I dreamed I went to visit your grave last night, Daddy.
It was somewhere far away and hard to get to. The gravestones were built into this massive hill, so many too many huge gravestone and monuments, crowded together. People were everywhere and there were no trees or flowers. We had to push through everything, and I was constantly afraid I'd fall off the hill. We finally got to yours; we'd built a massive bronze bust on top of it for you. It was pretty ugly, Dad, I'm not going to lie.
I'm glad it's nothing like that in real life. But I worry, Daddy, about the cemetery, now that winter is coming. I know you're long gone but I think about your body, about your coffin, about piles of dead leaves and flowers wilted by the frost. I think about your bare grave site, since we can't put in the headstone until the spring. I'm sorry about that, Daddy. I wish you didn't have to lay there without something to mark where you are. I wish you didn't have to lie there at all, not yet, anyways.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
The Rushdie-fication of my Dad (Or, How I Got Him to Read My Favorite Novel)
The last novel my dad ever read was Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children. He didn't finish--in fact, he only made it to page 75. But I'll never forget that he started to read my very favorite novel by an author I talk about far too often. Even if he didn't have time to finish it.
Over the past couple of years, my dad had read a few of my postcolonial African or Indian novels. He preferred to read nonfiction, because, as he told me whenever we jokingly argued about fiction vs. nonfiction, "there is just too much to learn about, and too little time!" He could most often be found making his way through thick tomes about the history of Africa or economics or astrophysics. That's when he wasn't working, or doing yardwork, or bicycling, or watching the game, or (somewhere in there) sleeping. But lately, he'd been making an effort to read "my" books, so that we could talk about my literary interests. He read Burger's Daughter by Nadine Gordimer and Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton. The last book he did finish was Atlas Shrugged, which is also technically mine, though I've never gotten around to reading it.
But a few weeks before he died, he asked to borrow my copy of Midnight's Children. The copy I bought in Blackwells bookshop, in Oxford. The copy I carried with me everywhere as I desperately tried to get through it in a week. The copy I underlined and highlighted and dog-eared. The copy I spilled tea on. The copy where the binding is splitting right at the midnight moment when India becomes independent and Saleem is born (how fitting!).
One of our last conversations over dinner Sunday night--the night before his stroke--was about Midnight's Children. He asked if it could be considered "stream-of-consciousness," I rambled on a bit about how it wasn't but it was written to seem like he was telling his story aloud. We talked about how his experience of visiting the Taj Mahal in 1979 wasn't anything like Rushdie's description of it: "whose outdoor corridors stink of urine and whose walls are covered in graffiti and whose echoes are tested for visitors by guides although there are signs in three languages pleading for silence" (Rushdie 73). I laughed and said, I guess they'd cleaned it up a bit by then. We talked about that scene in Slumdog Millionaire when Jamal and his brother (Salim!) took rich Americans on tours around the Taj and then stole their shoes. He talked about how much he was enjoying reading a book about India, how it reminded him of being there.
It wasn't a profound discussion, but it was real. I was blessed to have a dad so eager to share in and understand my passions, even if they weren't exactly his own. I'll never forget that we shared that book, and that moment, right before he passed away.
"Now Salahuddin found better words, his Urdu returning to him after a long absence. We're all beside you, Abba. We all love you very much. Changez could not speak, but that was--was it not?--yes, it must have been--a little nod of recognition. He heard me."
Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses
Over the past couple of years, my dad had read a few of my postcolonial African or Indian novels. He preferred to read nonfiction, because, as he told me whenever we jokingly argued about fiction vs. nonfiction, "there is just too much to learn about, and too little time!" He could most often be found making his way through thick tomes about the history of Africa or economics or astrophysics. That's when he wasn't working, or doing yardwork, or bicycling, or watching the game, or (somewhere in there) sleeping. But lately, he'd been making an effort to read "my" books, so that we could talk about my literary interests. He read Burger's Daughter by Nadine Gordimer and Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton. The last book he did finish was Atlas Shrugged, which is also technically mine, though I've never gotten around to reading it.
But a few weeks before he died, he asked to borrow my copy of Midnight's Children. The copy I bought in Blackwells bookshop, in Oxford. The copy I carried with me everywhere as I desperately tried to get through it in a week. The copy I underlined and highlighted and dog-eared. The copy I spilled tea on. The copy where the binding is splitting right at the midnight moment when India becomes independent and Saleem is born (how fitting!).
