Some things in life, nearly everybody has to endure at some point: The first day of school, leaving home, having your wisdom teeth removed, etc. These are shared experiences in the sense that most people have them, and we can gain insight from others' stories about what happened. But at the core, even with all the support in the world, each of us does these things alone. We don't have a choice. Someone who cares about you may be sitting in the waiting room at the oral surgeon's office, but you are the one in the chair. It's the same with losing people you love. You may be surrounded by people, but it's an experience you go through, maybe not alone, but certainly in your own way.
What makes the process of losing someone so difficult is the same thing that makes those other common-but-solo experiences frightening: the unknown. There are so many ways to feel the anxiety borne out of the unknown. Basically you are trying to predict the future, and you know things are changing in terrible ways. And of course all of it is beyond your control.
There is no sugar-coating this: once my dad finally died it was every bit as painful as I'd envisioned, and as we started living our new reality and turning the unknown into everyday life, anxiety about not knowing how it would be turned quickly into searing grief over how it actually was. But there was one bright spot I hadn't anticipated, and that was the coalescing of people who had already lost a parent who didn't get to grow old.
I've written before about the overwhelming response of my friends and neighbors, most of whom met my dad only a couple of times or not at all, and I will never get over my gratitude for that. But support from those who'd already lost a parent too young felt different. It was as though I'd been initiated into an unfortunate-but-strong fraternity. Collectively, the people in this cohort who offered advice and support were like a big brother who was already established at the school I was starting. Help from a few individuals who could really relate to what I was going through has been a crucial part of my effort to move into the future without my dad.
There isn't any adequate way to repay the kindness, nor did anyone expect anything in return. All I can think to do is help the next friend who needs it. I take my responsibility as a member of this group very seriously. My services haven't been needed much, but I feel like a volunteer firefighter, ready to drop everything and help. It's a group nobody wants to join, but it sure was nice to discover it was there.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
The Birthday Post
Today my dad didn't turn 68. It's a good day for me to pick the blog back up after more than a month of silence. I never intended to leave the blog dark for so many weeks, but I was rendered more or less speechless by the double whammy experience of my first trip back to my hometown since losing my dad, and his unveiling - the first time I stood at his grave and saw the words on the stone. These are events I need to hash out with myself before dealing with them here. But, gentle (and few) readers, there is a lot to say about both in future posts.
My father had his own father well into middle age, and one thing I learned from my dad was how to be a son. He was always so proud of my grandpa's career as a musician, and so connected to his dad through their shared appreciation for the era of my grandpa's prime. As he was an avid collector of radios, sheet music, and records, my dad maintained a collection of music and memorabilia from Tommy Tucker and His Orchestra, which was the band where my grandpa started his career. Consequently, my childhood was steeped in my dad's devotion to the big band era, and though I resisted it, called it dorky and boring, and basically reacted the way most kids do, I am glad now that there are sights and sounds in this world that give me a feeling of closeness to both my dad and his.
In looking around for just the right song to share for my dad's birthday, I was pleased to find that my grandpa gets a mention on the Wikipedia page for Tommy Tucker and His Orchestra. Check the Career Highlights and Associated Talent section. The name you are looking for is Mac Becker. I wonder if my dad even knew it was there.
Here is what I think of as the signature song from Tommy Tucker. It was a huge hit for the band in 1941. My dad loved it, and his dad played sax on it. Enjoy.
My father had his own father well into middle age, and one thing I learned from my dad was how to be a son. He was always so proud of my grandpa's career as a musician, and so connected to his dad through their shared appreciation for the era of my grandpa's prime. As he was an avid collector of radios, sheet music, and records, my dad maintained a collection of music and memorabilia from Tommy Tucker and His Orchestra, which was the band where my grandpa started his career. Consequently, my childhood was steeped in my dad's devotion to the big band era, and though I resisted it, called it dorky and boring, and basically reacted the way most kids do, I am glad now that there are sights and sounds in this world that give me a feeling of closeness to both my dad and his.
