The Eclectic Mix

Whoever said “life goes on” should be found and hurt. Severely. Because that person clearly either knows little about life, or has all of the secrets.

Life is indeed going on, whether we want it to or not. Monday is just around the proverbial corner. And the blur–the tear-filled, occasionally joyous, difficult blur–that was the weekend is fading quickly. The quick, obligatory details follow:

Friday was everything it was advertised to be: a whirlwind of emotion and activity. It was the culmination of everything contained in the week, both good and bad.

The service was the ceremony part of the weekend. It was pretty, and sad, and full of grieving. I had three readings to make, all deeply meaningful and moving, and I barely kept it together through the first. Each later verse became that much easier, not because I was grieving any less, but because it got gradually easier to keep it in check. The hymns became impossible to sing, not because they were difficult or not pretty, but because the words simply took on a gravity that stuck in your heart and deep in your throat. Matt’s eulogy, reflections on his mom, were moving and heartfelt, and funny, which made for a nice change of pace. And the sermon, which I have to say was a little weird, mainly because it started with the full text of the obituary Jenni and I wrote, was full of the wisdom and message that you tend to expect from clergy–because while not hardened to it by any means, they have experienced death and grieving on so many more levels than most of us can possibly imagine.

The party after the service was great–fun, sad, moving, and in every sense of the term, a celebration. Food, drink, photos, conversation, love, laughter and music were the order of the evening. I’ll be honest–I was trying to kind of bird-dog my kids and Jenni at the same time, which in a party isn’t easy to do, but I felt that I needed to keep an eye on things in case I was needed. So maybe I blocked off some of the celebration, but it was what I needed to do to help guide my clan through the evening.

The rest of the weekend had its own dose of required activity, including an overnight lock-in and all day Saturday event/fundraiser for Jenni and the kids at Sunrise; Patrick had all day play practice Saturday, and Sunday featured a Boy Scout breakfast at Mt. Carmel. The only routine item normally reserved for weekends was called off, since Jenni just needed time to sleep, and catch up on as much rest as she could, having been dealing simultaneously with a cold and the loss of her mother. So I took the girls to the breakfast and let her sleep in, since she decided not to go in to Sunrise today.

So here I sit, writing about the weekend, trying to stuff a boatload of emotions into a handful of words, and feeling that nothing I write here will do any of them any justice. But that seems to be the cross I get to bear. One of the reasons I write the blog, aside from trying to keep you informed of my life and point out the absurdities I see in it, is to demonstrate a source of my pride: my abilities as a wordsmith. And there have been so many words this weekend, particularly on Friday. But mine have felt a degree of emptiness and inadequacy that I’m almost ashamed of.

Not that I should be, I suppose. But the words I read in church, I honestly couldn’t recall them without looking at the bulletin again and looking them up. They’re all meaningful, and profoundly appropriate. And I know that at the time, they felt like a punch in the stomach. But they’re gone, lost into the ether along with the tears shed in that same room. We all know the sentiment behind them–the deep meaning and relevance–but in the end, they’re just words.

In the end it feels like all of the words I’ve spoken or written this weekend have been just words, even though I’ve tried putting the weight of a thousand emotions behind each of them. They’ve all been chosen carefully, but still, they feel sloppy and disjointed. I miss her too and this is what she would have wanted just don’t feel right–they feel trite and weak and useless. They don’t say how much I know we all miss her, and how much things suck right now because we’re all stuck here without her, and that the world expects us to just suck it up and move on. I’m sorry when said to Jenni or the kids doesn’t begin to tell them how much I really do wish that I could just undo the world as it is, and make it all right, just to make them happy again. And thank you and you’re welcome just feel like they’ve become clumsy phrases that I say because I can’t think of anything any better to say to people who thanked me for doing a good job at the reading, or for helping out around here, or for trying to just be there for Jenni to support her in any way she needs.

Yes, I’m frustrated at being so verbally hamstrung. Because there’s so much more bubbling up just below the surface that I don’t think I can get out to share with anyone. So instead, I just need to go with what I’m able to do, and call it good. Even though it isn’t.

