"What have you been doing this summer?"

            Remnants of the night’s adventures in the kitchen are strewn across the counter and in the sink.  The smell of tilapia and blended margarita’s linger in the air.  The house, well, it is messy.  There are clothes folded on the chair and the other kitchen counter.  Thank you cards, wedding plans and books are piled on one side of the table as room had to be made for dinner.  The merging of two apartments into one has inevitably created a more cluttered, yet perfect, appearance to the place. Looking around, one should pick up, but instead a movie on the couch is far more appealing.

            Tomorrow I will clean.  Tomorrow I will tackle the million items on my list of “summer accomplishments.”  Tomorrow I will make room in our overflowing closet.  Tomorrow I will continue to plan for next year in fourth grade.  Tomorrow I will, well, we shall have to see. 

            As the question, “What have you been doing this summer?” has been asked countless times my answer to anyone has yet to be clear.  Besides my obvious two adventures to Nashville and Philadelphia I cannot concretely say what I have done to fill my days.  I have been busy, but busy in a way unfamiliar to me.  All anyone has to do is look at our house to understand.

Life moves fast, really fast.  A tragedy occurs, we pause, and then we move.  Some of us move even quicker than before as a means to survive, fearful that if we stop, we might not be able to move again.  Then as you are moving, grieving, surviving, something magical happens and you are brought to the polar opposite of your emotional compass to the joy, excitement and love of being engaged.  Before you know it you are moving even faster than before, balancing pain and grief with overwhelming happiness and love.  Your emotional compass spinning day in and day out as you grapple to make sense of your ever-changing world. 

As summer approaches the plans for action take over.  Prepare for the wedding, prepare for fourth grade, help mom paint and clean out the basement, catch-up on pleasure reading, catch-up with friends, work-out, cook healthy and abundant meals, keep the house spotless, help clean grandpa’s yard, be a summer blogger.  Typically, this plan for action is my guide and I savor the gift of time to conquer my tasks.  I take comfort in knowing that I am accomplishing things.  I am realizing I also like having an immediate answer to the question, “What have you been doing this summer?”

Of course, I have worked on lots of those previously mentioned plans for action.  I have guiltily savored reading all three of the Fifty books and the deep discussions that have followed with friends.  I have spent time at my parent’s house, helping to paint the railings and work in the backyard.  I have spent time studying the fourth grade curriculum. Brian and I have accomplished a great deal of wedding plans.  I have traveled twice.  Yet, I am realizing that this summer is about something else.  This summer is not about something that can be seen or touched or crossed off on a to-do list.  This summer is learning the power of allowing myself to forget the lists sometimes, forget the world sometimes and find solace in myself.

Waking up early, drinking coffee and listening to music.  Waking up early, looking at the clock and going back to sleep.  Crying while: watching Home Improvement, watching The Amazing Spiderman, watching father’s day commercials.  Finding a handwritten note from my dad (I did attempt to clean out the closet) and being thankful that I do not always throw everything away.  Then stopping everything to sit and look at the note the rest of the night.  Drinking too much at my cousins beautiful wedding, missing my flight the next morning, then arriving to friends open arms and choosing to embrace the hiccup (after the epic meltdown on I-70 at 5:00am, poor Brian).  Being surrounded by my family and closest friends at my bridal shower and bachelorette party.  Feeling so spoiled, so loved, so excited.  Sobbing in the back of a taxi-cab after a wonderful evening on my mom’s back porch sampling wine for the wedding; Brian wiping away my tears and Lindsey by my side.  Staying up until three am with my visiting college roommates looking at pictures, reminiscing.  Going to Philadelphia with Caitlyn and having the most delicious, adventurous meal of my life.  Talking to my mom a hundred times a day.

This is what I have been doing. These are the things that I needed. I have been busy, just different busy.  Even when I am just sitting alone, at home, I am busy.  My mind and body and heart have needed this time, this time to unwind, to feel, to breathe.  I am grateful that my career has allowed me this time that not everyone has the privilege to have.  My emotional compass is still off balance and I predict it will be for a while, but this summer it has had time to stop racing.  I am not sure what I will do tomorrow and I am getting more comfortable with this uncertainty.  The routine, the moving, it will be happening again soon enough. 

"Have I told her?"