In looking around for just the right song to share for my dad's birthday, I was pleased to find that my grandpa gets a mention on the Wikipedia page for Tommy Tucker and His Orchestra. Check the Career Highlights and Associated Talent section. The name you are looking for is Mac Becker. I wonder if my dad even knew it was there.
Here is what I think of as the signature song from Tommy Tucker. It was a huge hit for the band in 1941. My dad loved it, and his dad played sax on it. Enjoy.
Friday, April 8, 2011
The Most Depressing Thing I Heard All Week
A much-respected public figure and member of my community died suddenly on Monday. He was only 51, and he left four children, the youngest of whom is only nine years old. It's a flags-at-half-staff kind of death, and it has sent a shudder through the close-knit town I live in.
This death marked an unwelcome, but inevitable change in my perspective, too. More than any other death that has touched my life, and this includes close friends dying in their (and my) teens and early twenties, this was the first time I felt sharply, if it happened to him, it can happen to me. It isn't as though I just found out I was mortal, but I have clearly moved from worrying about what would happen to me if this person or that person died, to worrying about what would happen to them if I died. And this week's news was all the evidence I needed that it can happen. It does happen.
But none of this was the most depressing news I heard all week. I also recently, though not this week, got news that a friend of mine has eight inoperable brain tumors. She is not yet 32. Devastating, but still not the most depressing thing.
And I learned that a little girl I know and love who is in kindergarten has a tumor. Chemo once a week indefinitely. She may have a good prognosis, but this has wrecked her childhood, at least for now. Sickening. Heart-rending. Not the most depressing thing.
The most depressing thing I heard all week happened in a casual conversation with a couple of other men who are 40-ish. We were talking about the sudden death, and how awful it was, when one of them inadvertently dropped the bomb. We were saying that it makes you think about how you live, and wonder whether you should behave differently, make some sweeping changes. Make your life what you want it to be, and what your wife and kids need it to be. Then he nailed us all. He said, the thing is, none of us will do any of that. We'll be upset by this news for a while, and then we will just forget about it and go back to the way things were. And he's right.
Naturally this brought me back to last summer, watching my dad waste away by the minute. As I stood vigil, I promised myself I would make something positive out of this loss. I wasn't sure what, but I would take the energy and the frustrated feelings of helplessness, and do... something. Maybe it would be small. I'd be more patient with my kids. Maybe it would be large. I'd start the family business Dad always said he would want to invest in. Maybe I would start that novel already. Take a trip. In some way mark the time before the bad experience and the time since.
Have I made significant enough changes to satisfy my need to make my father's loss mean something? That conversation made me review the scorecard. I said in my Spring Renewal post that I had set some personal goals, and had been making progress toward them. It's true, but I have stalled out lately. I need to re-light that fire. And I said in the Patience post that kids deserve patient adults, and that I was struggling to get some mastery over that. Also true, but not nearly enough. It is still too easy to raise my voice, and too easy to forget that they need me to be patient, even when I have always known that my kids deserve kindness and patience. What else? No novel, no business, no life-altering moves.
While I hope there is still time to create something positive from the ashes, you can never really know. I've got a good life, and one that I'd be envious of if I were outside looking in. But there is a lot I more want to accomplish - a lot more work I have to do if I am going to make this life, as I said, what I want it to be and what my wife and kids need it to be. What the hell am I waiting for?
This death marked an unwelcome, but inevitable change in my perspective, too. More than any other death that has touched my life, and this includes close friends dying in their (and my) teens and early twenties, this was the first time I felt sharply, if it happened to him, it can happen to me. It isn't as though I just found out I was mortal, but I have clearly moved from worrying about what would happen to me if this person or that person died, to worrying about what would happen to them if I died. And this week's news was all the evidence I needed that it can happen. It does happen.