One of our last conversations over dinner Sunday night--the night before his stroke--was about Midnight's Children. He asked if it could be considered "stream-of-consciousness," I rambled on a bit about how it wasn't but it was written to seem like he was telling his story aloud. We talked about how his experience of visiting the Taj Mahal in 1979 wasn't anything like Rushdie's description of it: "whose outdoor corridors stink of urine and whose walls are covered in graffiti and whose echoes are tested for visitors by guides although there are signs in three languages pleading for silence" (Rushdie 73). I laughed and said, I guess they'd cleaned it up a bit by then. We talked about that scene in Slumdog Millionaire when Jamal and his brother (Salim!) took rich Americans on tours around the Taj and then stole their shoes. He talked about how much he was enjoying reading a book about India, how it reminded him of being there.
It wasn't a profound discussion, but it was real. I was blessed to have a dad so eager to share in and understand my passions, even if they weren't exactly his own. I'll never forget that we shared that book, and that moment, right before he passed away.
"Now Salahuddin found better words, his Urdu returning to him after a long absence. We're all beside you, Abba. We all love you very much. Changez could not speak, but that was--was it not?--yes, it must have been--a little nod of recognition. He heard me."
Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
What Dreams May Come
"To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause."
--Hamlet
I've always had very vivid, memorable dreams. I don't know if this is because my imagination is that much more powerful than other people's, or if it's simply because I dream right before I wake up. I'm not an expert on dream theory, or anything. But I wake up most mornings with clear, detailed memories of the things my brain dreamed about the night before. Often these dreams feature celebrities--exactly who stars in my dreams depends on what TV show or book I'm currently obsessed with. When I was a freshman in college, I dreamt about characters from the TV show Lost almost every single night, because I watched at least one episode a day (and thought about it when I wasn't watching it). Last year I would frequently dream that I was in the Holocaust because my class on the subject made such a deep impression on me.
But not only do I remember who showed up in the dream, or what crazy and illogical things happened, but I remember sensations. And feelings. I'll wake up with the distinct memory of someone's arms wrapped around me. Or of sunshine, warm on my face. I still vividly remember a moment from a dream I had a few years ago: I was standing with my eyes closed, possibly in a field. I could feel the sun on my face, and I could see its light through the red of my closed eyelids. I felt such a feeling of bliss that I began running towards the sunlight, eyes still closed, yet fearless of falling. It was beautiful.
Usually, though, these dreams just feature situations or people I'm stressed about. I've had a series of dreams over the past couple of years in which I reunite with an old friend. Things ended on somewhat bad terms, and we never speak anymore. When I'm awake, I don't really mind; people grow apart. But when I dream, I seem to constantly run into her, and I always say exactly what I wish I could say in real life. I dream about conversations I wish I could have, about stressful work situations, or about the things I fear.
But dreams usually have an element of absurdity that make them less upsetting. I wake up and think, "Why would I suddenly have to swim across a lake in order to clock out at work?" or, "There's no possibility of having that guy's baby, why worry about it happening?" I mean, I've dreamed about being shot by Tommy Lee, about being in a Soviet gulag, about my little brother Marvin being killed (who's Marvin? He certainly wasn't Jason), and about a talking wolf attacking me in my backyard. To name a few. Re-examining the strange, off-kilter aspects of the dream help me remember that they're just dreams. That they have no relevance, no real influence on my life--no matter how many details I can remember, or how strongly I could see or hear or smell or feel things within the dream.
But here comes the catch. I dream vividly about the situations that upset me--ergo, I have started dreaming about my dad. A couple of weeks ago I had a dream that still haunts me. In this dream, I was in a department store, and I saw a girl I was friends with in high school. We were chatting when someone else came up to talk to me. I turned to look, and felt this completely visceral shock--It was my dad! Alive! And talking to me! I remember that sensation of shock and amazement running through my whole body. I felt it in my stomach, my feet, my heart. Later, I tried to think up the right simile for the feeling: an electric shock, a bullet to the stomach...Mostly it was like my entire body flinched, I was so surprised.
But then, moments later, I thought...wait, this is a dream, isn't it, because my dad is dead. He can't come back to life. And then I grew profoundly sad because it was such a vivid dream. The details were perfect. My brain had gotten his voice, his mannerisms, his face exactly right. I even recognized his sweater. (It was a thick, reddish, plaid one. He would wear it a lot during the winter, around Christmastime.)
