Light Through the Lens…

I think I blinked, and the calendar changed from October to December.  Some weeks I can do nothing more than plan day by day, because to look too far is overwhelming.  But, I “lost” the fall in a beautiful way.  I lost it shuffling my girl to places she loves to be, and helping her apply to high schools she is excited about.  Four years ago I could not have imagined she could keep this schedule.  She battles for it every day and I admire every ounce of her determination.  I take nothing for granted, and I know a huge “doctor cycle” is soon to be upon us.  Meghan’s appointments begin late this month.  Mine will overlap, likely culminating in vocal cord surgery.  But, for now, for this moment, I am grateful for this chaos.  The hint of “normalcy” is not to be left unappreciated.

Today though, I blocked out some time.  Today I needed some time to sit in my office and look around.  There are beautiful images on the walls of my office from New York City to Washington state – and places in between.  Each is carefully watermarked “Leon G. Thompson,” a process that took my husband countless hours.  There are thousands of such images on my laptop and several backup drives.  You may have no idea who “Leon G. Thompson” was, but I can tell you these pictures are more valuable to me than any you’d find in a museum.  Leon G. Thompson was my father, and these pictures are what he left behind on 12/4/13 when cancer snatched him from us far too soon.

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“A Few Good Men,” has been far more than a movie title in my life.  I was blessed to have 3 grandfathers that shaped who I am.  I am equally blessed to say I have had two fathers mold me into the woman I have become.  My Mom’s husband Ken came into our lives when I was a teenager, but he has been, and continues to be an unshakeable source of everything from “fun facts,” to computer tech, to house repair and all things in between.  There is a special place for a man who steps into a marriage with 2 teenage daughters in tow, treats them as his own from day one, and never skips a beat.

My father, well… let’s just say the early years were rocky.

What I know now, but I didn’t know then, clarifies a bunch.  Dad, a Vietnam veteran came home lost.  The earliest years are peppered with memories that don’t leave “the warm fuzzies.”  The years after that hold memories of fun visits.  Dad would come by sometimes.  There were movies, and visits to the park and the zoo.  There were restaurants, and exciting novelties.  But, there was not consistency.  There were chunks of empty time.  There was a lot of wondering.

Contact got more steady in the teenage years, especially after my brother was born.  There were more visits, and more phone calls.  But, history sometimes repeats itself, and there were years that faded away again.

Later, after high school, and probably after college too, there was more.  Maybe I was ready.  Maybe he was.  I’m not sure.  But, slowly and carefully, over years, a relationship began to form.  By the time I got married, I was able to dance with my Dad, (and Ken, and my Pop :-)) and I will cherish the memory forever.

After my daughter was born, he started showing up more.  And I liked it.

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Hard times came for Dad, and the restaurant industry finally failed him.  And that low for him, was the point our relationship became solid.  Nothing happens overnight, but he was here.  Close.  Interested.  Available.  He helped pick up Meghan.  He came to birthday parties, and dance recitals, and swim meets.  He came by for Father’s Day and even celebrated a birthday with us.

It was during that time that he first spoke the words I’d been waiting to hear since the second week of my Abnormal Psychology class in college.

“I have PTSD.  Do you know what that is?”

“Yep.  I know.  (and I exhaled a sigh I’d been holding in for years..) And it all gets better from here Dad.”

He was stunned.  He had no idea that his entire adult life spent making poor choices, ducking relationships, and often shying away from those who loved him most, were just a few of the symptoms of PTSD. (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder)  He couldn’t imagine that I had already pieced together that unspeakable horror encountered with his Marines in the jungles of Vietnam had impacted, to the point of changing, and really shaping his entire adult life.  13 months in that war, and not a day, a single day, ever went by without it influencing his thoughts and behavior.  I was able to pick up from a text-book the reasons why he had shied away from our relationship.  I was able to know in my heart that he couldn’t risk expressing his love, showing up, or being truly “present.”  But, in that moment, hat moment when he said it THAT is where I got him back.

I can’t say I remember the day.  And I may be wrong on the year too.  But, it was sometime around 2009.  Finally, he was working on his own healing.

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And he worked hard.

