The Joys of Teaching

So I don't really think I've written much--if anything--about my Master's program or my job as a Graduate Assistant teaching Freshman Composition at UC. It's the beginning of November, and things are going pretty well. My workload this semester isn't too intense. I'm not claiming to be some kind of genius...grad school is definitely a challenge. But two of my classes are sort of "introductory" and though my third class, English Renaissance Drama, is really interesting and challenging, the reading load is fairly light.

Despite this, I'm still busy most of the time. And it's all Teaching's fault.

Ah, teaching. It wearies my soul and gets me out of bed in the morning and makes me tear my hair out. Some days I really love it. I feel comfortable, they're engaged and learning. Last week I did a lesson on Genre and Audience using examples from the Harry Potter universe and they loved it. I do like my students. They're all remarkably hardworking and committed to the class, and their work is decent. They call me Professor Brown and they seem to respect me. I really like getting to know them individually. I want to invest in them, as much as I can, the way my professors invested in me in college.

But some days they drive me crazy. It can be difficult to get college students motivated about English at 8 in the morning. Sometimes their blank stares are so frustrating. Come on guys!, I enthuse, if you talk it'll be easier for all of us. And then we'll be done and you can leave. Don't you want to leave? It's like that scene in the classic 90s movie "Mrs. Doubtfire." Robin Williams tells the lady at the hiring agency that he "does voices." He then launches into a bunch of really funny impressions, but she never cracks a smile. She asks, "Mr. Hillard, do you consider yourself humorous?" And he calmly replies, "I used to. There was a time when I found myself funny. But today, you have proven me wrong."

My students.

Me.

Just kidding. It's never quite that bad. Most of the time when my students are quiet or turn in atrocious work, it just makes me laugh. They're so adorably clueless sometimes. There's one kid who's a great student. But whenever I ask the class if I need to explain an assignment further, he just gives the slowest, saddest, most world-weary shake of his head. hahaha...Please.

A friend in my Practicum class recently described our role when we grade papers as similar to an Emergency Room doctor's: we assess the injuries and try to patch up the most critical ones first. We look at their bloody papers and make instant judgement calls, we shout at the nurses to BRING MORE GAUZE!:

 White male, 18 years old. Okay: we gotta fix this organization or he'll bleed out on the table.  And we've got a gaping hole in the logic here caused by a single gun shot wound to the body paragraphs. Let's sew up the conclusion now or else it'll infect the rest of the essay from the bottom up. Get some transitions in here, stat! We can deal with the surface abrasions caused by faulty grammar when he's out of the woods.

But I've got this one student. If we extend the Emergency Room metaphor...he is DOA. He seems completely lost in college. Even in the first weeks, he didn't seem to grasp the concepts, or even the fact that his actions have consequences. He didn't turn things in, and what he did submit was absolutely unacceptable compared to his peers' work and the expectations for the Composition Program. When I talked to him personally, he always offered really off-the-wall excuses. But he seemed to be genuinely struggling, so I made a conscious effort to talk to him, to offer extensions, to give encouragement.

At UC, like many other colleges, undergraduate students have to pass English 1001 to graduate. If they earn below a C-, we give them an "NP," or "Not Proficient," and they have to take it again until they pass. And unfortunately, there's a point at which you  just can't recover from the poor work you've done. There's no way to get that C-. This student massively failed the first major paper, despite the suggestions I gave on the first draft. When I discussed it with the head of the Comp Program, she agreed with me--he can't recover. He should drop my course and register for the class below it, English 1000, in the spring. So then I was faced with a dilemma. How do I tell this student that he's failed already? It wasn't even October yet! Do you just say, YO, DROP MY CLASS? Maybe give him one of these?

NP for effort!

That week, I had planned to schedule individual meetings with my students. I knew it would be maybe my only opportunity to talk frankly with this student, to help him see the severity of the situation.

The conference day arrived, a Wednesday. As I walked to campus, I was still pondering how I should break the news gently to this student. This poor, fragile guy. And finally it came to me: an apt metaphor for what I'm doing is like when a doctor breaks bad news to a patient. I thought about my dad. He was fantastic with his patients--everyone always says he was an amazing listener. He really listened to their concerns, to how they were feeling. He never tried to rush people out of the office. He was kind and patient and understanding. He always explained everything and answered any questions. He invested in them.

So I'm walking up the hill and repeating to myself, good bedside manner, good bedside manner. Be kind, be kind, be gentle. When, a few minutes later, the student approached my table at Starbucks, I reminded myself to channel Dr. Brown. It...it went as well as I could have hoped. He was upset to hear he was failing so badly, but seemed to understand me. I apologized for having to give him such bad news. But I tried to balance the bad news with encouragement and advice: even if you drop now, you will be more prepared for next time. You just have to take advantage of the resources on campus. You have some nice ideas in your papers, but your writing just isn't quite there yet. (Okay, that one was sort of a lie.)

Maybe I did a better job being nice than convincing the student of the hopelessness of his grade, because he didn't drop. He stayed. He even raised his hand and answered a question last Thursday! He turned in a couple more assignments, but not the draft of the 8-page research paper. With anyone else, this would turn me into Red-Alert-Oh-Boy-You're-Screwed professor, but with this guy...it doesn't exactly matter. The last day to drop has passed, so he's officially getting an NP...no matter what.

I guess my job should be some combination of the kindly, helpful family practice doctor--who has the time and heart to explain things, to listen as they stumble towards a vaguely workable research topic--and an ER doctor, who's just trying to keep the patient alive, at all costs.

I don't know. Every time I'm harsh, I feel bad; every time I let something slide, I regret it. I'm still trying to work out the right mix of nice and tough. Ultimately, though, I'm just really hoping that this guy doesn't show up on my roster next semester! I'm not as good a person as my Dad was.

Last

October 16, 2011.

This is, I'm nearly certain, the last picture anyone took of my father. We ate our first dinner out on the new patio, and then we sat around the fire pit we got Dad for Father's Day. I told them to squeeze together so I could take a picture. 

Last picture, last conversation, last dinner, last laughter, last love.
How unprepared we always are.

How to Let Go

One of the most confusing aspects of grief is the sneaking conviction that you're doing it wrong.

You start thinking to yourself, "Surely, I should be okay by now, right?" Even though all the books and all your friends tell you there's no right way to grieve...You can't help but wonder whether it's okay to still be sad. A couple of weeks ago was the anniversary of my trip to Maine last year with my parents. Those days were some of my last, best memories with my Dad. I had been trying to get work done all day, but I was really struggling. So at one point I was laying on my bed bawling and I suddenly wondered what my Dad would say if he could see me. Moping around and crying, a year later, just because he died. I thought, would he be disappointed? Would he say, That's nice of you, honey, but enough is enough.

