qofe.net

change habits, outlook, feelings
grow
learn
lose sight sometimes but
gain perspective
still,
who did you expect when you walked in the door
i’m the same person from before

In a couple of weeks it will be 27 years ago that my dad died. He’s been dead for more years of my life than he was alive.

Dad was the sort of person who kept everything inside. Also for his generation ‘talking’ about things didn’t have the status it has now, especially for men. He never spoke about the pain and guilt of being the only member of is immediate family to be alive, or if he did speak of it, it wasn’t to us kids. The pain leaked out of him anyway, as repressed emotions tend to do, expressed mostly as rage though his violent, erratic temper.

That’s not to say he was a bad person, on the contrary. He was extremely honest, very charitable, a hard worker, an excellent provider for us, had a sense of humor and was highly intelligent.

His emotional intelligence was where he needed education. He could fly off into a rage over the simplest most innocent things for no logical reason. I don’t really like to talk about the abuse, people get all weird and stupid about it usually. Unless someone’s been through a similar situation growing up, they can’t understand, and that’s probably a good thing, but either way judgment needs to be left behind.

As a child I was constantly terrified, afraid of making him angry (there were other reasons to be terrified — mother was extremely cruel but she had almost no redeeming qualities, but that’s not what this post is about). He had a way of pounding up the stairs that was most unnerving.

At the age of 16 he crossed a boundary I could not accept, he ran after me into my room and proceeded to beat me. But my room was the only safe place in the house, the only place, that until that moment, I’d never been beaten. It freaked me out, enraged me. I started hitting back, and that freaked him out. The look on his face was, well, complete shock. That day saved me, it saved my soul in many ways. He stopped, he left my room, he went down the stairs to the living room and I heard him say to her, “do you know what that kid did, she hit me!” and “I’m too old for this.” And that was it, he never hit me again. If I’d have known, I’d have done it a lot sooner.

Over the years I grew to understand him, at least partially. Most of my understanding came from watching him die of lung cancer, changed me that did.

Once a week we would take him from one hospital to another for his radiation treatment. I’m still not sure why that task befell us, I would think that he either should have been in the hospital that was capable of providing the treatments, or the hospitals should have arranged the transport between them. He was so weak at that point and it was strange pushing him in a wheelchair, the man who terrified me all my life. Yet there he was, helpless and dependent upon me (and her). He trusted me, despite all that he’d done before, he trusted me to take care of him when he was sick, and of course I did. My only complaint about it was why. *Why* were we taking him to this place at all for treatment, because it seemed to be more of a form of unnecessary torture for him, he would get soooo sick afterwards, and so much weaker. They knew, the doctors knew, that there was no hope for him to get better, so why they made him go through that, I’ve no idea.

The anatomy of families is so strange and hindsight lends some clarity…

Dad was really great when I felt sad, I mean nobody else in my family would even have noticed my sadness, but he did and in his own way took great steps to try and cheer me up whenever it happened. In the dichotomy of our relationship, I was also ‘daddy’s little girl’ being the youngest of 3. I cling to the happy memories, the times that he showed how much love he had for me. Those are the things that allowed me to see him as a person, troubled, but still human, humane.

My dad was always great at reading stories to us kids, and not just reading but enacting them — different characters had different voices, different inflections in his voice. He was grand at that, and there were some stories (and I know all kids do this) but there were some stories I made him read over and over and over again, just because I loved the sounds, the way he read them. I can still hear his voice when I think of it.

My dad immigrated to this country from Bochum, Germany in 1937, he was 13 years old. He spoke no English, and he came alone. He had an uncle here who didn’t care very much for or about him, but his uncle’s wife, my father’s Aunt, was instrumental in his immigration process. I’m not sure of the details of how, because my dad never spoke about any of this and the information from my mother didn’t contain the details. Anyway, it was my Great Aunt’s intention to help the rest of the family immigrate here to escape the Nazis, but tragically, she died before she could achieve that goal. My father’s uncle either didn’t know how to proceed or didn’t care to… either way, a 13-year-old boy in a new country, had absolutely no way to help his own family immigrate.