We spoke more regularly.  Once a week usually.  Sometimes it was his turn.  Most of the time it was mine.  As I struggled through raising a chronically ill child, he became my sounding board.  He was my confidant of all things.  He was where I went to bounce the tough decisions.  Because, life had left him a great listener.  Raising a child with a rare disease, means often having to make really tough choices alone.  When your disease affects only 1 in 200,000 people, experience with it is limited.  When Cowden’s Syndrome manifests differently in each of that small number of patients, including myself and my daughter, there is an even lower confidence interval with doctors who often just have no idea by no fault of their own.

It is hard to hear over and over again that a child is ill.  Especially, when it is your child, or your grandchild, or one you love so much.  I have had to make so many unorthodox medical decisions, that I often just needed someone to hear my thought process, and let me analyze, and over-analyze. I have gone against the doctors to trust an instinct that was strong in my mind and my heart.  Dad was the one who could hear it all out.  He heard me without speaking.  He listened attentively.  He offered advice only when I asked, and offered encouragement always.  These were not situations where I just needed my ego stroked.  These were tough conversations to have, and he never ever shied away from one.

He simply would bring me back to reality.  He’d ground me by telling me to use Meghan as my guide.  Check on her health, physically and emotionally.  Focus.  Trust my instincts.  Be able to correct wrong decisions whether they are mine or theirs.  Still now, three years later I find myself aching for those conversations.  She is stronger.  She is tougher.  She is amazing.  But, there are still so many battles to face and so many difficult decisions to make.  That’s when I retreat to my office.  I sit in his chair, and I look up at the path of snow in central park, or the Washington mountain top, or the waterfall, or the rainbow and I think.  I talk the conversation through as if he were here.  Because I know he is.  I just have to listen really carefully.

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Dad told me once that I understood PTSD because Meghan’s medical battles had left me some ways in a similar state to him.  When she was younger, and so sick, that perpetual fear of losing her, the hospitalizations, the surgeries, left me with a need to he “hyper” aware all the time.  While I could never profess to connect this to the horrors of war, he did.  And I think it allowed him to open up with some of his own stories.

Through those years I heard tales from his mouth I had never known.  I heard of battles, and losses and names of people, and places.  I listened so attentively.  Quietly.  As he had done for me.  Sometimes I even took pen and paper to write down his story.  Because I wanted to hang on every word.  Because you just never know.

I found out Dad was sick when I made that Friday night phone call in October 2013.  His voice sounded a little off and he told me he was in the ICU at the VA Hospital in Brooklyn.  When I asked him if anyone knew he said he wasn’t too sure.  But, he said, “now you do.”  And he laughed, as only he would at that moment.

I got to the hospital the next morning and we went through the details.  At that point no one knew anything.  Confused doctors was a topic we had spoken about at length.

The 10 weeks that followed were just a long blur.  There were about 4 weeks of me forcing his hand to allow me to take him back and forth to his appointments.  Sometime after that he admitted he couldn’t drive himself.  That was a tough day.  I had already called in my sister, and it was time to reach out to my brother in Texas.  Family meeting.  The “team” assembled.

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And through the some of the toughest weeks, I bonded in ways that can never be broken, with a sister I have always had, and a brother who I was getting to know better than I ever had.

Dad was admitted to the VA on Thanksgiving of 2013, and one week later, on December 4th, we were by his side when the angels came to free him.  No more suffering.  No more PTSD.  Pancreatic cancer at age 65.

I dialed his number for months after.  I still know it in my heart.

I spent the months after he died cleaning out his apartment.  Dad was not a man of many “things.”  His iPhone held no Email, and only one photo.  “Never want to put too much information in one place,” said the man who in his soul operated always with the mentality of a 19-year-old combat Marine.

As I cleaned I took every single scrap of paper he had ever written on and clipped them together.  I laminated them.  It was to be the only way we would ever “talk” again.  It is Dad’s quotes scattered through this piece.

He loved light.  And I guess for a man who had spent so much time fighting the darkness, his love for light made sense.

Dad was, to our family, and friends, a photographer.  “Tom” would have a camera around his neck at all times.  He took joy out of capturing happiness.  He took pleasure at photographing family events, and sharing his photos with everyone.  As we sorted through the pictures, in the months and year or so following his death, we saw some incredible images.  We sorted out the family shots from the scenery ones.  We put up a sharing site for all those family images in case anyone had never seen them.  And we protectively shielded his “scenery” images, and carefully watermarked them, and kept great pains to keep them off the internet.

