The Furious Spinner

I'm listening to Annie Lennox and trying to keep my eyes open. We're leaving for Santa Cruz tomorrow morning, and I should be doing something productive. My father left on a plane this morning for Santa Cruz. It is strange not to be with him after so many weeks. It was the longest time I've spent with my father since I was eighteen years old.

My father is healing, and we hope that trend continues. The eye doc saw him every day for nearly a week—every day except Xmas and that was because she thought he was doing well enough to skip a day. It's been difficult for my father. He went straight from the train to the doctor and then to our home and then to another doctor in Portland. I had some kind of virus so I was hacking like someone from a TB ward, so I only went with him once. I was still in such a state of crisis and shock that I didn't think to convert our spare room into a bedroom for him. Instead we had him sleep in our room and we slept downstairs on the couch and floor. I didn't realize until later that this probably added to his sense of un-ease, dis-ease. He felt as though he was disrupting our life instead of being a part of our life.

We did make a routine of our week here, though. When Dad got up at six-ish, I got up, too, and made him oatmeal. Then he usually went back to bed. I then made breakfast for Mario and Dad, eggs and sweet potatoes. Then they went to the doctor in Portland. And I would try to rest and get well. They came home, and we'd have dinner. Afterwards, we watched something funny on TV or a football game. I turned on our TV service, and that seemed to relax my father. Did I say that one of the things I have learned from all this is that sometimes it is enough just to be in the same room with someone? Nothing has to happen. No great insights. No great wisdom. Just time passed with each other. I mentioned to Mario that my father seemed to relax once we had television service, and Mario said, "So did you." He was right. I enjoyed sitting next to my father watching football or some comedy.

One day Mario asked Dad if he had seen my new sewing machine. So I showed my father. I also showed him the pieces of cloth a friend had given me to make a quilt. One of the pieces was of a mermaid. Within minutes my father had designed the quilt we would make from the pieces. He began cutting and piecing the quilt together, with the mermaid at the center of it. We did this for part of three days. I did some sewing, but Dad did most of it. One day we went to Jo-Ann fabrics and got batting and some muslin. That night we finished one side of the quilt and then the three of us pinned the three layers together. While my dad was working on the quilt, he was himself again. Mom taught him how to sew and how to quilt, and now he was showing me.

Some times, many times, my father sat with his head in his hands. I'd ask him if it was the shingles or his grief. Most of the time he didn't answer, unless I insisted. I said, "Dad, you have to tell me if you're having new symptoms."

Sometimes when I look at him, he seems so vulnerable. I don't ever remember seeing him like this. Maybe when my grandfather, his father, killed himself.

Now that reality is setting in, my mother's death seems even more awful, more painful. I keep thinking of all the moments I'd spent with her in recent years. I wonder if I praised her enough, loved her enough, noticed her enough. She was so quiet that I think she just disappeared sometimes. I googled pneumonia and saw that pneumonia caused by Legionnaires can cause diarrhea, one of Mom's symptoms. But she'd had that before, so they didn't think anything about it. What if we'd known? What if she'd seen a doc right away? And then I'll realize that unless this is all a dream—which is what it feels like—my thinking about this isn't going to change anything: Mom is still dead. (And writing that makes me want to throw-up.)

And death. I keep thinking about death. Sometimes it feels as though some guy with a scythe is hanging around, circling, just waiting. I've got to be alert. I wonder incessantly if I have pneumonia. Am I about to die? My mother said to my father, "Am I going to die?" Am I walking around thinking I'm alive and I'm going to be dead any moment? Who else is the walking dead? I try to imagine being dead, and I don't like it. The sheer nothingness of it. Makes me shudder. I prod my body for signs. I look at Mario for signs.

I remember the photographs Mario took of me with my parents and my sister Kathleen in October. In them my mother was always blurry. I remember looking at those photos and thinking, she's leaving. She's disappearing. She's already gone.

But I didn't like those thoughts. I wanted my mother here. I wanted her here here here so that maybe some day some how I could figure out how to save her life.

Where is my mother? Where is Linda? Dave? Bill? Jeanne? Sheila? Where have my friends gone? I have no evidence that they've gone anywhere besides into the ground.