“Did I tell you?  Did I tell you all that I meant to tell you, all that I felt was important.   Did I tell you or was it lost in the shuffle of our everyday lives.  The busy full days when we taught and didn’t know it.  What did we teach?  Was it strong?  Was it good?  Will it root you in something real that will allow you to grow with a firm and sound foundation?  Did I tell you…” 

–excerpt from Did I tell you? By Elizabeth Knapp

I was fourteen years old when my mom gave me this treasured gift on Christmas.  From college, back home, to various apartments, the book has always been unpacked and gently placed on my bookshelf.  I love reading the last page because the author says if I did tell you “I am humbly grateful” and I always think to myself, ‘I do love this book, but I didn’t need the book to tell me, my mom told me every word of every page each and everyday.’  I am grateful to call her mom.

Tomorrow is my phenomenal mother’s birthday, her first birthday without my dad.  Usually my mom is an easy person to shop for as clothes, jewelry, and household items seem to shout her name as you walk by.  Not this year.  This year the gift has to be perfect.   It has to somehow help ease the hollow void that is inevitable without my dad arriving home with beautiful flowers, a kiss, and an “I love you.”  Deep down I know that no “thing” will do this, yet I have remained determined to find it.  Tonight, I sit here without a tangible gift for tomorrow, yet I feel relieved that I know what to give her.   The past, almost eight months, I have wondered, “Have I told her?”

“Have I told her,” that her and dad’s love was the kind of love that fairytales were made of.  That their love created a home full of laughter and happiness for anyone who visited, but most importantly for us kids.   That they exemplified what it means to be married and head-over heels in love.

“Have I told her,” that she is the mother of all mother’s.  That I wish that all children could have her to call  'mom.'    How much I admire her decision to stay home and raise Kristin and Brian and I and any other cousin or friend that needed a place to be.  That I know she took on the hardest role in the world-that of a stay at home mom.  That I have always wanted to be just like her; the woman capable of doing it all with ease and grace

“Have I told her,” that she is my best friend?  The person I always need by my side.  Whose advice holds more weight than any other person in the world and whose insight is so profound.  That she is my strength and my light in this life.

“Have I told her,” that she is the strongest person I know?  That she suffered the most unimaginable loss, my dad, and yet it has been her that has comforted everyone else.  That no one would fault her for falling apart at the seams?  That her ability to take each day as it is, to grieve openly and honestly, to cry and to laugh, to tell stories… it is inspirational.  That she is the reason that we are all as ‘okay’ as we can be.  That if I can be half the woman that she is, I will have succeeded in this life.

 

 “Have I told her,” that it is my turn?  My turn to be the strong one.  My turn to make sure that everything is okay.  My turn to listen and be her shoulder?. My turn to say “you need to surrender and sleep.”

"Have I told her," that I am sorry?  That I am sorry that her life got turned upside down in an instant.  That I am sorry that such a fundamental part of her identity has been taken away.  That I am sorry that she is alone at night.  That I can't begin to imagine how she is finding the strength to look forward when the pain is so deep.  I am sorry.

“Have I told her,” that I know our lives will never be the same, but that it is because of her that I know we will find our way.

“Have I told her,” everything that a daughter should tell their mother, especially a mother as remarkable as mine?  “Have I told her????”

Writing Challenge Recap

When I started out on this month long writing challenge I was uncertain what I was getting myself into.  Could I do it?  What would I write about everyday?  How would I find time? Would people be interested in what I had to say?  There were so many questions, but I listened to my inner voice and committed.  This journey has been a remarkable one.   I was inspired and encouraged by my sister and best friend who after following my blog for a few days started their own.  I will be forever grateful to my amazing colleagues for their dedication, encouragement and feedback.  Each of your blogs touched me and inspired me daily.

Of the original challenge crew, there is only one of us that met the challenge head on and wrote EVERYDAY.  Her blog was deeply personal and helped me to realize that I am not alone in my journey through grief.  Reading the memories she shared of her mother and her own honesty about where she is in her journey through grief helped me in more ways than I can begin to express.  While nobody grieves the same, it was often her comments on my blogs that helped me feel not as crazy, not as out of touch of reality as I sometimes feel.  I am so grateful that through our writing we were able to connect in a way that our daily schedule at school would never allow.  Thank you for sharing Jamie... you are a gifted writer and incredible woman.