It's been nearly a year since he died. That's such a distinct and knowable amount of time. Eleven months doesn't sound that long, but a year...that has weight. It has meaning. As a student, your life is broken up into years. Each fall represents a chance to start over, to make new friends and new memories--a clear demarcation between then and now. But now the changing leaves, the brisk wind, the dreary, grey skies all remind me of last year, the days when the weather outside echoed my feelings inside.

I read somewhere that grief is a shapeshifter. It's true. You think you figure something out, then suddenly you're completely lost again. Wait, how do I live without my Dad? I find myself going through emotions I thought I'd dealt with. I find myself feeling resentment over something I thought I'd made peace with. I find myself worrying at night, when I'd been sleeping well for months and months.

I was reminded of an advice column I read after my Dad died. "Sugar" is the pen name of Cheryl Strayed, a writer who happened to lose her mother at 22. One letter she received was from a man who felt helpless in the face of his fiancee's grief over the loss of her own mother, ten years before.

She starts off her response with a story:

"Several months after my mother died I found a glass jar of stones tucked in the far reaches of her bedroom closet. I was moving her things out of the house I’d thought of as home, clearing way for the woman with whom my stepfather had suddenly fallen in love. It was a devastating process—more brutal in its ruthless clarity than anything I’ve ever experienced or hope to again—but when I had that jar of rocks in my hands I felt a kind of elation I cannot describe in any other way except to say that in the cold clunk of its weight I felt ever so fleetingly as if I were holding my mother.

That jar of stones wasn't just any jar of stones. They were rocks my brother and sister and I had given to our mom. Stones we’d found as kids on beaches and trails and the grassy patches on the edges of parking lots and pressed into her hands, our mother’s palms the receptacle for every last thing we thought worth saving.

I sat down on the bedroom floor and dumped them out, running my fingers over them as if they were the most sacred things on the earth. Most were smooth and black and smaller than a potato chip. Worry stones my mother had called them, the sort so pleasing against the palm she claimed they had the power to soothe the mind if you rubbed them right.

What do you do with the rocks you once gave to your dead mother? Where is their rightful place? To whom do they belong? To what are you obligated? Memory? Practicality? Reason? Faith? Do you put them back in the jar and take them with you across the wild and unkempt sorrow of your twenties or do you simply carry them outside and dump them in the yard?" 

---Cheryl Strayed, "The Black Arc of It" 

A year ago, I would have said, Of course--throw out the stupid rocks. They aren't your mother. But now, as I'm facing the long years without my father, I'm not so sure.

I worry about forgetting. I think about how we all eventually get relegated to stories, to a small box filled with inconsequential items--a pair of glasses, a watch, a book, a smooth stone. And I guess that is the natural order of things, that people fade from life and then fade from our memories. But I'm having a hard time accepting that truth right now. I just want him to stay. I just want him to always be present in my heart. I want to remember my Dad, the things he taught me, his smile. I want to honor his memory. I don't want the anniversaries to pass like any other day. I want to sit with the grief and know it as part of who I am. I want to give thanks for it.

How do you begin to let go?

Sugar ends her letter by encouraging the man to simply bear witness to his fiancee's grief: It'll never be okay, but that's okay. There isn't an expiration date on the sadness of losing a parent at a young age. I have to remind myself that I'm still very close to it all--I won't be able to see whether I've been "doing it right" for a very long time. I have to hold on to the hope, the faith, that someday it will be different:

"Next week it will be twenty years since my mother died. So long I squint every time the thought comes to me. So long that I've finally convinced myself there isn't a code to crack. The search is over. The stones I once gave my mother have scattered, replaced by the stones my children give to me. I keep the best ones in my pockets. Sometimes there is one so perfect I carry it around for weeks, my hand finding it and finding it, soothing itself along the black arc of it."

Am I holding on to my own worry stones? Have I wrapped my grief around my shoulders like a security blanket? Am I clutching my sadness to my breast, so that he doesn't fade away? But if I'm no longer actively grieving...am I actively forgetting my Dad? I just really don't know.

Maybe in another year I'll have a better perspective--or in ten, or twenty. For now, I just don't know.

Perhaps I'm so worried about this because we're approaching Year One. Or perhaps it's because so much is changing in my life right now. And while it's good and exciting and refreshing, I find myself grasping desperately onto things I know. To people I love. To my family and to my memories. To the smooth stones (and hopes and dreams and questions) I once entrusted to my Dad's strong hands, the safest place for them.

(Postsecret).

One more miracle

"But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be...dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

--John Watson, Sherlock

sunrise on mt. cadillac

"No matter what happens now,

you shouldn't be afraid

because I know today has been the most perfect day I've ever seen."

 --radiohead

a year ago, today.

the coast of Maine; six a.m. sunrise.

the land, the ocean, the wind---

transcendence.


Exactly one month later, Dad suffered the stroke that killed him. It's funny how we never know what's coming. If we only knew---how much tighter we'd hold on, how we'd say to ourselves: I will remember this.

How I'd have taken pictures with my heart, not just with my camera: faces uplifted to greet the sun. Blueberry pancakes, hikes through the woods, wildflowers. A sheltering arm against the wind. Harmless squabbles, dinner over wine and laughter. Admiring the brightness of the stars.

How much more I would have said, if I'd known how soon he'd join those stars.

On Becoming a Bearcat

Hey Dad,

You've been on my mind and my heart a lot lately.

It's not just that your birthday is next Wednesday, on the fifth. It's not just that looking at all these class schedules reminds me how soon October 18th is--I now know that it's a Thursday, when I have to teach and attend two graduate classes. It'll be a rough day.

But that's not why I've been thinking about you so often lately. I've been reminded of you continually because the University of Cincinnati is still so new and present for me. I still notice the buildings, the signs, the stadiums and the spirit wear. I'm working on reconciling my memory of the campus with my new needs: the fastest way between McMicken and the library, the best place to eat a quick lunch, the route home that involves the least uphill walking. Each day I pause, look around me and think, I like it here. I like the campus and the people. I like the energy and the history and the newness.