At some point we will organize an art show in his memory.  We will print, and sell his treasures.  We will find a place to donate any profits that will honor his memory.  We will let the world see what he saw.  Dad used that camera lens to showcase the light.  To view the beauty in the world.  Consistently, when I look around I see “Light Through the Lens…” and in doing so I keep his memory alive.

Dad did not leave us rich with money, or objects.  He left us rich with visions and memories.  The former keeps you satiated for a little while.  The latter can keep you fueled forever.

The last gift Dad left for me, was one I did not see coming.  In the weeks preceding his death it had become apparent to me that there was a specific incident in Vietnam that clearly should have warranted him a Purple Heart.  I gathered data for him, presented the case, and even after denials came in, and he had passed, I kept fighting.

Holly, a treasure in Dad’s life and ours, had held onto a list of names and addresses from a Marine Corps Reunion they had attended many years prior.  I reached out to every Marine in that list, and if they were still alive, they reached back.  Over 20 of them.  45 years later.  I grew up knowing Dad had 7 brothers and a sister.  I had no idea of the Marine brothers scattered around the country.

I have had the pleasure of meeting many of them.  And this past summer I brought Meghan to meet a few too.

Alan was the first to answer my letter.  From West Virginia he called to tell me he remembered crossing time with Dad.  He researched the story I told him about the incident.  He found it totally credible, and helped me exhaust every option and every appeal to the Department of the Navy.  Ultimately that battle was lost on what I call a technicality, but by that time I had a friend and a confidant in Alan, previously a stranger.

My Dad, although not loyal to a particular church, by the time he died had a solid faith in God, forgiveness, and an afterlife.

I do not know the book this came from, but I found this among his clippings…

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My Dad in his passing, solidified my relationship with my sister, essentially “gave” me my brother who I had never really “known” but will NEVER let go of, AND, secured for me a confidant in Alan, and gave me the gift of loyalty that Marines save for their own and their families.

He left thousands of photos.  Snipits of his own words, and memories of times that we got it right.

I sometimes always wish that he would answer when I called him on the phone.  But, I know.  I know that he is flying free.  And I know, that while he needn’t be saddled with the cares of this world, that he checks in.  That he is nearby when I need him the most.

So when we are driving in the car and Meghan snaps a shot of a sunrise, or the light coming through the clouds in the sky.  When she sees the beauty of the world around her.  When she looks for the good. When she keeps her friends list short and neat, I see my Dad.  I feel him.  I know he’s right there for that moment.

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Courtesy of Meghan on a road trip to WV to meet the Marines.  Always being guided by the light…

Only when you love deeply do you feel great loss.  They all hurt.  The oldest to the newest.  I can not change the way I love.  When I love it is with my whole self.  Otherwise, why?

This one hurts differently because it took so long to get it right.  But, I rest with the gratitude that we did get it right.  And once you get it right, if it’s truly right, nothing before that matters anymore.

You may never know the strength you gave to help us remain

#Beatingcowdens

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Semper Fi Daddy, Always.

04/18/48- 12/4/13

Loved.  Missed.  Remembered forever.

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Here Comes the Sun…

It’s not unusual at all that a classic Beatles song would show up on a classic rock station in the car.  And I could write it off as mere coincidence.  But, there was my Dad this afternoon.  In the car, with the sun shining.  Reminding me…

“Here Comes The Sun”

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it’s all rightLittle darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it’s all right

Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been here

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it’s all right

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes

Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been clear

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it’s all right
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
It’s all right, it’s all right

Dad never worried much.  And that had its down sides – I’m not going to lie.  But there was this calm about him that I was able to appreciate more as an adult.  I would call him all spun around, and somehow without belittling what I was worried about, he was able to help me take a few deep breaths.

Our problems here are real.  They are ever-present.  They can captivate, and get a downright choke-hold if we let them.  The worries are real.  The concerns about the future.  About mobility.  The concerns about the present.  About pain.  About fatigue.  About swelling.  And looming surgery.  The long-term effects of an AVM that seems to be affecting foot size, knocking a growing girl off-sides.  The concerns about the uncertain make it hard sometimes for me to find the sun.