But none of this was the most depressing news I heard all week. I also recently, though not this week, got news that a friend of mine has eight inoperable brain tumors. She is not yet 32. Devastating, but still not the most depressing thing.
And I learned that a little girl I know and love who is in kindergarten has a tumor. Chemo once a week indefinitely. She may have a good prognosis, but this has wrecked her childhood, at least for now. Sickening. Heart-rending. Not the most depressing thing.
The most depressing thing I heard all week happened in a casual conversation with a couple of other men who are 40-ish. We were talking about the sudden death, and how awful it was, when one of them inadvertently dropped the bomb. We were saying that it makes you think about how you live, and wonder whether you should behave differently, make some sweeping changes. Make your life what you want it to be, and what your wife and kids need it to be. Then he nailed us all. He said, the thing is, none of us will do any of that. We'll be upset by this news for a while, and then we will just forget about it and go back to the way things were. And he's right.
Naturally this brought me back to last summer, watching my dad waste away by the minute. As I stood vigil, I promised myself I would make something positive out of this loss. I wasn't sure what, but I would take the energy and the frustrated feelings of helplessness, and do... something. Maybe it would be small. I'd be more patient with my kids. Maybe it would be large. I'd start the family business Dad always said he would want to invest in. Maybe I would start that novel already. Take a trip. In some way mark the time before the bad experience and the time since.
Have I made significant enough changes to satisfy my need to make my father's loss mean something? That conversation made me review the scorecard. I said in my Spring Renewal post that I had set some personal goals, and had been making progress toward them. It's true, but I have stalled out lately. I need to re-light that fire. And I said in the Patience post that kids deserve patient adults, and that I was struggling to get some mastery over that. Also true, but not nearly enough. It is still too easy to raise my voice, and too easy to forget that they need me to be patient, even when I have always known that my kids deserve kindness and patience. What else? No novel, no business, no life-altering moves.
While I hope there is still time to create something positive from the ashes, you can never really know. I've got a good life, and one that I'd be envious of if I were outside looking in. But there is a lot I more want to accomplish - a lot more work I have to do if I am going to make this life, as I said, what I want it to be and what my wife and kids need it to be. What the hell am I waiting for?
Thursday, March 31, 2011
The More You Know, The More You Know Can Go Wrong
I'm reading the book Manhood for Amateurs at the moment. It's a collection of essays by Michael Chabon. Among many poignant exchanges between brothers, parents and children, spouses, one stands out to me. The narrator and his adolescent son are using an extremely high-powered telescope to explore the night sky. The son is swept away by the enormity of the universe, especially vis a vis the smallness of our planet, and our corner of this galaxy, which is one of likely a few hundred billion galaxies out there. The son remarks that given how small Earth is, we mean nothing. The father replies, "Except to each other."
As a reader, I love the scene. As a dad, I admire Chabon's quick thinking and sensitivity. There is so much in those four words. He let his son know he loved him, and he gave him a little to chew on about the meaning of life.
While we may enjoy (fiercely guard) our periods of solitude, so much of life comes from what other people mean to us. And no matter where love for others falls on your own ranking of sources of the meaning of life, it is surely one of your biggest vulnerabilities. Mine too. Everybody's. We put everything we have into our children, our partners, even our pets. But there are no sure bets, and if you allow yourself to see far enough into the future, one way or another it all disappears. The more people you let in, the more you invest in them, the richer your life, and the greater the risk of tragic loss.
I don't often paralyze myself thinking about all the different ways I could lose people I love, but sometimes you get hit hard with news about people you know and care about, and it makes you wonder when your turn for devastation will come. By the way, my dad getting sick and dying was sad and feels unfair to him and to those of us who love him, but I would not term it a tragedy. Sickeningly sad, yes. Tragedy, no. Once in a while I have to remember that. Keep perspective. But watch the news any given day, read the paper, just talk with people, and you will learn about real tragedy. In fact, the chance that you and yours will have long, healthy, happy lives starts to seem like a near-impossibility. Kids get sick, violent crime happens, car accidents, natural disasters of course...
