Summertime Sadness
Summer time. Growing up, this was my favorite time of year. No school meant zero responsibility other than summer reading lists (which, I confess, I read most of) and a dinky summer job. Summer meant melted popsicles and the smell of a grill burning. Summer was steam rising off pavement mixed with the smell of damp earth after a 10 minute storm. Summer was my escape. Summer was the only time I pretty much ever got asked on dates by random guys from different schools who didn't know what a goof I was to all of the boys at my own. Summer was freedom and joy and sun.
All of that changed last year. Summer has been stained. Incinerating heat indexes, long days and fireflies are now associated with sadness for me. Even tough I spent 28 years of my life with vibrant summer months, my mind can't escape last year. Instead of joy and excitement I feel pain and deep, deep loss. Preplanned road trips to the beach are replaced with the long and boring drives between Savannah and Marietta that I did every weekend. Quality time with family and friends on the porch watching fireworks have been replaced with passing out roses to my relatives from the spray on my Father's casket. My memories and brief daydreams seem to always rewind to the final weeks of my Father's life. All I see is his withering body. The sounds I remember are the oxygen compressor and his voice as it grew weaker and weaker. The smells are that of the hospice center, sterile and clean mixed in with the exorbitant amounts of shea oil I rubbed on my growing belly day to day. I can't forget sleeping on a crappy pull out couch at the foot of the hospital bed and listening to the clicking of a morphine pump.
It seems unfair. Why does the bad overtake the good? My motto is to live life looking at the glass "half full". Why is it that when I think about my Father, 95% of the time I can only think about him dying? Is this the way that all human brains work? Or am I flawed? Is there a way to rewire my thoughts? Or maybe, just maybe I am ok? Maybe this is part of the grieving process. I hope and pray that eventually my thoughts and memories of my Dad will only be the good ones. Like camping trips with shared naps and cuddling or super secret Sonic dates filled with grease and calories my Mom could never know about. I want to look back at times with my Father and smile. Instead I choke back tears and a quivering jaw.
Why am I writing this? This isn't an advice column and it sure as hell isn't a lame attempt at getting a group reaction. I think putting my thoughts down where I can see them help me feel like they are leaving my head and moving to this page. I don't ask people to read. I don't want to be criticized or understood. I just want to put it out there.
I want to share the two strongest memories I have of last summer. Both of them are incredibly strong moments for me emotionally. The first is July 3, the day my Father died.
I was awakened to my phone ringing at 7:30 in the morning. My Mom had stayed at the hospice center with my Dad (we rotated, it was her turn) and my Aunt was home with me. My Mom told me to hurry. That Daddy's vital signs looked poor and the classic "this is it" was happening. I remember my Aunt reading a crappy book downstairs and both of us rushing to change clothes. I drove us there, God knows how, and I remember my Aunt taking my Mom out of the room. Whitney was there with David already. I remember Daddy's breaths getting farther and farther apart. I gently placed his ipad next to his head and put Glenn Miller on softly to fill the silence in between raspy, gargled breaths. David and I knew what was happening and we sent Whitney to go find my Mom. It was just David and I. His children. The reason for every grey hair on his head and every moment of pure joy for 30 years. It must have been they way Daddy wanted it. We each had one of his bony, cool hands in ours as we each went back and forth between looking at Dad's face and looking at each other. It was only seconds after Whitey left the room that my Dad's final breaths were taken. "Always in My Heart" switched on the play list and David and I took our free hands and held on to one another. David said a prayer and we both Thanked God that he was free. We didn't cry. We breathed. What seemed like the first time since the day we found out chemo failed, my lungs filled with air. I think that's the way it was supposed to be. Dad didn't want my Mom to be there for that moment. He knew David and I were there and that it was safe to leave us. My Mom came back into the room and sobbed. She placed her hands on my Dad and patted him. Sort of to say, "you are safe now".
The nurse (who was oddly named Dovey, which is my Great Grandmother's name) pronounced the time and a tech came to clean him up. We stayed on the porch and waited as they took him to the funeral home. That night, we went to dinner at an Italian restaurant and looked into the future together.
My second strongest memory is September 24th. The day that Roslyn Jean Peters entered the world at over 9lbs and 21.5 inches long.
Petey and I had spent the past days walking as far as we could trying to kick start some contractions. There were a few nights I had a few hours of killer ones, but nothing to get the show on the road. My doctor finally decided one week over her due date that she was a little too big to hang out. Her eviction notice was posted and we were to be at the Hospital at 5am. The next morning, we arrived on time and Petey even found his strategic parking spot. We checked in and waited for the guy to call my OB and tell him I was here. 3 minutes later and one sad faced ER volunteer later, I was told that I was in fact, not on the schedule and I could either A. wait for a room or B. come back on Monday. Of course I cried. The excitement of meeting my angel and the pure exhaustion of being pregnant completely enveloped me. Petey took over and said, "We are having our baby today. We aren't leaving this hospital until you get my wife a room". 3 hours later, and I was in my labor suite with Pitocin (that's the stuff they use to start labor) pumping around 10.