There are normal “issues” too.  Ones we don’t write too much about here.  Bumps in the preteen world.  Learning as we go.  Along together.  Grateful for what, and who, we have to work with in this house.

Yesterday it was dark.  Really, really dark.  My gut drew me to the cemetery, where I hadn’t been for a while due to the snow.  And as I walked up the hill I saw the white piece of granite.  I think I knew it was going to be there.  And simultaneously I was glad and sad I was alone.  I cried like I haven’t cried in quite some time.  There is something about the reality of loss etched in stone.  The permanence strikes in a whole new way – and its like being kicked in the teeth all over again.

There's a certain finality of reality etched in stone...
There’s a certain finality of reality etched in stone…

I sat in the car too shaken to drive.  And I called my husband, and then I called Alan.  Alan is one of Dad’s Marines who has stepped into my life in such a huge way over the past year.  We have yet to meet, but we have spent hours on the phone.  He has laughed and cried with me.  He has told me stories of things, and people I needed to know.   He sent me a book a few months ago called “90 Minutes in Heaven” and simply wrote, “Read this.”  I haven’t read a book in quite some time, but I did as I was told… and I was so grateful.  My Dad merited a Purple Heart during his service in Vietnam, but technicalities being as they are, it won’t be awarded.  Alan’s efforts on Dad’s behalf over this last year and a half were Herculean.  Marines never leave a brother behind.  So, as I viewed the government issued headstone, without the Purple Heart I had envisioned, and fought for, it stung a little extra.  But just when I was about to crumble these two birds flew in low and close.  There was a peace about them as they flew past into the park.  I understood.  It’s about way more than the awards.  It’s about the love.  And the peace.  And the lessons learned.  And the heart and eyes open for growth.  And “Uncle” Alan made me text him when I got home.  Another testament to his love for his “brother” extending right to me.

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This morning we all made it to church.  It hasn’t been an easy feat these last few months.  We three entered Castleton Hill Moravian, and I was struck by the sense of warm familiarity.  Next Sunday, Easter Sunday, will mark two years of membership for us.  Never did I expect to leave my home church.  Never will I quite get over that loss.  But, I am amazed, impressed, and inspired by the way my husband and daughter have become motivated members of our new church.  Gratitude.  Palm Sunday, a day of ‘Hosanna’ and celebration, foreshadowing the lowest days, leading us to Easter Sunday next week, and the promise of the Resurrection.

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The winter was too much.  In so many more ways than the relentless weather.  The worry.  The heavy hearts.  I missed Valentine’s Day, and St. Patrick’s Day, and never took the eggs out for Easter.  I didn’t realize how very much I needed the sun- literally and figuratively.

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Today Meghan swam.  Another CYO meet.  She blew my mind.  Again.  I can not for the life of me get over her stamina in the water.  It’s her “happy place”  and she’s most terrified of her upcoming surgery because of the time she will need to be away from the pool.

Her team loses every meet.  But the friendships they form, and the positive attitude can not be traded for high scores.  She became a swimmer because this team took her in when she had never swam competitively.

The 25 fly… (red cap)

The first leg of the freestyle relay.

We had friends spontaneously show up to cheer her on today.  Perhaps they sensed the lowest lows…  We spoke of summer, and gathering in the yard – just because.

We drove home with the sun warming the car.  The temperature read 50 degrees on the dash-board.

This week we will wait for the results of the blood drawn Saturday.  This week will be just 4 days as Easter Vacation approaches.

“Here comes the sun… and I say It’s all right…”

“A tranquil mind is not a little gift…”

Growing up I didn’t spend a lot of time with my father.  Despite some really fun day trips, I didn’t really know him well at all.

My Mom married an incredible guy when I was in high school, and there was this love and support that was there every day.  We got to know each other quickly and well.

And that’s my tale of two fathers.

Ken has been a constant in my life since I was 15.  He loves me like his own, and has treated my as such, without fail, and in all things.  I adore him.

Dad struggled after Vietnam, after horrors that I can only imagine.  He struggled to find his way, and to find the balance.  He married twice, and had three kids, then he spent 10+ years in a long relationship.  He lived all over.  He worked to add his charm and personality to nightclubs all over NY.  He knew how to live on top of the world, and at its bottom.