This morning we took my father to the airport. He was going to ride with us down to Santa Cruz, but the weather got messy. We weren't sure when we'd be able to get out of here. (The Siskiyou Summit is always the bugaboo.) At the airport, I watched my father go through security. The guard—or whatever he was—wasn't too obnoxious. Still, I wanted to push him and everyone else aside and say, "This is my father, goddamn it. You show him the respect he fucking deserves!" I wanted to take him home again. But I just watched as he pulled things out of his pocket to put in the tray. "It's all right, Dad," I said. "It'll be all right." He looked small. I don't know if I remember ever noticing that my father was small. But he looked small this morning. Oh man. When he was younger, he was short, yes, but he had a gorgeous build. He looked like a man who worked for a living, a man who used his arms and legs, which he did, just not at his job where he was a teacher and then a principal. During the summers, when I was a girl, he also did carpentry work.

My father could do anything.

This morning, he looked like he was disappearing.

If I took a photo of him, would he be blurry?

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Don't go anywhere, Dad. Please don't leave us. We don't want to be orphans. Don't want to be in the world without you.

I was talking on the phone to my sister in Santa Cruz when she said with joy and love so apparent, "There's my daddy!" and I knew my father had just walked into the store where she worked.

I knew exactly how she felt. Every time I see my father I feel the same way: "There's my daddy!"

Two nights ago, I dreamed of my mother. My sister Kathleen and I were outside and Mom was there. She looked good. Young and healthy. She had a kind of glow around her. I was glad my sister was there because she was proof that I hadn't made it up. Mom was there, but I knew she was dead. She talked to us, but when I woke up I couldn't remember what she said. I tried to get her to go to Dad and tell him that it'd be all right. When I woke up, I went into the kitchen to make my father oatmeal. I stood at the sink, and I told him the dream. Crying. I said, "I tried to get her to come to you and tell you that it'll be all right." "I know it will be," he said. I looked at him, and I wasn't sure he did know that.

I wasn't sure it was going to be all right.

I know people get through these things. I've watched others go through this process with such dignity and grace. They keep going. They continue. That's what we're supposed to do. That's what we want to do.

At my age, I should have these things all worked out. I should accept death. It's gonna happen to all of us.

But I don't.

If I believed in heaven, I'd be shaking my fist at it right now.

Instead, I think I'll go to sleep. Perhaps my dreams will help me piece together the answers.

The Old Mermaid quilt my father and I made is folded up on the bench. I've got to tie it together. Except for that, it's finished. Although it won't be done until my father signs and dates it.

So I'll be heading south tomorrow, toward the sunshine and my daddy.

Labels: grief, travel

6 comments

6 Comments:

My dear Kim,
I just remembered some of the things of the pasted. Like my dad's death...your dad told me about it I was only 13 yr old and did not understand it...to this day I still don't understand it...as a young person thing do not make sense and you life is changed because of it...It was always nice to see your mother and she always wanting to know what was going on in my life and men lol....she told me a story of me coming to the farm for the first time at 8yrs old ...she had to give me a bath because I was so dirty...I always laughed at that story she tolded me...we have had a very diffent life....but we become better people from it. All that read’s this Kim only would drink goat's milk as a kid...we told her cow's milk was goat's milk...but we always loved her anyways....
Love Aunt Shelley(Mich)

By  shelley1harley, at 4:57 PM  

You hang in there. You're going to get through this.

By  Hecate, at 6:41 PM  

Dear Kim-They are ALL with you still, just not in the way you are accustomed to. Your Dad is right, it will be ok. Never again the same, but what is? Open yourself to feel all of your beloved still here with you, in their New way.
May peace and love be with you. Enjoy your family, loved ones and your time in the Southwest.
Sue

By  sumsn, at 7:56 AM  

Dearest Kim

It has obviously been way too long since I've visited your blog. I am so sorry to hear of your mother's death. I will now read past entries to see what happened, but I just want you to know that I am carrying you and your family in my heart. May 2008 bring new life.

with much love
Patricia

By  Patricia, at 9:10 PM  

Thank you all. Your kindnesses are so much appreciated. Shelley, I don't remember the goat's milk thing, but I take your word for it! :-) Now I don't drink any kind of milk. And Sue, my best friend in high school, it was so great to hear your voice when I was in Michigan. Next time, real life.

Love to you all.

Kim

By  Kim Antieau, at 9:43 PM  

Oh Kim, your words break my heart. It all feels so familiar to me. Love, love, love. I know I sound like a damned cliche, but in the end, loving each other — truly is All That Matters.

By  joanna, at 5:42 PM  

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