Although I missed a few days (three while I was away at a funeral) I am proud of myself for rising to the occasion.  For taking the time to think and to write and to share.  I had a hunch that my writing would be mostly about my dad... I was right.  My blogs are not perfect, each time I go back and re-read them (which I do frequently) I find millions of errors that could be corrected.  Yet, my blogs were what I needed.  They were an honest release.  They were the stories and the feelings that I had been rummaging over for months inside my head.  To put them on paper... it was and is therapy.

The writing challenge is over, well technically speaking.  My journey of blogging, of sharing my thoughts in writing has only just begun.  I am creating a new challenge for myself in April.  I will now commit to my bike, to my body, to my physical health.  I know now that if I put my mind to it, I can commit to anything for a month.  There were nights when I was so tired, had so many other things to do, but even if for just a moment, I made myself sit down and write.  In April I will make myself take a walk or go for a bike ride.  If I am too tired for those, even a few push-ups or sit-ups in the living room will do.  I can and will do this.  I also know that writing has now become a habit and my blogging will continue.  Probably not everyday, but when I want to, when times are hard and there is a memory or story to tell, I will write.

Thank you to those who have followed my blog and supported me along the way.  This has truly been an experience I will never forget.

Nothing

Tonight I have nothing.  I have nothing insightful or profound.  There is nothing that I have been planning in my head throughout the day to write.  Tonight I do not want to write.  Tomorrow I will go with my mom and sister to the second funeral I have attended since my dad's.  I would not miss it.  Jon has been a rock for our family and I can only imagine how difficult it will be for him to know that my dad will not be there to give him a hug and offer his support.  Deep down I am anxious and scared to go.  My great aunt's funeral was so soon after my dad's that I was still living a very deep haze.  Tomorrow, I do not know what to expect... how my body and mind will react to another father being laid to rest.  All I know is that no matter how hard it might be for me, it will be harder for Jon and his family.  So, I will muster up all the courage I have and go to honor another incredible man.

Happy Hour

I am grateful that each of us has niche, a place where we fit.  Today I went with my nearest and dearest friend Caity and her middle school literacy class to see the Hunger Games.  I enjoyed ever minute with these thirteen year old people.  Their comparison of the movie to the book were deep and thoughtful.  It was evident that they had indeed studied the text carefully with Caity and had since drawn their own conclusions about about the characters and the movie's characterization.  At the end of the day, I am glad that I don't teach middle school.  I dearly enjoyed their company, but this morning I am glad that I was not the teacher in-charge.


After the movie I met Wyatt, Liz and Sarah for happy hours.  We enjoyed the beauty of a windy Colorado afternoon on spring break.  The perk of teaching, a Monday afternoon at happy hour on the patio, while our significant others worked away.  I am blessed to work with the people that I do.  I could not imagine a more perfect first day of spring break.  The Hunger Games and Happy Hour.  Life is pretty good if you ask me!

Back in the Saddle

Bike tuned-check.

Tires pumped-check.

Shoes-check.

Gloves-check.

Sunglasses-check.

Water-check.

ID/cash-check.

Inhaler-check.

Phone-check.

Helmet-check.

Greg (my dad’s colleague, friend and riding partner) just spent the past hour helping me get my bike ready to ride.  After seven months dormant in the basement it needed some tender loving care.  Now my bike is ready, all the excuses are gone, but I am still not sure.  I watch as Greg gets on his gear and feel my heart start to beat a little faster.  I have my jersey on; the one dad bought me two days before he died at the Pro Cycling Challenge Finish.  It is my first official riding jersey. That day I finally felt enough like a rider to let him buy me one.  I stand there realizing that I never wore the jersey on a ride with my dad.  My heart beats even faster.  “Here we go,” Greg says as he clips into his pedals.  I put my right leg over my bike and hear the click.  Carefully, I push off hoping the whole time that I can get my left foot clicked in without falling and ruining any chance I have of biking again.  I am glad Greg is here.  I had thought I wanted to do this alone, my first real time back in the saddle, but Greg knew better and I am relieved that I am taking off with him. 

We make our way through the neighborhood as we head out to our pre-determined destination.  The first hill arrives and I brace myself.  By the end of last summer I was cruising downhill. I will just take it easy today.  Greg stays close; he looks back and checks in.  Images of my dad race through my mind; the last time I rode this way, it was him in front of me checking in.  I focus on the road and the light ahead.  It is refreshing to feel the bike underneath me.  We ride and we chat.  We take it easy. Easy is what I need and Greg allows it.  I play around with my gears; re-familiarize myself with the workings of the bike underneath me.  We make it to the Bear Creek bike path.  Greg reminisces about the hundreds of rides he rode with my dad on this trail.  I listen, understanding that this is just as tough for Greg as it is for me.  He has continued to ride, but riding with me to where we are headed, it is a different kind of ride.