Each moment when I get a sense of rightness, a sense that I'm right where I should be, I think of you and the love you always had for your alma mater. I've always cherished the memories of when you'd take us to Bearcat basketball games. We'd park in Burnet Woods to save money, we'd walk down the hill and through campus to the Shoemaker Center. We'd sit up high and join in with the other fans singing the cheers, shouting "Go Home!" or "So What?" as the opposing team members were announced. You know I barely care about sports but I always had such a good time. I remember once we beat Marquette, or maybe it was Louisville, right at the buzzer and everybody stayed and cheered for nearly ten minutes afterwards. We just went crazy. Sometimes we'd leave right after it ended, but you always stayed long enough to sing along with the UC Alma Mater. I could never understand the words, (except Varsity, dear Varsity), but you knew them all. You'd take off your hat and sing along so proudly. Then we'd leave, listening in to the interview with Bob Huggins on 700 WLW on the drive home.

I think about you, here, in this place. I think about which buildings you probably took classes in as an undergrad, and which buildings are definitely after your time. I think about how you probably took a 1970s version of English Composition 1001, maybe from a graduate student instructor like me. I try to imagine Langsam Library in the 70s--no computers and...I don't know, wood paneling and shag carpet. I think of you reading biology textbooks and diligently taking notes. Maybe Dad looked out these exact windows, I thought today, as I sat at a table struggling to read Michel Foucault. (He's a French literary theorist. Yeah.)

A friend said to me the other day that our lives, yours and mine, are merging in the space/time continuum. (Ever seen Doctor Who?) That somehow, right now, I'm living a life parallel to yours during your undergraduate and med school years, despite how different our experiences are. Everything was ahead of you then, just like things are for me now. It's a pretty remarkable thing.

It's remarkable because I didn't exactly plan to attend "your" university. Before you died, I'm pretty sure I blatantly told you I wasn't considering UC because I absolutely would not stay in Cincinnati. I never thought you were disappointed in that, and I know you would have been excited for me no matter where I ended up. I didn't even decide to apply until after you died, because I realized I didn't want to be far away from our family. I wish I had made that decision without your death. I wish I could have shared with you my good news--acceptance and a full scholarship and a teaching job and a stipend--from UC, your dear Varsity.

I don't know if you would have said anything to me about being glad that I chose UC. I don't even know if you'd have mentioned it to Mom, or to a friend. But I like to think (and you're not around to contradict me), that you would have been secretly so happy.

I know you were (and are and will always be) proud of me. When I got accepted, Dad, aside from wanting to just share my news, I wanted to thank you. I know I said these things during my goodbyes, but seriously--thanks, Dad. Thanks for teaching me to read. Thanks for sharing with me your love of learning. Thanks for believing in me. Thanks for contradicting me when I made self-disparaging comments about how I'll never get into graduate school. Thanks for showing up at my concerts, my award ceremonies. Thanks for threatening to take away my violin if I didn't start practicing more. Thanks for reading my Honors project. I always dreamed that if I ever wrote a book, I'd dedicate it to you and Mom, and that's still true. Someday, if I ever finish my dissertation, you're going on the first page. You got me here, and you've made it special.

I wish I could share this experience with you, Dad. I wish you could have helped me move in. I imagine that you would have worn a Bearcats t-shirt, and a Bearcats baseball cap. I imagine you and Mom driving down for an evening. We'd go to a game or a CCM concert, then eat dinner at Ambar India and I'd walk back to my apartment. I imagine that we'd all walk around campus before the game, and you and Mom would tell stories about classes, about meeting each other, about your memories of being so young and full of promise.

I wish I could buy you a stupid, overpriced "Proud UC Dad" bumper sticker.

The Hill

So here we are.

I've officially moved into my new apartment.

My books are all unpacked and organized. I decided on the exact placement of my posters, my African souvenirs, my clothes. I haven't finished organizing the kitchen yet but I'm not worried. I've got my kettle and my mugs unpacked; that's enough. I figured out a few new shortcuts to avoid traffic and one-way streets. I explored the CVS that's less than a block from my house, successfully navigated to a part of Cincinnati I'd never been to before, and deposited a check at my neighborhood bank. I filled out a form with my new address for the postal worker.

I went on a walk this morning. I woke up before nine to sunlight streaming into my room--a new feeling, since my bedroom at home faces west. When I realized it was only 75 degrees outside, I knew I just had to get out and enjoy it. So I decided to time the walk from my apartment to McMicken Hall, the building that houses the English department and where I'll be spending the majority of my time on campus.

McMicken Hall

It's on Clifton Avenue, a major artery for the area around the University of Cincinnati, and one of the most recognizable buildings on campus. I live a ways down Clifton, in a neighborhood called the Clifton Gaslight District. It's full of old houses, even older trees, and the fabulous Ludlow Avenue business district, featuring one of the only indie movie theaters in Cincinnati, my favorite Indian restaurant, and, of course, Graeter's ice cream. Plus a post office, my bank, the library, and a hookah bar. Everything I need. (Just kidding, of course!)

The only problem about living in this great area is walking up the hill between my apartment and UC's West Campus. Between Ludlow and Martin Luther King Drive, you face this steady and steep incline that's over half a mile long. (Thanks, Google Maps.) Some of you might remember me complaining about Headington Hill in Oxford. (Or you know it yourself.) When I was studying abroad over there, I was too cheap to buy a bike or a bus pass; both would have cost around 100 pounds,  or $175-200. So I walked everywhere for three months.

We lived in this house outside city centre, at the top of the infamous Headington Hill. To get to any of the libraries, the SCIO office, or my tutorials, I generally had to walk a minimum of forty minutes. And it was much longer going back up the hill. Obviously, it was good for my fitness level, but I HATED that hike. Every day, I would pause on the corner of Marston and Headington, take a breath, and readjust the straps of my bookbag, which was inevitably full of books and groceries and a half-gallon of milk. I dunno. It seemed like I was always carrying jugs of milk up that freaking hill.

Headington Hill

It was a beast of a hill. I always thought, "maybe if I don't buy groceries this week, I can buy a bus pass!" I often stopped in the middle because I just had to take a break. I'd stand there, panting, sweat soaking through my cardigan, and some fit English person would run past me up the hill.

RUN. UP THE HILL. When I could just barely walk it. I always felt like I wasn't good enough to challenge Headington.

But the Clifton Avenue hill is longer than Headington! And once you get to the top of that hill, you only have a short relief before you have to tackle a much steeper, though shorter, hill to actually reach McMicken! Living in the northern suburbs, you forget just how hilly Cincinnati really is. Which is very.

But I was thinking today about hills, both literal and metaphorical. I was thinking that these two long, steep hills are a great metaphor for where I'm at right now. It's a hike, it's a slog, and sometimes you've got to carry all your baggage along. No matter how much you might want to drop the books and let the milk jug roll into the street. Sometimes, you give everything you've got and you're still being passed by skinny people in fancy workout clothes.