So how can we deal with the knowledge that risk and danger are everywhere? For one thing, we can live like they aren't everywhere. Otherwise we'd never make a move. For another thing, we can keep maybe one percent of that notion and use it to inform our thoughts and actions. It may lead us to broaden our circles, collect more people, care about them, love them. Spread the risk around a little. And it may help us remember to be careful out there. Not "wear a helmet for no reason" careful, but reasonable stuff. Seatbelts, no smoking, etc.
Then with any luck, as we float through our galaxy (one of hundreds of billions, remember) and through a sea of 200 sextillion stars (a legitimate estimate), maybe we will give meaning to other people's time here. We can set aside whether any of this means anything in some grand scheme, and make it meaningful ourselves.
As a reader, I love the scene. As a dad, I admire Chabon's quick thinking and sensitivity. There is so much in those four words. He let his son know he loved him, and he gave him a little to chew on about the meaning of life.
While we may enjoy (fiercely guard) our periods of solitude, so much of life comes from what other people mean to us. And no matter where love for others falls on your own ranking of sources of the meaning of life, it is surely one of your biggest vulnerabilities. Mine too. Everybody's. We put everything we have into our children, our partners, even our pets. But there are no sure bets, and if you allow yourself to see far enough into the future, one way or another it all disappears. The more people you let in, the more you invest in them, the richer your life, and the greater the risk of tragic loss.
I don't often paralyze myself thinking about all the different ways I could lose people I love, but sometimes you get hit hard with news about people you know and care about, and it makes you wonder when your turn for devastation will come. By the way, my dad getting sick and dying was sad and feels unfair to him and to those of us who love him, but I would not term it a tragedy. Sickeningly sad, yes. Tragedy, no. Once in a while I have to remember that. Keep perspective. But watch the news any given day, read the paper, just talk with people, and you will learn about real tragedy. In fact, the chance that you and yours will have long, healthy, happy lives starts to seem like a near-impossibility. Kids get sick, violent crime happens, car accidents, natural disasters of course...
So how can we deal with the knowledge that risk and danger are everywhere? For one thing, we can live like they aren't everywhere. Otherwise we'd never make a move. For another thing, we can keep maybe one percent of that notion and use it to inform our thoughts and actions. It may lead us to broaden our circles, collect more people, care about them, love them. Spread the risk around a little. And it may help us remember to be careful out there. Not "wear a helmet for no reason" careful, but reasonable stuff. Seatbelts, no smoking, etc.
Then with any luck, as we float through our galaxy (one of hundreds of billions, remember) and through a sea of 200 sextillion stars (a legitimate estimate), maybe we will give meaning to other people's time here. We can set aside whether any of this means anything in some grand scheme, and make it meaningful ourselves.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Fridays with Kenny
Tonight, in the unlikeliest of kitchens under quite unlikely circumstances, a warm and funny acquaintance of mine started singing the novelty song "National Brotherhood Week" by Tom Lehrer. The song is at least fifty years old, and so is the acquaintance, but he was shocked when I joined in singing. How could someone my age know it? My dad is how. By the way, when you are done reading this post, check out the song here, http://t.co/LtAMYkz.
Of all the things imprinted on me nature- and nurture-wise by my dad, the most direct link I have with him, and with his dad for that matter, is a deep appreciation for humor. And on many a Friday night while I was growing up, we took time to work on it. I can't look back and pretend that either of us had any agenda beyond sharing some laughs together, but it does seem like he opened an avenue of literacy for me. These are some of the most important and best memories I have of my growing up years.
Late on Friday nights over games of Scrabble and Monopoly in his den - it wasn't THE den, it was DAD's den - we would get into all kinds of TV shows and comedy albums. The Honeymooners, Carson's Comedy Classics, Carol Burnett, every George Carlin record from the 60s and 70s, Lenny Bruce, Stiller and Meara, and albums by guys I didn't know even had stand-up careers. People like Gabe Kaplan, Bob Newhart, Woody Allen, and more. Some of the material flew over my pre-adolescent head, and some was wildly inappropriate, but he trusted me to handle it, and I did.