One fabulous epidural, a nap and 1.5 hours of pushing and well...there you have it. The doctor rested the fattest, Asian-looking dark haired angel on my chest. I was so focused on pushing Petey had to tell me to open my eyes, that it was over. I wish I could relive that moment over and over and over again. Like Groundhog Day, but minus the Bill Murray and the horrid 80's power suits. I couldn't let her go (I did, I really wanted Petey to hold her) in the 3 days I was in the hospital. We didn't luck out on our postpartum room-aka the Pediatric floor where the shower head was even with my boobs- and yes, Petey's truck got broken into. But on September 29th we went home with our daughter. Who has brought more joy and purpose to my life than I could have ever fathomed.
I hope that this summer, I build new memories. That I start to mold my child into a lover of all things water and sun and sugar like her Mother. I hope instead of looking at the sun and remembering the heat of a July day standing in heels pregnant and swollen by my Father' grave site is replaced with splashing in a baby pool in my backyard while Roxy dances around us and Petey grills hot dogs. I hope that Daddy's laughter and joy slowly erases the pain and suffering I saw those final weeks.
I pray that this tiny piece of time is shoved back into a dark corner of my brain and stacked on a shelf with algebra and Great Expectations. Only time will tell. If I have learned anything, it is that time might just not heal all things as quickly as I want. Rather the focus must be placed on time itself, and that I plan to spend whatever I have left in the sunshine of summer.
Why am I writing this? This isn't an advice column and it sure as hell isn't a lame attempt at getting a group reaction. I think putting my thoughts down where I can see them help me feel like they are leaving my head and moving to this page. I don't ask people to read. I don't want to be criticized or understood. I just want to put it out there.
I want to share the two strongest memories I have of last summer. Both of them are incredibly strong moments for me emotionally. The first is July 3, the day my Father died.
I was awakened to my phone ringing at 7:30 in the morning. My Mom had stayed at the hospice center with my Dad (we rotated, it was her turn) and my Aunt was home with me. My Mom told me to hurry. That Daddy's vital signs looked poor and the classic "this is it" was happening. I remember my Aunt reading a crappy book downstairs and both of us rushing to change clothes. I drove us there, God knows how, and I remember my Aunt taking my Mom out of the room. Whitney was there with David already. I remember Daddy's breaths getting farther and farther apart. I gently placed his ipad next to his head and put Glenn Miller on softly to fill the silence in between raspy, gargled breaths. David and I knew what was happening and we sent Whitney to go find my Mom. It was just David and I. His children. The reason for every grey hair on his head and every moment of pure joy for 30 years. It must have been they way Daddy wanted it. We each had one of his bony, cool hands in ours as we each went back and forth between looking at Dad's face and looking at each other. It was only seconds after Whitey left the room that my Dad's final breaths were taken. "Always in My Heart" switched on the play list and David and I took our free hands and held on to one another. David said a prayer and we both Thanked God that he was free. We didn't cry. We breathed. What seemed like the first time since the day we found out chemo failed, my lungs filled with air. I think that's the way it was supposed to be. Dad didn't want my Mom to be there for that moment. He knew David and I were there and that it was safe to leave us. My Mom came back into the room and sobbed. She placed her hands on my Dad and patted him. Sort of to say, "you are safe now".
The nurse (who was oddly named Dovey, which is my Great Grandmother's name) pronounced the time and a tech came to clean him up. We stayed on the porch and waited as they took him to the funeral home. That night, we went to dinner at an Italian restaurant and looked into the future together.
My second strongest memory is September 24th. The day that Roslyn Jean Peters entered the world at over 9lbs and 21.5 inches long.
Petey and I had spent the past days walking as far as we could trying to kick start some contractions. There were a few nights I had a few hours of killer ones, but nothing to get the show on the road. My doctor finally decided one week over her due date that she was a little too big to hang out. Her eviction notice was posted and we were to be at the Hospital at 5am. The next morning, we arrived on time and Petey even found his strategic parking spot. We checked in and waited for the guy to call my OB and tell him I was here. 3 minutes later and one sad faced ER volunteer later, I was told that I was in fact, not on the schedule and I could either A. wait for a room or B. come back on Monday. Of course I cried. The excitement of meeting my angel and the pure exhaustion of being pregnant completely enveloped me. Petey took over and said, "We are having our baby today. We aren't leaving this hospital until you get my wife a room". 3 hours later, and I was in my labor suite with Pitocin (that's the stuff they use to start labor) pumping around 10.
I pray that this tiny piece of time is shoved back into a dark corner of my brain and stacked on a shelf with algebra and Great Expectations. Only time will tell. If I have learned anything, it is that time might just not heal all things as quickly as I want. Rather the focus must be placed on time itself, and that I plan to spend whatever I have left in the sunshine of summer.
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