Maybe that’s why sayings are out there: they give you that quick phrase that has it’s simple meaning, but encapsulates so much more that people just “get.” “Life goes on” may then be apt, because it does go on, as much as we don’t want it to right now, as much as we just want it to stop until we’re prepared for the next stage.

FDS, in her infinite, and now annoyingly on-point wisdom, warned me about this. That during this time it’s not going to be as much about what I’m saying as it is about what I’m doing that will make a difference. But dammit, it’s not my actions that get into the blog, it’s the words. This is my soapbox, and this is where I bare my soul. But it’s hard to do that then the words fall woefully short. And for that, I’m compelled to apologize. Even though I know I don’t have to.

I know I’ve got actions to fall back on, and those are what my people need from me right now whether I like it or not. But you’ll note that my frustration didn’t stop me from blitzing past 1100 words in this entry…

Life goes on tomorrow in so many ways for all of us.

Thanks again to all of you.

See you tomorrow.

For obvious reasons, I’m taking two nights off. I plan on being back Saturday, but it might not be until Sunday.

Thanks again to all for your kind wishes. We all appreciate it.

See you later.

We’ve missed karate for about a week-and-a-half now. Patrick had homework, or something else was going on, or…Well, the last day we missed was Monday, and we all know why that didn’t work.

But Patrick really needed to go tonight, emotionally and physically. So that meant I’d go too, even though I’m just worn out from the week without even doing much of anything, really.But moving on involves actual, real moving on and doing the things that are part of normal life. So this was pretty important. Plus, Patrick loves is so much, and he’s pretty good at it.

So it was back to the cat stance for me. And learning a couple of katas, which are basically choreographed collections of moves.

Yeah. What’s the Japanese phrase for “I completely suck at this?” Watashi-wa suckee desu. Okay, maybe not, but that’s wat it should be. In my world anyway.

Oh man. Where do I begin? You’ve got to remember the moves, keep to the form, count steps, do multiple things at once, coordinate moves, yell when appropriate, and do this going forward for three steps and backward for three steps. Oh, and you get to do that damned cat stance on all three steps moving backward.

Yes, there were many times where I was asking myself just what the hell I was doing this for. I mean, I’m a big guy, and sure that’s part of it–make the big guy less big. But, sweet jeebus, I’m big enough where I practically need to file a flight plan just to walk down the street. Stepping forward while punching and going backwards into cat stances while blocking should require some sort of municipal permit.

And may I just say that I’m not the most coordinated person on the face of the Earth? If I ever progress in this sport, my sparring is going to need to come with a warning that my punches might not be the most dangerous part of my attack.

I know. I’ve only been there for three lessons now. It’ll come. Eventually. I might be 50 by then, but it’ll come.

I might kill myself before then due to a misplayed block, but it’ll come.

See you tomorrow.

Life has become a constant, dreamlike haze. As much as I try making things normal, they aren’t. But nothing can be normal. At least not as it was.

Really, though, it hasn’t been normal for months. Judy put up a great fight, but…Well, fate, God, or whatever had other plans. Those plans, regardless of wherever they came from or what purpose they’re supposed to serve, have completely sucked. Nothing has been easy for anyone living here. Nothing has been easy for anyone who loved her.

The rented hospital bed is gone from the den. I’m going through photos on my computer to assemble a slide show for the party Friday night. Unused medicines from Judy’s treatment are being disposed of. The support structure that had been built up to help her fight and cope with her disease is being torn down, piece by piece. It’s punctuation to an ending that isn’t really an ending.

There’s a point in my mind where nothing else exists past Friday night–it is the sole focus of the week, and rightly so: sixty years of life and friendships and loves and family and relationships will get compressed into whatever the night holds. Saturday is, in many ways, just another day with normal things to do. But there are other things to do this weekend. Life does go on. Jenni and the kids have a big event at church–the 30 hour famine, which is a fundraiser and an attempt to raise awareness of hunger in the world. So life has to go on.