There is a point on Clifton--and on Headington Hill--when I always think: Okay, it's never going to end. I'm gonna have to stop. Maybe I'll just drive! You feel like the hill, the struggle, goes on forever. But then suddenly, almost imperceptibly, you realize that you've arrived at the top. Sometimes you focus so hard on the hill that you're distracted from the truth: you are actually doing it. Even if you're sweating or panting or swearing under your breath, all that truly matters is the fact that you've progressed up the hill. Eventually, the ground evens out and the steps come easier.

It's been a really hard year. At times, I felt like I'd never get past the moments of deep grief, but slowly the happy memories have outweighed the sad ones. At times, I felt that I'd never be secure in my choices. That I would always lie awake at night, my mind scurrying after pointless "What Ifs" and "Why Haven't I's." At times, I felt that peace and excitement and joy would never outweigh anxiety, loneliness, and frustration. At times, I felt like I'd never survive the Hill.

And yet, and yet. Here I am.

I definitely have a lot of uncertainty about the coming two years--I don't really know anyone yet, I don't know if I'll be good at teaching, I don't know if I can hack it at grad school, I don't know if I have what it takes to be a full-time scholar. I don't even know who will be my roommate next year! But I feel really good, really definite, in a way I haven't for a long time. I am happy. I am optimistic. I am ready.

After all the struggle and heartache of this past year, I looked around today and suddenly realized that the ground is pretty level. I've made it, for now. It's enough.

Heart Break

I think it's fair to say that I've revealed a lot of myself in writing this blog. For me, it's cathartic. Writing helps me to know myself and to find meaning in what's happened. On the day that I decide to stop writing this, whenever that might be, I want to be able to look back and see honesty. I want to see my journey laid out behind me. I want my collected words to express something meaningful as a whole.

That being said, I feel like it's time for some real transparency. Despite my honesty, I often feel like I have to censor my more difficult thoughts: the unfair, the contradictory. It's hard. I don't want to offend or upset or worry my non-grieving friends, those who don't know what it's like to lose a parent. The feelings of bitterness, frustration, and anger that I struggled with for many months aren't easy for me to express, much less for other people to understand. So I've tried to spare people's sensibilities for the most part.

But right now, I feel like I want to try to talk about the one thing that breaks my heart the most.  

It's weddings. Well, actually, it's the Father of the Bride. The toast, the first dance, the image of some proud, watery-eyed Dad leading his little girl down the aisle. It's not one of those, aw-nostalgic-sad moment. It's not just a "Oh, I would have loved if Dad could be there at my future wedding, just like this, but it's okay."

No. At every wedding I've been to since, it's a dagger to the heart. It is BRUTAL. I try to cover it up, try not to show how much I need to go weep uncontrollably in the corner of the room. I mean, it's supposed to be a happy day. But hearing a father speak about his daughter, his voice breaking with emotion--it destroys me. For a moment, I go back to the pain immediately following Dad's death. I'm listening to someone else's Dad talk about how much he loves his little girl, and my Dad's deaddeaddead all over again.

Keep a gentle smile. One or two tears are acceptable; it's supposed to be a moving moment. No bitter twist of the mouth, no ironic self-pitying smiles. 

I hope that someday I can make it through an entire wedding reception without that burning, bitter feeling in the back of your throat when you desperately need to cry, aloud, right now. Your body aches to give physical evidence of your heart being ripped in two--but you can't. It's a damn wedding. It's the damn happiest day of my damn lucky friends' lives. And I genuinely do feel happy for them. But in the midst of all that good feeling, my grief swoops in, piercing me. Like a sudden gust of cold wind that only I can feel. The DJ is playing "Shout!" and everyone is dancing and I'm suddenly adrift in regrets and held-back tears and anger at my stupid Dad for dying and leaving us. 

I know my feelings will change--it's still a recent loss. Maybe someday I will be able to feel almost entirely nothing but happiness at my friends' weddings. I'll watch my friend waltz around the dance floor with her dad, giggling at his missteps or his dorky moves, and I won't feel that ache in my gut. But for now, it hurts like hell.

It's not just that I know Dad will never be at my wedding. (if there is a wedding...) I have never been one of those girls to eagerly plan and anticipate the color of her bridesmaids dresses and flowers. I can't stand looking at wedding magazines. But I always looked forward to hearing what my Dad would say during his toast. I was counting on that definite message of approval, of love, to send me off into my future. I imagined that he would cry and I would feel so loved, so precious. Like at my sister's wedding. I couldn't wait for it to be my turn, for all my parents' love to be focused on just me, for one day at least.

I don't resent my sister for having Dad at her wedding, I rejoice with her. It was a special day. And I don't actually resent my friends whose Dads are alive. But I sometimes feel terribly, terribly robbed.

Robbed of those few precious words of love, given at the right moment.

I guess the worst of the pain is tied to the fact that I didn't get to say goodbye properly. By the time Dad (or we) knew that he was going to die, he was unconscious and unresponsive. There was no time for final words. I know Dad loved us all deeply. I know this.

But I find myself aching for a memory I don't have. Sometimes I used to think that it's the only one I would have needed: hearing a final confirmation of his love, in his words, before he died. Those words would have stayed with me forever. They would have been a balm on the gaping wound of my grief. They would have been my mantra during the rough days. Instead, I had to create my own mantra of self-affirmation. During the months immediately after Dad's death, I would occasionally have really terrible days at work. The people would be horrible, I'd be bored and depressed and lonely. So, over and over and over, I'd repeat in my head the words: You are beautiful, you are strong, you are competent and well-loved. I'm not sure I ever really convinced myself.

But really it's not just Dad's absence from a potential future event that breaks my heart. It's not just the loss of those words. It's bearing witness to the love a father can have for his daughter. It reminds me that I'm halfway an adult-orphan. It reminds me how much I have lost. It reminds me of all of the unsaid words, all of the missed opportunities. It reminds me that I am still such a young girl, and I should not have lost my dad. I'm too young. 

"During this time I wanted my mother to say to me that I had been the best daughter in the world. I did not want to want this, but I did, inexplicably, as if I had a great fever that could be cooled only by those words."
--Cheryl Strayed, Wild

Father's Day, and a Story

Well, it's Father's Day.

I'm not sure what to say. I'm not even sure how I feel. I wanted to say something big, something meaningful. Some grand thank you, love you, miss you to my dad. But the words weren't coming. Somehow, even after all of the gushing I have done on this blog...today, I want to keep him to myself.