There was nothing absurd about him. There was nothing to mitigate the emptiness that followed the heady moment when I thought my dad was alive. There was nothing to make those dream moments any less horribly sad than my waking ones.
To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause."
--Hamlet
I've always had very vivid, memorable dreams. I don't know if this is because my imagination is that much more powerful than other people's, or if it's simply because I dream right before I wake up. I'm not an expert on dream theory, or anything. But I wake up most mornings with clear, detailed memories of the things my brain dreamed about the night before. Often these dreams feature celebrities--exactly who stars in my dreams depends on what TV show or book I'm currently obsessed with. When I was a freshman in college, I dreamt about characters from the TV show Lost almost every single night, because I watched at least one episode a day (and thought about it when I wasn't watching it). Last year I would frequently dream that I was in the Holocaust because my class on the subject made such a deep impression on me.
But not only do I remember who showed up in the dream, or what crazy and illogical things happened, but I remember sensations. And feelings. I'll wake up with the distinct memory of someone's arms wrapped around me. Or of sunshine, warm on my face. I still vividly remember a moment from a dream I had a few years ago: I was standing with my eyes closed, possibly in a field. I could feel the sun on my face, and I could see its light through the red of my closed eyelids. I felt such a feeling of bliss that I began running towards the sunlight, eyes still closed, yet fearless of falling. It was beautiful.
Usually, though, these dreams just feature situations or people I'm stressed about. I've had a series of dreams over the past couple of years in which I reunite with an old friend. Things ended on somewhat bad terms, and we never speak anymore. When I'm awake, I don't really mind; people grow apart. But when I dream, I seem to constantly run into her, and I always say exactly what I wish I could say in real life. I dream about conversations I wish I could have, about stressful work situations, or about the things I fear.
But dreams usually have an element of absurdity that make them less upsetting. I wake up and think, "Why would I suddenly have to swim across a lake in order to clock out at work?" or, "There's no possibility of having that guy's baby, why worry about it happening?" I mean, I've dreamed about being shot by Tommy Lee, about being in a Soviet gulag, about my little brother Marvin being killed (who's Marvin? He certainly wasn't Jason), and about a talking wolf attacking me in my backyard. To name a few. Re-examining the strange, off-kilter aspects of the dream help me remember that they're just dreams. That they have no relevance, no real influence on my life--no matter how many details I can remember, or how strongly I could see or hear or smell or feel things within the dream.
But here comes the catch. I dream vividly about the situations that upset me--ergo, I have started dreaming about my dad. A couple of weeks ago I had a dream that still haunts me. In this dream, I was in a department store, and I saw a girl I was friends with in high school. We were chatting when someone else came up to talk to me. I turned to look, and felt this completely visceral shock--It was my dad! Alive! And talking to me! I remember that sensation of shock and amazement running through my whole body. I felt it in my stomach, my feet, my heart. Later, I tried to think up the right simile for the feeling: an electric shock, a bullet to the stomach...Mostly it was like my entire body flinched, I was so surprised.
But then, moments later, I thought...wait, this is a dream, isn't it, because my dad is dead. He can't come back to life. And then I grew profoundly sad because it was such a vivid dream. The details were perfect. My brain had gotten his voice, his mannerisms, his face exactly right. I even recognized his sweater. (It was a thick, reddish, plaid one. He would wear it a lot during the winter, around Christmastime.)
There was nothing absurd about him. There was nothing to mitigate the emptiness that followed the heady moment when I thought my dad was alive. There was nothing to make those dream moments any less horribly sad than my waking ones.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Anger
Yesterday, my mom and I went to church for the first time since. I don't really think I need to put anything after the "since." Since THEN. That's enough.
Anyways.
In the middle of some random song about how God Reigns, I became absolutely furious. I was seething. Next to me, my mom was crying and some lady was hugging her and praying, and I could have seriously punched someone. It was pretty strange. I wasn't mad at anyone. I wasn't pissed about something someone said, or even about the words in the song. I don't know what set me off; I only know that suddenly I was totally incensed. It's almost funny (except that it's not)--during a lovely prayer given by a lovely old man in our church, I could have burned holes in the wall behind him with my Evil Glare.