Several years ago life brought him back local, and for the first time that I could remember, he wasn’t working nights.  We spent more time together.  He came to dance recitals and swim meets for Meghan.  He came to my house for gatherings, and just to be with us.  We liked having him around.  All of us.  Even the dogs.

I got to have two “Dads.”  While one is called Ken and one was called Dad, the terms are synonymous.  Two very different people.   Very lucky girl.

And I used this time to catch up with Dad.  We would talk on the phone a lot, about anything.  Sometimes he would talk.  And when he did, I listened.  When he really talked about old stories I sometimes even took notes.  Because I didn’t want to forget anything.  I don’t think he would have loved that idea.  I suspect he would have thought it wasn’t worth my time.  But, it was.

Lots of times I would talk.  He was a really good listener.  He knew when to interject and when to stay quiet.  He knew when I needed to hear advice, and when I just needed a sympathetic ear.  Sometimes I get overwhelmed.  And I just need to offload, without judgment or solution.  I called every Friday that I grocery shopped.  Sometimes we talked for hours.

And the years saw a transformation as he was being  treated finally for the PTSD that had tormented his every move since the war.  He didn’t talk much about it, but every once in a while… it was my turn to listen carefully.  And I did.  Gratefully.

Then the conversations started to include talk of him being tired.  Looking for energy.  Millions of excuses listed, tried, tossed.  Then there was the jaundice.  And the blockage.  And the pancreatic cancer.  And within about 10 weeks my sister and brother and I said goodbye to our Marine.  “The few, the proud…”  to the very end.

Dad was a philosopher.  Sometimes I was right with him.  Other times we didn’t quite agree.  But, it never mattered.

And in the weeks before his death I became his healthcare proxy – because I do healthcare all the time.  And I got his medical records,and put them in a binder, and Dad laughed because he somehow knew I would – and so did my brother and sister,  and my siblings and I took him to the fancier hospital.  And we asked some questions.  And we talked a lot.  But, it was done.  In the end it was just time for it to be the end.

But I was not, and am not ready to let go.  Maybe that’s unhealthy.  Or maybe that’s keeping the memory alive.  Whatever.

Dad, stopping by?
Dad, stopping by?

It took weeks to clean out his small apartment.  I touched every paper.  I read, and sorted, and filed.  I made more binders, and file folders.  I shredded only with great care at my own dining room table.  And as I sorted I found little scraps of paper.  Little random thoughts.  Notes.  Scribbles of Dad’s.  So I gathered them all together and I taped them onto large sheets and I saved them as a PDF for my brother and sister.  And I laminated the originals for me.  And sometimes on quiet nights, when my mind is busy and I can’t sleep, I peek through those notes.  Almost like a chat with Dad.

Tonight I flipped open to the words, “A tranquil mind is not a little gift.”

And I paused.  And I smiled.  Dad’s mind was not always tranquil.  But in the end it was even through physical torment.  He had lived enough emotional torment to know “A tranquil mind is not a little gift.”

I am a worrier.  Not a shock to those who know me even a little.  But, also not unfair, all things considered.

This was a light week here for doctors.  Only 2 appointments and one argument with a disrespectful office manager that led to a formal complaint.  Oh, and one random really large pathology bill that was clearly not done right.  The appointments were fine.  One was annoying in the leaving at 7 for an 8:30 to be taken at 10:40 to get home around 2, but all things considered it was smooth.  The other was with the gastro doctor who wants another visit to the ENT to peek down at the esophagus.  (If only I could get a scheduler to do these things…) And the fight of course was with my doctor.  The office staff of a vascular surgeon for a procedure I definitely need soon.  I’m in the market for a new vascular surgeon.

But since we had some time, and we were looking for some light entertainment, we replaced the bay window in the front of the house.

So after a slightly tumultuous, but altogether fun trip to Disney, we returned very late Tuesday, slept most of Wednesday.  Did lots of laundry, sent my husband to help out at my sister’s on Thursday, and Friday got ready for the new window.