I want to keep my grief, my memories, and my love quiet and safe--held and cherished within. Does that even make sense? I guess I mean that from now on, Father's Day is a private thing. It's just between me and my family and Dad. Since I can't thank him in person or tag him in a Facebook post, it's only and it's all in my heart. I don't need to buy a card or a random gift--all the giving and receiving is done now. What's left is the pure stuff: the truth of our bond, the echo of Dad's deep love, the reality of the sacrifices he made for us. One year or ten years won't change those things.

I want to tell you a story that's only slightly about my dad.

A couple of years ago, I spent a semester studying abroad at Oxford University in England. During our spring break, I went with a group of people on a trip to northern Wales. We rented a house in Llanberis, and from there we drove to places like Caenarfon, Conwy, and Harlech to explore these fantastic medieval castles built by King Edward I. It was awesome. I spent most of my time at Oxford buried under massive piles of books and my tutors' expectations--but at least I can say that I saw some legit castles. We were staying right on the edge of Snowdonia National Park, very close to Snowdon itself, which is apparently the highest mountain in Wales. (Thanks, Wikipedia.) Anyways, when not visiting 13th century castles, we hiked in the gorgeous, rugged landscape around us.

One day, we went on a long hike up in the mountains. We were warned that it would be a strenuous hike, and that there would probably be snow as we got higher up into the mountains. It won't be that bad, I thought. I mean obviously I am not fit or strong at all, but I do like hiking. It'll be fine.

And it really was fine. The mountains were impressive and the views were expansive and I had a great time. We took a break next to a clear lake that was just beginning to thaw for the spring. I ate lunch while looking out at the valley below, where I could see tiny, tiny wind towers standing far, far away.

It would have continued to be fine, except for the unexpected depth and iciness of the snow. The trail finally disappeared beneath a layer of snow when we got to the vertical climbing section. I stood in foot holes kicked into the snow with nothing between my back and the rocks below but hundreds of feet of empty air. I'm not brave at all, it turns out. I hated that part. Hated it. I absolutely do not trust my own strength to hold me onto the mountain. I only made it because someone climbed directly behind me and told me not to cry anymore because it was going to be okay.

At a certain point, our group leader decided the ice was making the route too dangerous to continue up the mountain. And we couldn't go down the way we came. So it was decided that we would slide down the snowy face of the mountain, on our butts, to get to the level ground some hundreds of feet below. I guess it was a good enough plan. At that point, I was so freaked out by the traumatizing climb that I didn't care how we got down as long as we went down. Sitting on snow sounded better than clinging to rocks.

So it's fine, it's okay, we're making it. It's slow going, it's steep. But it's alright. We were going down in groups of three, and my group was first. One moment we were making our way down carefully, and one second later all three of us were sliding uncontrollably down this mountain. I fell first. Or maybe, I fell and they half-slid down after me. I don't know.

So there I was, tumbling uncontrollably down the steep side of this random mountain in Wales. The snow was incredibly slick and I couldn't grab onto anything--there wasn't anything to grab. Afterward I was told that the people watching above were sure I'd hit my head because I rolled over some of the rocks that jutted out from the snow. I don't know. I was turning over and over and I had enough time to think, Wow, this is not good. I might die here. I knew there was nothing to stop me from falling the rest of the way to the bottom of the mountain.

But here's the best part of the story: I'm fallingfallingfalling and I suddenly heard our group leader call out, "I'VE GOT YOU!" and he proceeded to tackle me. He landed directly on top of me and miraculously we stop sliding. I didn't even mind being squished. ALIVE OMG I'M ALIVE ALIVE. We untangled and Simon lifted me bodily and placed me on the hill. And with nothing else to do, I put my hat back on, readjusted my backpack and followed them down the mountain. A couple of hours later, the three of us safely arrived at mostly horizontal ground that was mostly not covered in snow. Glory hallelujah.

(Of course, my tumble had saved us a bunch of time and we had to wait another hour or so for the rest of our group to make it down. We huddled for warmth in the lee of a boulder because I suddenly realized I was soaking wet and my muscles were cramping and I was injured. The fall, or possibly the rescue, had pushed my jacket up so that I had these horrible scrapes and bruises around my midsection from the ice and the rocks. Couldn't comfortably wear pants for weeks.)

But mostly I was glad I survived this crazy, legitimately life-threatening situation. Many people might not have been so terrified--or in as much danger as I was--because they are strong or experienced or unafraid. But I didn't have any control over the fall. I didn't make myself slide, but I also didn't stop myself. I was saved.

A few days after the Mountain Madness, we arrived back home in Oxford. I called my parents to tell them about my wonderful trip and also to tell them about the few hours of sorta-terribly-scary-hiking-but-I'm-totally-fine. Suddenly my dad interrupted my story.

"Wait, was this on Tuesday? In the afternoon?" he asked.

"Actually, yeah. How did you know?" I'd said "the other day," not Tuesday. I was sure of it.

Then my dad told me that Tuesday morning, he'd been at the office and was suddenly overcome with a need to pray for me. Desperately. And he had, briefly, not knowing what to pray for. He prayed for my safety. I thought quickly. Accounting for the time difference, my dad had felt compelled to pray for me at the same time that I was on the mountain, maybe even the exact moment when I fell.

I'm a rather skeptical person. I don't often see "God moments" or "Heavenly coincidences" in my life--I tend to think first of, well, actual coincidence or Western medicine or chance. But when Dad told me he'd prayed specifically for me on that Tuesday morning, without knowing why or even that I would be hiking that day, I couldn't help but believe.

Simon saved me. But how, with what power, with what timing--I like to think my Dad's prayers, his love and his positive thoughts reached across the ocean that day and helped to save me on the mountain.

I was thinking about this story the other day. I thought about my fall and my dad's inexplicable sense that I was in danger and his prayers for me. I laid in bed and wondered....Who will pray for me the next time I'm falling from a mountain? I mean this metaphorically, of course. I'm trying to avoid dangerous hiking situations in the future. But who will worry for me like that? Who will protect me now that he's gone?

Then I thought of a lovely quote from Harry Potter. When Harry doesn't understand how his mother's sacrifice can still protect him from Voldemort, Dumbledore says, "To have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever."

I don't have an answer to my question. There isn't anyone yet who can step into that void, though I'm hopeful. For now I'm just clinging to the rocks as best I can.

But maybe the air behind me isn't quite as empty as I'd thought. Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Love you.

Family Vacations

It's funny.

I've spent the past week in a city I've never been to, in a state I haven't visited for at least eight years. Though I do enjoy the white sand beaches, the sunsets, the seafood, the Key Lime pie, I don't really care about Southwest Florida. I don't particularly have any special memories from our past vacations there.