I’m not sure when dad became a citizen, but he was enrolled in school right away and had to learn English before they would allow him into his proper grade with kids his own age. He learned the language fast, and did exceptionally well in all subjects, but especially mathematics. He also had to work at his uncle’s restaurant, which he hated.

My dad was anxious to join the army as soon as possible once the US entered the war, his main goal to find his family. He was 17 or 18 years of age and he did become a Sargent, though I’m not sure when.

He was among the first soldiers to open the camps, and I cannot imagine the pure horror of what he and the others saw. Especially him knowing that our family had suffered the same abominations. After many roadblocks and painful frustration Dad came to find that his parents, sister & brother — my grandparents, aunt & uncle — died in the camps.

All he had left was a small little photo-wallet which he’d brought here with him as a child and now it’s all I’ve got left of part of my family. Pictures mean so much when that’s all you have. I never looked much like my mother’s side of the family, but I look at these pictures and know these are my kin. And my grandfather strikes such a dashing pose, I look at that face and feel I know him. because I see some part of my soul reflected back at me.

I wish my dad had lived long enough to be able to talk about this stuff, I know it would have helped us… but he died at 55, and I was young, not far enough along in my own growth to be able to just come right out and ask him about anything (still terrified of him, I was). Ah well…

When Bill went to CeBit in Germany a couple of years ago he took a side trip to Bochum. Some “side” trip — it was an entire day — almost 4 hours of driving each way — even though I told him not to go, that it was too far out of his way. He went for me, because he knew how much it would mean to me… I cannot… I cannot put into words… how much the pictures of Bochum mean to me. I just am so lucky to have such love in my life, truly lucky I am.

It’s not a necessarily bad thing, rage. Don’t like knowing it’s there, but it has come to my rescue as a tool for protection. It can be of use when dealing with threatening strangers or potentially abusive situations. When my rage gets woken up, and that part is usually automatic, the offender can see that they’ve messed with the wrong person. I can control what I do with the energy, which I think is why it works.

I don’t like it though, because it’s tough to put to rest again after those few seconds of use. Takes time to calm down, time to put it back in the box, time to reorganize thoughts away from vehemence, anger — back to the calm center, back to balance. Also it does serve as a reminder of how it got internalized in the first place, but c’est la vie.

It has saved me twice from loonie vagrant types, both on the subway. Most recently was a few months ago, I was out on a quick photo-shoot assignment. Took the subway at midday. Car was fairly empty, but there were other folks as usual. I saw this guy walking through the car and got a weird vibe from him. He had something in a plastic bag which he was swinging around. As he got nearer to me, he took a step toward me and lifted the bag up as if he was going to swing it right into me. My arm went up instinctively, not solely as protection but with a fist, and I looked him right in the eye, enraged. He startled me, but I also startled him. I think he expected me to cower. We were pulling into the next stop and thankfully he got out of the train.

I earned it the hard way, and if I have to have it be there, then at least I can put it to some positive use.

It’s been 2 years since I had a cigarette…. 730 days. This makes it officially the longest time I’ve stayed away from the nicotine.

When DH recently had to be hospitalized (appendicitis — he’s fine ), despite all the stress I didn’t even think about it. I saw someone outside the emergency room having a smoke and that’s when I realized the thought hadn’t even occurred to me.

I’m done with it for good.

Cool Tool: SoyGel Paint & Urethane Remover

When I read about this on KK’s, I thought it was great! It’s a soy-based, biodegradable paint & urethane stripper.

I miss my baby still. I go for a while, thinking I’m okay, and then find I’m crying again. I wish i could bury my face in your fur just one more time. though I did so at the end, it just doesn’t seem enough. I want to pet you, but you’re not there. I can’t watch the doggie shows on Animal Planet without you, it’s just not the same. I loved watching you watch dogs and other animals on the tube. I miss that fascination you had, your ears popping up, you sometimes getting up to sniff behind the TV trying to smell where/who the animals were. After so many years you knew it wasn’t real, so you hardly did that at all. But you were attentive, interested, and as always, great company. Think of you every day.