More special to me now than was the comedy itself, was that he shared it with me. He let me discover it. It was our time together even if he was tired from a long week or had other things he needed to do.
And while I remember it as an endless string of Friday nights stretching out over a few years, I am sure he would tell me that it all ended too soon. At some point, in accordance with the same stupid narrative convention that will rob me of time with my kids, I grew to feel like it would be dorky to sit home on a Friday and hang out with my dad. Like so many things we do and do until we don't, I can't remember the last Friday night we spent together like that, and I am sure neither of us realized at the time that it would be the last.
Of all the things imprinted on me nature- and nurture-wise by my dad, the most direct link I have with him, and with his dad for that matter, is a deep appreciation for humor. And on many a Friday night while I was growing up, we took time to work on it. I can't look back and pretend that either of us had any agenda beyond sharing some laughs together, but it does seem like he opened an avenue of literacy for me. These are some of the most important and best memories I have of my growing up years.
Late on Friday nights over games of Scrabble and Monopoly in his den - it wasn't THE den, it was DAD's den - we would get into all kinds of TV shows and comedy albums. The Honeymooners, Carson's Comedy Classics, Carol Burnett, every George Carlin record from the 60s and 70s, Lenny Bruce, Stiller and Meara, and albums by guys I didn't know even had stand-up careers. People like Gabe Kaplan, Bob Newhart, Woody Allen, and more. Some of the material flew over my pre-adolescent head, and some was wildly inappropriate, but he trusted me to handle it, and I did.
More special to me now than was the comedy itself, was that he shared it with me. He let me discover it. It was our time together even if he was tired from a long week or had other things he needed to do.
And while I remember it as an endless string of Friday nights stretching out over a few years, I am sure he would tell me that it all ended too soon. At some point, in accordance with the same stupid narrative convention that will rob me of time with my kids, I grew to feel like it would be dorky to sit home on a Friday and hang out with my dad. Like so many things we do and do until we don't, I can't remember the last Friday night we spent together like that, and I am sure neither of us realized at the time that it would be the last.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Crappy Anniversary / Happy Anniversary
I have a mind for numbers, dates especially. I used to have a very sharp memory before I had kids. In the pre-Facebook era it was very handy to remember everybody's birthdays, anniversaries, and other milestones. In the post-cancer chapter of my life, I sometimes have to work to purposely forget the dates when certain things happened, because there is plenty I do not want to commemorate. In some ways I am grateful that parenting has turned portions of my brain into mush. And really, there are only so many dates on the calendar. Live long enough and almost every day could be the anniversary of something.
I've got dates on the brain because one unfortunate anniversary is looming and there is no escaping it. This Sunday will be March 13, which marks five years to the day that my dad - and the rest of us - first learned he had cancer. Though I can remember every detail about the day we got the call, the date itself wasn't important to my dad. I reminded him once or twice of passing that date and he seemed surprised each time that we had marked another year.
This year the date was to have incredible significance. For one thing, at the beginning of his cancer journey, his oncologist predicted he could live with his disease about five years. I hated that he was given an expiration date. Furthermore, epidemiologists record cancer survival rates by those who have lived five years after being diagnosed, even if they are in active treatment. As I addressed in a previous post, only one percent of those who have the kind of cancer he had ever make it to that milestone. I never doubted he would be one of those longterm survivors.
Instead of celebrating a huge victory against cancer this year, we will be missing my dad. But March 13 won't live in infamy. We're already taking it back. This year we celebrate the most special thing any family can gain: new life. My daughter will celebrate her first birthday on the 12th, and have her first birthday party on the 13th. If that doesn't make the 13th a day worth feeling good about, nothing ever could.
