothing to say, except that he could not understand why we were all so upset, since we knew this day was coming.  I was, am still am, speechless that someone could utter words so unfeeling.  I have not spoken to him since that day. I don’t know that I ever will.

Life for me, of course, marched on.  I went back to school, feeling more shunned and out of place than ever.  Now, not only was I the poor fat kid.  I was the poor fat kid whose dad died.

Once my dad passed away, apparently so did any obligation his family felt towards my mother and me.  We were isolated, with the exception of two of my dad’s sisters, both of whom lived out of town.

I graduated high school the following year, with only my mother and a great uncle in the audience to watch.  The first of so many events to happen with out my dad present.

I have a good life now.  I’m in my 30s.  I’m married and I finally have a family of my own, with the birth of Ava last June.  I sometimes wonder if I would have the life I have now, had he lived.   I know in my heart I wouldn’t.  I would not have made the stupid choices I made at age 19, getting married to someone old enough to be my father.  I wouldn’t have ended up divorced 8 months later.  I wouldn’t have charged headlong into yet another relationship with someone once again 20 + years my senior only to end up alone again.  I wouldn’t have purchased that computer that led me to a fan group where I met the man I am married to today.  I probably wouldn’t have had the guts to pick up and move across country.  I might have had kids, but I wouldn’t have my Avacakes.

I know my life thus far is what it is,  in large part to my dad’s passing.  The choices I have made, the grief I carry inside me shaped who I was, who I am, and who I will be.

It’s been almost 20 years now.  Dad has been gone longer than I knew him.  The grief has faded.  I no longer think about it every day.  The big events bring to mind the wish that he was still here to be a part of my life in a tangible way.  I know it’s ok to say goodbye.  It’s ok to let go.  And I will do so.  Every day for the rest of my life.

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