Dear Sweet Merlin,

The first day we met, you were still a puppy, you got so excited you peed on my ankle. Who could possibly get upset by that after taking one look at your gorgeous face. You were sorry, and a bit embarrassed too. We laughed it off together.

Your soulful eyes could melt any heart, and often did.

In the beginning I would spend weekends with you and Bill, and quickly learned that come Monday morning I’d better not look at your eyes if I wanted to be able to leave. You had the most puppy-dog look I’d ever seen, entreating me to please stay.

I will always remember how excited you were when we finally got all moved in, and you realized we were all going to live together.

There was one day, and I promised you, I will never forget. I was so sick, some stomach flu/virus/something. Bill was not home. But you faithfully followed me from the bed through the living room to the bathroom, where you waited patiently outside the door. Then from bathroom back to the bed where you stayed with me. You made that trip back-and-forth with me as many times as I needed, my nurse and constant companion.

You were a most well traveled dog, and traveled well you did too. You were back & forth across the US more times that most humans I know. Always so good, always up for anything, you loved every minute… well, maybe except for the desert… and boats. You were a landlubber for sure.

The first time I ever went camping was with you & Bill. We went camping along the Delaware River where we took that now infamous canoe trip. You hated being in that canoe so much, you just wanted to get out and swim for shore. You did so several times and we tipped over into the drink each time. While we waited for the bus to take us back to the campground, we saw your butt up in the air above the tall reeds, tail flying back and forth. You had found a dead fish, which you decided was the perfect cologne. You were so proud and happy to have made this discovery. After several baths it was pretty much forgotten by us, except that it sure makes a funny story. Guess you knew what you were doing after all.

You would get so upset if the pack wasn’t together all the time on vacation. If Bill went into the convenience store while we sat in the car you were inconsolable, and it was the same if I went in and he stayed with you. You just so wanted to be with us, and I guess that’s what pulled you through these last few months. I realized tonight that I hadn’t seen you wag your tail in so very long, and you always did, you always were so happy. I guess you just couldn’t spare the energy needed for that.

I’m so grateful to have been able to share 15.5 of your 16.5 years with you. I hope to meet up with you at the Rainbow Bridge one day, I will miss you every day until that moment.

People always asked us what kind of dog you were, and we always said (and will always say) the plain truth — One Hundred Percent Good Dog.

Love you baby.

Last weekend (8/19/06) we rushed one of our cats, Boots (slightly over 10 years old) to the emergency vet (first time we’ve used these folks). He was there from Saturday night through Monday afternoon. They are so cool, so caring (so costly) but worth every cent.

About a month ago we had brought Boots to our regular vet. He seemed to be losing weight, and we were concerned, but the day we brought him in it was urgent. He’d stopped eating, wasn’t drinking water but was throwing up. Boots spent 2 nights there, after which, the vet told us Boots had a kidney stone, and that he’d most likely pass it and sent us home with antibiotic (Clavamox). He said “these things are common in older cats” (which is true, but so very limited in scope). The attitude was *NOT* “we’ll get to the bottom of this.” Boots, to his credit, seemed to recover and even gain some weight back — everything seemed fine… until last weekend when he went into crisis again. Same deal, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink, but did plenty of hurking. We thought he was leaving us. We’ve since come to find out that Boots has CRF.

We’re giving him subQ fluids, plus antibiotics, a blood pressure med, stool softener, and antacid. Hopefully much of the pills will not be needed after Monday (when we go in for more blood work). His pressure may have been high last weekend due to the crisis, and we’re keeping fingers crossed it has returned to normal now.

I remember reading about others giving their cats subQ and wondering if we’d ever be able to deal with that sort of reality — but it’s not as difficult as I’d imagined. And Boots is just so good about it, just sits there and waits.

He’s so much himself the last few days, just back-to-normal Boots (though still way underweight). Prefers the dry k/d prescription food… but that’s our Boots. The difference between last weekend and this weekend is simply death and life. We’re so glad he’s chosen to stay and fight and as long as he’s feeling good and his quality of life is good, we’ll happily oblige him.