I've got dates on the brain because one unfortunate anniversary is looming and there is no escaping it. This Sunday will be March 13, which marks five years to the day that my dad - and the rest of us - first learned he had cancer. Though I can remember every detail about the day we got the call, the date itself wasn't important to my dad. I reminded him once or twice of passing that date and he seemed surprised each time that we had marked another year.
This year the date was to have incredible significance. For one thing, at the beginning of his cancer journey, his oncologist predicted he could live with his disease about five years. I hated that he was given an expiration date. Furthermore, epidemiologists record cancer survival rates by those who have lived five years after being diagnosed, even if they are in active treatment. As I addressed in a previous post, only one percent of those who have the kind of cancer he had ever make it to that milestone. I never doubted he would be one of those longterm survivors.
Instead of celebrating a huge victory against cancer this year, we will be missing my dad. But March 13 won't live in infamy. We're already taking it back. This year we celebrate the most special thing any family can gain: new life. My daughter will celebrate her first birthday on the 12th, and have her first birthday party on the 13th. If that doesn't make the 13th a day worth feeling good about, nothing ever could.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Where do we go from here?
What do you believe happens when a person dies? Where do you think we go from here? There is no point asking what you know about it, because we all know exactly the same: zilch. And anyway, I would bet that for most people, what they believe is really more like what they want to happen.
With all the things happening in my life and in the lives of my kids, and with my constant frustration at not being able to have a simple conversation with my dad, you would probably think I want him to be, in the classic vision, "up there smiling down". You would be wrong. I don't intend to demean anybody's beliefs, or deny comfort to those who find it in their faith, but the older I get, the harder it has become to force myself to believe in heaven or any afterlife, really. If you believe that our souls go somewhere else, or that we become something different after this life, I envy the comfort you derive from it.
That is what I believe, but here is what I want: Of course I want there to be something after this, and paradise would be nice. But failing that, I would love to know that wherever our souls go, beyond being happy, I hope we aren't concerned in the least with earthly affairs. Imagine how frustrating it would be to be able to see your loved ones go on with their lives without you, to witness, but not be able to influence, their worst experiences along with their best ones. No thanks.
I hope I will somehow have time with my dad again in the distant future, after my lifetime, but in the mean time, I hope he has no emotional attachment to anything going on "down here".
Just to show you I am not made of stone, here is a funny clip about this topic from the immortal George Carlin. The needle on the irony meter broke when Mr. Carlin died only a few weeks after this HBO special aired. I can only assume he is smiling down on this blog post. And I think he's pleased.
WARNING: If you watch this at work or around kids, keep the sound low. Some of the language isn't safe for work.
With all the things happening in my life and in the lives of my kids, and with my constant frustration at not being able to have a simple conversation with my dad, you would probably think I want him to be, in the classic vision, "up there smiling down". You would be wrong. I don't intend to demean anybody's beliefs, or deny comfort to those who find it in their faith, but the older I get, the harder it has become to force myself to believe in heaven or any afterlife, really. If you believe that our souls go somewhere else, or that we become something different after this life, I envy the comfort you derive from it.
That is what I believe, but here is what I want: Of course I want there to be something after this, and paradise would be nice. But failing that, I would love to know that wherever our souls go, beyond being happy, I hope we aren't concerned in the least with earthly affairs. Imagine how frustrating it would be to be able to see your loved ones go on with their lives without you, to witness, but not be able to influence, their worst experiences along with their best ones. No thanks.
I hope I will somehow have time with my dad again in the distant future, after my lifetime, but in the mean time, I hope he has no emotional attachment to anything going on "down here".
Just to show you I am not made of stone, here is a funny clip about this topic from the immortal George Carlin. The needle on the irony meter broke when Mr. Carlin died only a few weeks after this HBO special aired. I can only assume he is smiling down on this blog post. And I think he's pleased.
WARNING: If you watch this at work or around kids, keep the sound low. Some of the language isn't safe for work.
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