Mystic Seaport, Connecticut

So I found it pretty strange when I teared up as we were driving away from the airport last week. I sat in the backseat, watching the sun-streaked sky as the palm trees flew past, thinking about the differences between Florida and the north. The tropical plants, the flowers, the fruit trees, the palms. The low buildings, painted mostly in shades of tan except for the occasional pop of color: teal, lemon, purple, brick red, aqua. Flat, straight roads that dead-end at the beach. Sand everywhere. I looked up at the sky, excited to be starting another family vacation, and I was suddenly struck with a sense of Dad's presence, there with us. Despite the fact that I have no memories of him in that place.

I know, it's cliche: "I felt him there, watching over me." I always thought this was a cliche because I've never felt it, not once, since he died. Dad is dead and Dad is gone. That's always how I've felt. He's not forgotten, but he's gone. I thought that people were making it up, that they half-convinced themselves they "felt" their dead loved one, when really they were just sad or nostalgic or wistful.

Chimney Rock, North Carolina

But I really did get the strongest sense, just for a moment, that Dad was with us, too. That he was setting out with us on a brand new family vacation--just like he always had. I could so easily imagine him in the driver's seat, wearing his clip-on sunglasses and a sun hat. He and Jason would talk about making a tee time; Mom and I would point out the outlet mall--"We're going there!" Mom and Dad would harmlessly bicker about what lane to be in, how to operate the rental car. Us kids would look at each other and roll our eyes; silent, annoyed. Then someone would mention the story about the giant meatball, or how excited they are to go sailing, and we'd all laugh it off. Vacation!

At first I wondered why I felt him so strongly in a strange place, but then I understood. I have many memories of Dad at home, good memories. But the best memories, I've realized, are tied to the family vacations we took over the years. Those trips--to Florida or Tennessee or California or wherever--were the times when our family was closest and when Dad was only ours.

On vacation, he wasn't Dr. Brown. He didn't have to answer to all of his other responsibilities. No phone calls or trips to the emergency room or office hours or dictation to do. On vacation, he was just Dad--goofy and funny and kind and enthusiastic. He was the guy who dragged us to museums and historical forts and retired battleships. He was the guy who threatened to just turn the van around and go home if we didn't stop complaining!

San Diego, California

On vacation, Dad was relaxed, he got enough sleep, he ate well. He was goofy. He wore fannypacks (in the 90s) and loud golf shirts (always). He wore high socks. He made us try interesting new restaurants wherever we were. He laughed so much and told corny jokes. He snored less. He slathered on sunscreen and wore dorky wide-brim hats. He read every single piece of information at museums. He braved active volcanoes and crash-landed planes and waterfalls...on putt-putt courses across the country. (Putt-putt is a Brown Family Vacation tradition. It's right up there with Breyer's ice cream and fighting when we get too hungry.)

Vacation is the place--or the state of being--where I feel closest to my memories of Dad. The memories of Dad and the rest of my family on vacation are just so much more intense--purified of everyday concerns and work and deadlines and homework. With all that removed, we were just family. Enjoying the sights around the country, experiencing new things, getting on each other's nerves, laughing together. And Dad was--and still is--an integral part of that.

Bar Harbor, Maine

On this trip, I felt closer and further from Dad than ever. All week I was reminded of great vacation memories of my dad. We told Kelly, Chris' girlfriend, the classic story of Dad and the Soapy Pancakes. I thought of the random organ concert that he took us to at Balboa Park in San Diego. I laughed thinking of that time we tried to teach Dad how to play Mao, and he was so confused that he refused to speak, even when we told him he could. On Thursday, I walked into this tourist shop and found a whole line of Hawaiian/tropical golf shirts that my Dad would totally have worn. It felt like walking into his closet.

But this time, he's not here. There are things I know he would have loved, like our catamaran cruise, the seafood restaurant, the sunset on the beach. There are things he wouldn't have chosen--mainly the alcohol and the severe sunburn. (Sorry, Dad!) He would have loved to have been at Teddy Collins' wedding. It's sad that he wasn't there, but it's also okay. I thought at first that it wouldn't feel like a proper family vacation without him, but I was wrong.

I was wrong because it was an absolutely wonderful week. I was wrong because life always moves forward. I was wrong because I still have a wonderful family that I love being around. We can still laugh and play and talk and vacation. Even without Dad. It's not the same, but it's enough.

More Than I Knew

When I was little, my absolute favorite musical group was Out of Eden. Don't remember them? They were a Christian R&B or "urban gospel" group, made up of three sisters, who were mostly active during the nineties. Basically, they were the Christian version of Destiny's Child. I loved them.

I had the cassette tape of their 1996 album, "More Than You Know." For years I listened to it obsessively. The words and melodies became so ingrained that I could sing the entire album to myself, without the music. I loved it more than my Point of Grace cassette tape, more than my Avalon cassette tape, more than my Wizard of Oz soundtrack! Obviously, I really hadn't discovered secular music at this point. Or CDs. But that's besides the point.

I have no idea what happened to my collection of cassette tapes--maybe I threw them away? I'm not even sure when I last owned something with a tape deck in it. And my musical tastes have obviously evolved since 1996. Back then I had about ten cassette tapes, now I have 12 days worth of music on my iPod. Now I prefer music of the indie alt-folk variety--basically, give me a guy sitting on a bar stool with an acoustic guitar (banjo is optional) and I'm happy. If he's British, even better.

But I discovered earlier tonight that I can still sing every single word of "More Than You Know." Every single word, every ad lib, and yes, every rap break! Every so often, I like to listen to the bands I loved when I was younger, the nineties rock bands and boy bands and pop groups. I like to jam to Goo Goo Dolls and sing my heart out with Mariah Carey and laugh as I listen to *N SYNC or Backstreet Boys. (Only legit fans remember the asterisk!)  But only certain songs really, viscerally throw me back to my childhood.

It was so much simpler back then. It's not that I miss childhood--I don't! I remember when growing up, I'd have friends who wished they could be five again, so that they wouldn't have to deal with homework or algebra or boy troubles. I was never like that: I always wanted to be older. I couldn't learn fast enough, I couldn't grow up fast enough. I felt frustrated by my ignorance.

Listening to Out of Eden makes me think of: that garish pink tape player I had. I think of my old friend Leah Dykstra. I think of laying on the carpet, drawing or reading Sweet Valley High books. It reminds me of Trinity Christian School: the playground, art class, Mrs. Penn. It reminds me of Sunday school and Children's church. I think of playing Barbies--my favorites were Baywatch Mitch (he came with a Sea-Doo and a life preserver), and a brown-haired Barbie I named Caroline. Yep, my favorite guy Barbie was based on David Hasslehoff. How nineties! I think of American Girl magazine, I think of horse camp at Camp Campbell Gard. I think of sleepovers. I think of how simply, purely, unthinkingly I loved Jesus then. I think about how I wanted to be a veterinarian, or an artist, or a judge.