Not that we WANTED a new window.  We just bought the other one 14 years ago when we moved into the house.  But about 2 years ago there was this little black spot that kept growing.  And we called the company to look at it, but it turned out there was a class action lawsuit we had to participate in and I filled out miles of paper and it took almost a year to get someone to the house.  By the time they came the little black spot was large and clearly water related.  So the nice man took pictures and the conversation was about replacing the center of the window.  Until they called the next day and said the black spot was in the wrong places, and the window would have to be replaced.  But since the window was over 10 years old we’d get a percentage off the cost for the window and installation.  Um, well that price was so wild we bought the window ourselves.  And Ken and Felix and his friend John got it to our house, and finally Saturday all the planets aligned to put it in.

It was supposed to be a half day job.  It was supposed to fit right in.  And Felix, and Ken, and John, and Bobby, and Brendan worked their bottoms off.  But, there was some cutting of walls, and by the time it was all back together on the outside it was well past 11 pm.  That wasn’t the inside.

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bay window 2

I like the house neat.  Actually I need the house neat.  And you can tell me whatever you want about how it doesn’t always happen like that, or I have to give it up.  But I can’t and I won’t.  Because it’s a control thing.  I know it.  I’ll own it.  I can not control Cowden’s Syndrome, or any aspect of why Meghan feels cruddy so much of the time.  I can not control random illnesses or natural disasters, or unscheduled hospitalizations and surgeries, or any other obstacle that is going to come into my way.  But, through much experience I have found it markedly easier to handle every single crisis with a clean house.  Something about having order in the home, gives me some sense of peace when the waters are very rocky.

So, at 11 on Saturday night I looked around and began to freak a bit.  That’s when we decided to paint.  It was time anyway, and the house was on its ear so to speak.  So I prepped the room and there was paint.  And the living room and dining room are back together, but the hall needs a coat too… and you get the idea.

living room chaos

Not to mention that a few weeks ago Meghan began the move from her room on our floor to the upstairs of our cape.  There are two rooms with that peaked roof and lots of floor space.  (There have to be some perks to being an only!) She has a bedroom, and a room with a desk, and all the things she loves.  It has taken 4 weeks to clean out and move her, but we finished today.  And as I sat in her room I cried a little.  I remember distinctly being 9 months pregnant and crying in that room (see a pattern?) I was so scared.  I was right to be scared.  Some scary things have happened in the last 11 years.   This time I know the move upstairs will be far less painful than the one she’s sure to make just a few short summers from now.

megs empty room

It was a good time to move.  Junior High starts in just a few days really.  A whole new school.  A new chapter.  Turning point.  And as she decided what to keep, toss, and donate, her personality began to shine through.  With just a few pictures left to hang, she has created an atmosphere that is representative of her.  Now to keep it clean and clutter free… 🙂

But nothing is without event, and there is no time when I am fully at rest, as I frantically tossed my flip-flops off when I heard her cry out,” I NEED YOU!”  I arrived at the top of the stairs to find her crouched over grabbing a leg that has been giving her trouble for days.  One too many trips up the stairs, or on the floor sorting things?  Who knows.  Just like the headache that’s been around one day too many.  Sinuses, allergies?  God, I hope so.

At some point I’ll have to go to sleep tonight.  And tomorrow will be for more appointment making, and dealing with random bills.  The side of the house is littered with trash.  There are 10 bags being donated Saturday morning.  The clutter and dirt are disappearing simultaneously – with LOTS and LOTS and LOTS and LOTS of work.  But my sanity is being restored.

And while this is far from how I would have chosen to spend this week – so close to the end of summer, Meghan got some time in with some friends so it was in fact a success.

So much flux.  Moving Dads things in earlier in the year jostled the basement.  Moving Meghan upstairs caused some purging.  And slowly everything is coming together as it always seems to.

I think of how many times I would have called my Dad this week.  The number is too high to count.  I miss him every day.

He told me once to keep writing, to just keep letting it all out no matter what I thought of it.  So I do.  And I think about how he would have respected my need for order, while encouraging me not to sweat the small stuff.

Tonight I think calls for a glass of wine, and some reflection.  Gratitude for an almost “normal” week with largely “normal” problems.  Feeling grateful that my mind, while always a flutter, is somewhat tranquil, and…

“A tranquil mind is not a little gift…”

tranquil mind

Thanks for the chat Dad.  I miss you. A whole lot.