There it is, we are heading under Sheridan, just a moment longer.  We slow our strokes and without words stop when we see it.  We know where it is, because there is a break in the fence on the other side of the path where pedestrians can enter the trail.  I look down and see the ribbon I tied in the tree a few days after he died. I put it there so others that wanted to come and spend a moment could find the exact spot.  The ribbon had the words, ‘son and brother’ but they are now hard to read. We rest our bikes against the green fence.  Carefully, we make our way down the side of the hill to the wooded part of the creek bed.  Greg goes over to the Livestrong bracelet that David had nailed into the tree.  You can still read his words, “Ride on Danno-We love you,” but the wind or a squirrel has ripped part of it.  I mention to Greg that of all the places dad could have fallen he picked one ugly part of the bike trail.  Directly behind the King Soopers, nestled between the exit ramp from Hampden onto Sheridan, littered with dumpster trash.  Greg laughed that my dad loved all parts of this trail, even the ugly ones.  We pick up the litter and head to the dumpster.

       “Let’s go to King Soopers and get some flowers,” says Greg and I nod in agreement.  He hands me a twenty and I go in and pick out some gorgeous sunflowers.  As we lay the flowers over the place where my dad was found I feel a surge of emotions.  Greg says how happy my dad would have been on his bike on a beautiful day like today.  I notice the bushes all around are blooming with these beautiful white flowers and agree.  Even though I tell myself that he is there, in this moment with us, my heart aches because he is not standing there too.  I confess to Greg that my worst fear was that my dad was found face down. The police report confirms in fact he was.  I now understand that it is actually a beautiful thing that he was found that way, it means when he fell he was already gone.  I try not to picture it, but my brain does not listen.  We talk about the three people who called 911.  The blessing it was that he was not in his truck on 6^th Avenue or sitting at the kitchen table.  He was happy, on his way home from work, favorite tunes playing in one ear, doing the thing he loved most. 

When we sense it is time we head home.  Getting closer to home means my out of shape legs will need to get me back up the Garrison hill.  As we work our way up, I remember the first time I did it with dad.  He told me to save that smallest chain ring just in case I needed it at the very end.  Today, I made sure I did the same.  I can hear his voice cheering me on, “Come on Jenny Wacker, you got this.”  "Slow and steady" he said, "one stroke at a time."  Today I conquered my fear.  I got back on my bike the way my dad would have wanted me to.  I may not be chasing his ‘booty’ this summer, but he will be there.  I will see him on the road and hear him in my head cheering me on. 

Stuck

I remember the first time I said it, "Hey honey, I am going to stop by my mom's before I come home."  Wait, what did I just call it?  I called it 'my mom's'.  I can't believe I just said that.  It is my parents home.  It is the home they created together.  It was my home (and always will be).  It is still my brother and sister's home.  It is my parents home, not just my mom's home.  How could I have just called it that?


This is predicament I have been struggling with.  I say it both ways and with such irregularity.  I am uncertain why I say 'parents house' a handful of times and 'mom's house' a handful of others.  Honestly, it feels uncomfortable to say it both ways.  I know that it is my parent's home, but for some reason with my dad gone, it just feels strange to say 'parents house'.  To me it suggests that he is still there, he's not.  Yet, to just say' mom's house,' feels like I am forgetting him.  That does not feel right either.


The house has a hole.  The house feels different now.  It is missing someone.  Someone who was such a huge part of the houses identity.  My memories of the house are with my dad there, at my 'parent's house.'  Yet, we are finally creating new memories at the house, without dad.  While it will always be my 'parent's house,' it is now where I go to see my mom.  It is where I find her.  It is where I find my sister and brother and Chardae.  My dad is there too, in every picture, the coffee pot, the chair in the living room, his coffee drinking spot on the couch in the living room, the yard, the grill, their bedroom... he is everywhere.  It will always be my 'parent's house' in my heart.  It will always be theirs, but I am not sure that is what I will always call it.  That makes me sad.  It breaks my heart in pieces.  I know it is just a name and it is the inside of the home that makes the difference, but it is something I having a hard time with.  I am stuck.