I feel like I'm obsessed with remembering my childhood lately. Not just the events, the crushes, the school field trips, but the feeling, the sense I had of myself. The sense I had of my place in the world, and of my family. What did I think about my Dad? What did I think about my future? Did I feel secure and hopeful? I try to scrape together the memories, but most of the time they're only a whisper, a scattering of thoughts buried beneath the buzz and clamor of my current life. Texts and emails, phone calls and meetings, responsibilities and bills all shout for my attention. Anxiety and grief and desire and boredom chase one another around my head and my heart. I look at the blue sky, but I don't even see it through my mental checklist: Get to work. Do laundry later. Turn left.

I can't stop trying to reconcile Me, now, with Me, then. Or even with Me, at 15. So much has changed. A while ago, I dug out my high school diary and found an entry I'd written the day before I started my first real job. I was so excited to receive my first "real" paycheck! I wrote about how I had just finished driver's ed and I was excited but nervous about the responsibility of driving. I wrote about how much older I felt. I wrote about how I was totally not going to obsess about boys, like, ever again.

Today, I think about how different I am from that 15 year old girl: I'm wiser, I'm older. I know what it is to work, I know sacrifice and sleep deprivation and dedication. I know heartbreak. I understand how ambiguous life can be. I've traveled the bumpy, dirt roads of East Africa, sat through the sudden downpours and smelled the flowers (as well as the filth) in Nairobi. I've walked the dusty streets of West Africa, felt the tug of the Atlantic ocean swirling about my legs. I've seen the beauty and brokenness of the children of the slums. I've sat in English pubs and dashed down cobblestone streets and explored centuries-old Welsh castles. I've fallen into books and reveled in others' words and fought to find my own. I've been drunk and sick and made a fool out of myself, more than once. I've filled out a million applications, for jobs and programs and schools. I've gotten rejections. I had a paper published. I discovered what I actually think about social and political issues. I've voted. I watched my dad die.

I think. I think I'm happy to be where I am. Regardless of the tears that brought me here. Listening to old favorites like Out of Eden reminds me that I really am the same girl. She isn't lost, she isn't forgotten. She isn't even far away: I still have her drive, her joy, her love of learning and a good '90s urban gospel song.

Jessie at 10, listening to cassette tapes and dreaming of the future. Jess at 15, learning to drive. Jessica at 23, learning...I'm not sure what, yet.

Every once in a while, since Dad passed, I've thought to myself, I wouldn't want my life to have happened any differently. And most of the time, it's true.

The Circle Never Diminishes

"When bad things happen, good people have to take what they've learned and make the world a better place, and that is precisely what I hope this film will do--make the world a better place." -Kurt Kuenne, November 2006

I want to tell you all about a film I saw a couple of weeks ago, a film that I can't get out of my head.

It's called "Dear Zachary." Released in 2008, it is a documentary made by Kurt Kuenne which tells the story of his best friend Andrew Bagby, a dynamic young doctor who was brutally murdered by his ex-girlfriend. When they find out that his accused murderer--who had fled back to Canada to avoid being arrested--is pregnant with Andrew's son, Kurt decides to make his film a letter to Zachary about his dad. So that he could know what an amazing man his father had been.

I don't want to say more about the contents of the film, or about how the Bagbys' story continues. I watched it based only on the Netflix blurb, and because I thought I recognized the movie poster. I was totally unprepared for the raw, searing emotion of the film: the righteous anger, the blazing, transcendent love, the joy and humor and deep, deep grief.
It's best to watch it without much warning.

I think you should watch it. Yeah, you. I really really think you should watch it.

It's an understatement to say I was distraught by the tragedy of the story--I wept like I haven't wept since my dad first died. "Dear Zachary" is both harrowing and heartbreaking. But to say I was moved is also a complete understatement. I feel honored to even know about Andrew Bagby. I feel lucky just to know that tremendous people like his parents exist. I feel like my life has been enriched by even this peripheral connection to his life and his family and the incredible love that shines through this film.

Afterwards, I tried to understand why I was so glad to have seen "Dear Zachary," a movie that was difficult to watch because of my own, echoing grief. It's hard for me to articulate it. I guess it's partly because being with people who also know grief is just easier. You don't have to pretend anything; you don't have to explain yourself. I recognized the truth of their loss and their love. It resonated in me.

And I also loved it because "Dear Zachary" was such an incredible memorial to this man. Anyone who sees this film can feel like they know him. He won't be forgotten. His goodness won't fade away. Even a murderer cannot diminish his legacy or his memory.

No one will ever make a brilliant documentary about my dad. No one will write a biography of him. (No, I probably won't. I don't want comments on Facebook about how I "should write a book.") We don't have hours of footage. We hardly have photos of him either, since he was always behind the camera! We will forget the sound of his voice. Yet we can still tell stories about him, we can share memories and live out the things he taught us. We can love as he loved, we can give as he gave. These things help him to live on--even after death.

This reminds me of the time I spent with my dear friend Amy, right after her dad died. I sat with her family around the kitchen table for hours that day, listening to story after beautiful story about a man I'd never met. You might think it would have been awkward, or odd, or even boring, for me to talk about someone I didn't know. But it wasn't--in a profound way. I felt honored even to know about him, to be a witness to the shimmering, abiding love of his family. I learned of a quiet man, a kind man. A man who dedicated his medical practice to those who needed him the most, the lost causes, the hopeless. Though I wasn't lucky enough to meet him in life, I know I have been impacted by him: through my friend and through her family.

When I write about my dad, when I tell a story about him, when I listen to a story about Paul Bither, when I think, "Wow, what an incredible man he must have been," when I see the pain and love in the eyes of Andrew Bagby's parents, I think: we are spreading the goodness. We are sharing the inspiration--it's like that movie, "Pay It Forward." Our love, our tears, and our laughter are shining testimonies to these lost ones' impact on our lives. Sharing memories and living after their example only spread it further.

The circle of those impacted by our dearly departed never diminishes. The circle never diminishes. It only grows, like ripples on a pond, spreading out beyond the edges of sight.

"He was remembering the nights he'd sat upstairs with one or both of his boys or with his girl in the crook of his arm, their damp bath-smelling heads hard against his ribs as he read aloud to them from Black Beauty or The Chronicles of Narnia. How his voice alone, its palpable resonance, had made them drowsy. These were evenings, and there were hundreds of them, maybe thousands, when nothing traumatic enough to leave a scar had befallen the nuclear unit. Evenings of plain vanilla closeness in his black leather chair; sweet evenings of doubt between the nights of bleak certainty. They came to him now, these forgotten counterexamples, because in the end, when you were falling into water, there was no solid thing to reach for but your children."