Food came streaming into the house today from a friend of Jenni’s. If I play it right, I might not have to cook again until Saturday. Briefly, the thought crossed my mind wondering where the tradition of bringing food to the grieving family came from. I’m not complaining, but in a world where life moves on, the normal things like making dinner are still a constant–the family still needs to eat, still needs the strength to keep on keeping on.

By now, I’ve had almost 90 hits to the blog just today–twice the previous high for one day–thanks to links from Jenni and Bob’s Facebook pages, and I appreciate all of those who took the time to read it and comment, via whatever methods you took. Everyone said it was great, and moving, and a wonderful and beautiful expression of everything we’re going through. FDS even read it today and called to say she cried because of it. But there’s that pang of guilt I feel because of it–one of the best pieces of writing I’ve done was a purely heartfelt reaction to a horrible situation, and this is how I’m coping with it.

I can’t avoid the questions going through my head: Why? What if? How come? How can any of this seem normal? How can life just move on without that one person?

The five of us had dinner in the den tonight, sitting in chairs that just days ago sat around the bed. She was here. She was alive. But she wasn’t really her–it wasn’t really Judy. The body was there, but the spirit, that infectious, loving, bright spirit was long gone.

I miss her, I really do. But I’ve missed her for a long time.

Patrick cried this morning and again tonight about how much he misses her. I know it’s normal and natural, but it just tears my heart apart because there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it except to tell him it’s OK, and that I understand.

Jenni and I wrote the obituary last night–the second I’ve had to write in my lifetime. The struggle is trying to compress the life of a person into so few lines of text. Nothing’s easy about it. At least with the last one, I had the subject of it still alive to review and edit it with.

Yeah, we’re rallying around each other, supporting each other, loving each other, hugging each other, reaching out to each other. The full weight of everything won’t come crashing down on us until Friday when the ceremony–the ritual–breaks the relative calm of preparations and planning. The party, I think, will lift us all back up.

We’re moving on. Every day will at least be different from the last–if not better, then different. Every day is a new one. Life has changed forever, and we’ve got to learn to live in this new life and make it just as strong and full and loving as what came before.

FDS told me a while back how things would go–the process, the feelings, the needs some in the family might have… And in talking to her today, I had to admit something that was a surprise to me: I’ve re-read yesterday’s post three times today, and it made me cry every time. How do you cry at something you’ve written? How do you cry at words and feelings you committed to the screen yourself? Unless that came from somewhere else inside me, or just reinforces feelings that are already there…

I’m a dad and husband first. I’m the go-to guy for answers to questions from my kids and wife. That’s who I am and what I do. And this has no answers, only a path that lies ahead that I need to help lead us all down. That’s what mourning and loss and grieving are all about: taking every day as another step on a path. You’re not meant to feel in control. You’re not meant to feel whole. You’re not meant to feel normal.

And the tough part is that’s OK. That’s the normal you get for now. Life goes on, but it ain’t right.

Writing all of this, tonight and even yesterday, however it all comes out of my heart, or mind, or soul…This is part of my path. Every day, every entry, every word here, every feeling and every sentiment is part of that path. And perhaps, by reading it, those of you who visited today will find some of your path, too.

So, as we search for the path, I hope we all find the solace we need together.

See you tomorrow.

Judy died this morning.

I’m know that most of you reading this already know this, or have been following things, so this is not a surprise. We all knew this day was coming, it was just a matter of when. But knowing and expecting doesn’t make it any easier. It doesn’t make the pain any less vivid or the loss any less dramatic.

It wasn’t made any easier when I went to wake up Patrick just before 6:30, with the intention of telling him once he had a chance to shake out the cobwebs and get his bearings. But the first words out of his mouth were to ask if grandma died. I couldn’t lie. I couldn’t hold off telling him after a direct question like that. I couldn’t soften the blow to him except to just sit there and offer a hug and a shoulder to cry on just minutes after he woke up.

The rest of us are coping, I guess. Either by not letting it sink in fully yet, or just engrossing ourselves in our life, or just simply going about the normal things in the day that need to get done. The girls probably haven’t wrapped their minds and thoughts around it fully yet. I don’t know if they’re too young, or if they just don’t have any experience to draw upon yet. At some point, it will sink in, if it hasn’t already. And all anyone can do is just be there when it does.