I suppose I was mad at God. I got my first taste of the anger of grief--How dare you? How dare I be expected to "Rest in God's Comfort" or to "Trust in His Will"? How dare this situation? How dare these people stand there, all moved by the Spirit? How dare those stupid saxophones blare away when my dad is GONE? I started thinking about how much the words of that song would have meant to my dad...how he truly trusted in them, how he was empowered by the strength and encouragement he gathered from them. Let me be clear--this wasn't one of those moments where you think, "Ha. He believed those words, but clearly they didn't save him. They must be just a bunch of meaningless feel-good platitudes."
I mean, I don't know if I'll have one of those moments in the future. Probably.
But it mostly made me sad, because I feel like I've gained a more clear understanding, since he has died, of how important his faith was to my dad. I was saddened to imagine what he might have felt if it had been a normal Sunday, and he was standing next to my mom, rather than just me. (I'm a pretty poor substitute.) And somehow, that sadness was translated into anger. I just couldn't believe. this. all. was. happening.
I don't really have a resolution to this story. The anger faded away about as quickly as it had come on--I laughed along with the skit involving the children's pastor and the monkey puppet as much as I would have otherwise. I tried to listen to the sermon as best as I could.
After the service though, someone in the congregation came up to my mom and me. (Oh gosh, I can't remember his name.) He said he hoped he wasn't overstepping himself, but he just wanted to say that sometimes everything anyone says, entire church services even, can just sound like, "blah, blah, blah." All the "We'll be praying for you's." All the "Thinking of you's." That they can all sound like nothing more than white noise--all the things about God's faithfulness, or his strength, or even that verse in Amazing Grace about how 'twas Grace that brought us safe this far, and Grace will lead us home. It's just "blah blah blah" in the face of the grief that we're feeling. And that that's okay. We just need to leave a door open in our hearts. Someday, he said, we'll be able to hear the words, and someday they'll make sense.
And I thought...hmm, maybe I did hear a pretty relevant message this morning.
Anyways.
In the middle of some random song about how God Reigns, I became absolutely furious. I was seething. Next to me, my mom was crying and some lady was hugging her and praying, and I could have seriously punched someone. It was pretty strange. I wasn't mad at anyone. I wasn't pissed about something someone said, or even about the words in the song. I don't know what set me off; I only know that suddenly I was totally incensed. It's almost funny (except that it's not)--during a lovely prayer given by a lovely old man in our church, I could have burned holes in the wall behind him with my Evil Glare.
I suppose I was mad at God. I got my first taste of the anger of grief--How dare you? How dare I be expected to "Rest in God's Comfort" or to "Trust in His Will"? How dare this situation? How dare these people stand there, all moved by the Spirit? How dare those stupid saxophones blare away when my dad is GONE? I started thinking about how much the words of that song would have meant to my dad...how he truly trusted in them, how he was empowered by the strength and encouragement he gathered from them. Let me be clear--this wasn't one of those moments where you think, "Ha. He believed those words, but clearly they didn't save him. They must be just a bunch of meaningless feel-good platitudes."
I mean, I don't know if I'll have one of those moments in the future. Probably.
But it mostly made me sad, because I feel like I've gained a more clear understanding, since he has died, of how important his faith was to my dad. I was saddened to imagine what he might have felt if it had been a normal Sunday, and he was standing next to my mom, rather than just me. (I'm a pretty poor substitute.) And somehow, that sadness was translated into anger. I just couldn't believe. this. all. was. happening.
I don't really have a resolution to this story. The anger faded away about as quickly as it had come on--I laughed along with the skit involving the children's pastor and the monkey puppet as much as I would have otherwise. I tried to listen to the sermon as best as I could.
After the service though, someone in the congregation came up to my mom and me. (Oh gosh, I can't remember his name.) He said he hoped he wasn't overstepping himself, but he just wanted to say that sometimes everything anyone says, entire church services even, can just sound like, "blah, blah, blah." All the "We'll be praying for you's." All the "Thinking of you's." That they can all sound like nothing more than white noise--all the things about God's faithfulness, or his strength, or even that verse in Amazing Grace about how 'twas Grace that brought us safe this far, and Grace will lead us home. It's just "blah blah blah" in the face of the grief that we're feeling. And that that's okay. We just need to leave a door open in our hearts. Someday, he said, we'll be able to hear the words, and someday they'll make sense.