Jenni is, as always, busy with all that her life entails, though that is simultaneously constant and in flux. I can’t and won’t speak for her, so don’t expect much here on that. But I’ll reinforce this here: I’m always here for you. Always.

Bob fortunately has a lot of family to fall back on, so it’s probably a good thing that he has grand kids around all the time whether he wants it or not. If they can’t offer comfort, at least they can offer distraction.

And me?

Today has been spent in a bit of a fog–starting your day with that kind of news certainly detracts from the otherwise mundane course of a Monday. It’s distracting and overwhelming, but today was move day at work, so at least there were physical pursuits to be had instead of incessant butt-planting in front of the computer. I’m trying to stay stoic and strong, because a level, measured response is what my family needs right now. Not to say I’m not hurting–it’s impossible not to–it’s just that life continues for all of us, whether we want it to or not. And as I told FDS today in a call just to let her know, this is how I can support my family–represent and try to maintain whatever normalcy I can cling to.

But life goes on. The sun will rise tomorrow morning, and I’ll wake up to face it at the usual ungodly hour, and get the troops up and ready for their days as well. Just like this morning. Just like every morning. It’s just going to be missing someone who’s been there, well, forever, as far as they’re all concerned. It’s just that much emptier.

My second dance at our wedding reception was with Judy. During it, she told me that it was my turn to watch out for and take care of one of the most precious things in her life–Jenni. She was trusting me with an obviously sacred duty that she’d pursued for twenty-plus years. And she told me, in no uncertain terms, that while it was now my task, and she believed I could do it, she’d always be watching. I’ve tried to hold to that. Sometimes with more success than at other times. But always with the same resolve and intent. That will continue, and she knows it carries over to the rest of my brood as well. Above all else comes family. Regardless of what that may mean.

She was a big personality, as are Bob and Jenni and Matt. With all four together, it had often been noted that Nielsen family events could potentially become circus-like in their entertainment value. Fortunately, in that vein, the plans are to celebrate her life this Friday night with a party. Grieving will be optional, but probably certain. I don’t think anyone who was touched by her will get away without shedding a tear at the party, if for no other reason than she’s going to be missing from both the party and also the lives of the celebrators. But laughing–joyful, heartfelt and honest–will be required of all. It is, most certainly, what she would want.

We’ve had many chances to grieve along the way as the cancer robbed her of all of her vitality, energy, comfort and ultimately her life. We can easily sit and curse the disease and its consequences. We can be angry at fate. We can ask why this had to happen, and how it happened, but none of that will bring any solace. We can shake our fists at God, but that won’t bring consolation. We can yell and scream and agree that this completely sucks. But unfortunately, references to her will still only come in the past tense. Only by coming together and embracing the emptiness of where she was will we as her family and friends start to see the full impact she brought to everyone she touched. And only now can we begin the recovery from the hole in our hearts where she once was. She isn’t gone forever from our memories, certainly, but it’s that presence we’ll all miss.

I’ve been blessed for almost 18 years to have a mother-in-law who didn’t fit all of the stereotypes. Sure, she could be a nag sometimes, but that seems to be ingrained into mothers as soon as they give birth. And she could be demanding. And particular. And opinionated. And tough some times. And single-minded. And unwavering. But I don’t think you could say she didn’t love you or didn’t care.

In the short term, it’s the recent memories that will be hard to shake–Judy as patient, not as the vibrant person she was for so long. But those memories will come back in time. And we’ll welcome every single one of them and revel in them together as a loving extended family.

To all of you out there who have reached out and sent well wishes to her and to the whole family, thank you. They all meant a lot. And thank you all in advance for taking us into your thoughts and prayers that are certain to come. We love all of you. There are ten people, all very close, mourning the loss of that eleventh. And on top of that, there are many, many others missing someone who had a special place in their life. With each other, and with all of you, we’ll make it just fine.

Judy, wherever she is, is ordering us to. She almost certainly is saying that there’s just no other option.

See you tomorrow.