And I thought...hmm, maybe I did hear a pretty relevant message this morning.
The Clutter of a Life Well-lived
My mom and I started the process of cleaning out my dad's office today. We ran into one of my dad's partners, Dr. Hunter, as we went in. When we told him why we were there, he gave me such a sad look. Not entirely a look of pity (I am just about sick of those, by now), but a look of such genuine sadness. He and my dad worked side-by-side for thirty years. I haven't even been alive for that long. I could tell it hurt him to see the cardboard boxes almost as much as it hurt us to be carrying them.
It was pretty difficult to bear at first. Nothing had been disturbed for several weeks; every post-it note and medical journal and letter were exactly where he had placed them. It was as if he had only just walked out of the room and would return shortly. That messy office was just packed full of things that shouted out my dad's personality...everything pointed to the man he was.
There were pictures of family on every available space. I'd wondered where those pictures of us at all those Father-Daughter dances had ended up. He had a badly painted rock on his desk (I'm thinking it was an art project of Jason's). He had a desk drawer full of pamphlets given to him by drug reps. He once told me that he felt bad if he didn't at least listen to their pitch, since they brought free food. Another desk drawer was stuffed full of tracts--he had often handed them out to his patients, telling them about God and encouraging them to seek Him out. I found a copied page from an old book that exhorted physicians to direct their patients toward the Lord, stating that doctors have a unique opportunity in people's lives during a time when they are most open to hearing about God. He had golf mugs, golf picture frames, and golf comic strips taped to his filing cabinet. He had a giant bookshelf full of books about infectious diseases. There was a certificate given to him from the UC College of Medicine, thanking him for serving as a mentor to some med students. The little write-up at the bottom of the page lauded my dad's "Sherlock Holmes-ian" approach to diagnosing infectious diseases. Taped up all over the walls were cryptic notes, letters from other doctors, printed-out emails, phone numbers, and reminders. He had a beautiful wooden clock carved to resemble a Gothic church, given to him by a grateful patient. I found a piece of paper hanging up with a child's footprints on it, and when I smilingly pointed it out to my mom, she turned it over. It said, "Love, JessicA 1993."
If you didn't know my dad, you could understand a lot about who he was by looking through that office. He loved God. He loved his family. He was an enthusiastic golfer. He was a very intelligent man, and a diligent doctor. He was loved by his patients. He had a good sense of humor about life and about his job.
And most of all, he was certainly not done living yet.
It was pretty difficult to bear at first. Nothing had been disturbed for several weeks; every post-it note and medical journal and letter were exactly where he had placed them. It was as if he had only just walked out of the room and would return shortly. That messy office was just packed full of things that shouted out my dad's personality...everything pointed to the man he was.
There were pictures of family on every available space. I'd wondered where those pictures of us at all those Father-Daughter dances had ended up. He had a badly painted rock on his desk (I'm thinking it was an art project of Jason's). He had a desk drawer full of pamphlets given to him by drug reps. He once told me that he felt bad if he didn't at least listen to their pitch, since they brought free food. Another desk drawer was stuffed full of tracts--he had often handed them out to his patients, telling them about God and encouraging them to seek Him out. I found a copied page from an old book that exhorted physicians to direct their patients toward the Lord, stating that doctors have a unique opportunity in people's lives during a time when they are most open to hearing about God. He had golf mugs, golf picture frames, and golf comic strips taped to his filing cabinet. He had a giant bookshelf full of books about infectious diseases. There was a certificate given to him from the UC College of Medicine, thanking him for serving as a mentor to some med students. The little write-up at the bottom of the page lauded my dad's "Sherlock Holmes-ian" approach to diagnosing infectious diseases. Taped up all over the walls were cryptic notes, letters from other doctors, printed-out emails, phone numbers, and reminders. He had a beautiful wooden clock carved to resemble a Gothic church, given to him by a grateful patient. I found a piece of paper hanging up with a child's footprints on it, and when I smilingly pointed it out to my mom, she turned it over. It said, "Love, JessicA 1993."
If you didn't know my dad, you could understand a lot about who he was by looking through that office. He loved God. He loved his family. He was an enthusiastic golfer. He was a very intelligent man, and a diligent doctor. He was loved by his patients. He had a good sense of humor about life and about his job.
And most of all, he was certainly not done living yet.
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