--Jonathan Franzen, The Corrections

Six Months

"Grief is how you know your love was profound."

Tomorrow is the six month anniversary. It's interesting how the memories can come in flashes--in separate, glittering shards, like stained glass. How some moments are crystalline, absolutely clear, yet others are hazed over. Alongside the memories I cannot forget are cloudy hours of sitting, of waiting, of merciful sleep. I see fragmented, blurry images: Benedryl-laced dreams and half-eaten bagels. The smell of lilies and the cold cold cold of his hand, after.

Six month ago, yesterday, was the last time I spoke with my father. Dad grilled steaks; we ate them out on our brand new patio. Dad and I talked about Rushdie's novel Midnight's Children. Later, we had a bonfire and Chris, Mom, Dad, and I sat around and told funny customer stories. 

Six months ago, today, Dad suffered the stroke that killed him. The day dawned beautifully--it was one of those gorgeous fall days that inspires me to improve my life. I had the day off work. I made one of my frequent resolutions that I was going to get skinny. I went running! I discovered some new Marcus Foster music. I sent someone an email about renting a room in Bourbonnais so that I could be closer to my friends. It was a beautiful and optimistic day--the last day of my previous life. Even when Mom called to say Dad was sick, I didn't think that he might die. Even when we sat in that conference room talking about the stroke with the doctor, I didn't think that he might die. I thought maybe he would be changed, that he might have trouble talking or walking. That we'd have a long road ahead of us. I had no idea.

That night, I got dropped off at Fort Hamilton Hospital so that I could drive my mom's van home. As I pulled in, I saw my sister standing outside, crying on the phone. I stopped in the middle of the driveway and opened the door, desperately pleading to know what was wrong. He stopped breathing on his own. They asked about our wishes regarding resuscitation. I was suddenly panicked--I didn't think to put the van in park and I couldn't remember how to open the garage door. She went into the house and opened the door for me. I knelt on the concrete of the garage and cried.

Six months ago, tomorrow, we removed the breathing tube and Dad slipped away. I barely slept the night before, thinking only about what I'd say to him if I had the chance. We drove downtown to University Hospital and waited. I felt alternately frozen and hysterical--oh my god he's going to die oh my god my Dad is going to DIE oh my GOD. Deanne Crane kept on trying to calm me saying, we don't know yet. But I knew it. I knew it in my heart.

 After some time--I couldn't possibly tell you when--we met with the head of the Neuro Intensive Care Unit. She showed us a scan of my Dad's brain. "The white is the area affected by the stroke, the part affected by lack of oxygen," she told us. I stared and stared...It's nearly the whole thing. The whole brain is white. She used words like massive. She used words like irrecoverable. She told us that they could keep him comfortable until we were ready. Chris was sobbing, his head on my lap. Steph was crying on the couch. I think Jon was behind me, his hand on my shoulder. I didn't cry. A bit later, I called Brittany Frost and sobbed to her that my dad was going to die. I sat on the floor of this narrow hallway in the nurses' station, my sprawling feet blocking the way for the busy doctors. 

Sometime during that lost afternoon, I walked out of the waiting room and leaned up against the wall of the hallway, sobbing. I kept on asking my sister, "What are we supposed to do now?" "How are we supposed to keep going?" Neither of us had an answer.

Jason called me to ask how Dad was. I had to tell him--I couldn't keep it from him. As I choked out the words, I kept on apologizing for telling him over the phone, for telling him while he was alone in an airport. I can't forget his silence. I drove with my aunt and Jon to pick him up from the Dayton Airport. I burst into tears when I saw him, my baby brother.

Later we all stood around the bed, thanking Dad for all of the wonderful things he taught us. For the vacations he took us on. For the jokes and the memories and the Saturday morning breakfasts at Waffle House. For not having to yell at us--the idea of his disappointment in us was enough of a deterrent. For being a great doctor and saving so many people. For teaching us to love God. I held his warm hand so tight.

Then, it was over. It was all over.

Maybe, Just Maybe

This isn't a post about Dad. It's not even really a post about grief. But I don't think it would be possible without everything I've been through the past six months. Instead, it's a post about that frustrating moment when you realize you are fed up with your own approach to life. When you think, "Wow, I have been an idiot for a long time." When you think, "I can't even remember when I decided this was right, and why!" When you think, "I have been so afraid for such a long time, I don't know what it would feel like to be brave."

It's frustrating, but also liberating.

So here goes:

Hello my name is Jessica, and I am an addict. (Don't worry, it's not drugs.)

I am addicted to control. For as long as I can remember, I've tried to exert control over the circumstances around me, to shape my world into understandable and comforting patterns. I loved school because it made so much sense: work hard and you will do well. Nothing was ever unexpected, nothing was ever out of my control. Learning made me feel that I was gaining more of a handle on the world around me.I didn't have to be so afraid.

It's not change that I dread; I dread uncertainty. What will this change bring? When will I know? How will I deal with it? What if I make a mistake?

It's always been a problem. When I was ten, my family went on that fateful mission trip to Argentina. As a result of the stresses of travel, my sister suffered two Grand Mal seizures that first day, and my brother also had a seizure. It was (at that point and for many years after) the scariest day of my life. I was tired and jet-lagged and absolutely terrified for my family. I remember: we were at some missionary's house in an unknown city, and I watched my parents crying over their sick children. I thought, with a ten-year-old's mistaken logic, that if I started crying too, my entire family would fall apart. Game over, we're done. My world, kaput. But if I didn't cry, I reasoned, we'd be okay.

And I didn't.

Even now, when things get out of my control, I get really anxious. Missing a bus in a foreign country, sickness in a family member, unknown social situations...First dates and all the maybes and I don't know yets that go along with them. I feel either very frustrated that I can't fix things, or totally set adrift by uncertainty and indecision. Obviously, those feelings suck, so I have carefully crafted my life to avoid them.

Yet finally, at 23, I realize that I have only been hurting myself. I wasn't being smart, I was closing myself off from new experiences and relationships because I didn't know where they would lead. Losing Dad forced me to function without that control. I learned how good it can be to rely on other people. I learned that I can't control everything, and also that I don't really want to anymore.

All this to say is that I've been trying to act differently lately. To take chances and say what I want without considering all sixteen different outcomes first. To figure things out as they happen, without maps or notes or plans. Because I've realized that I almost always decide the risk isn't worth it. At some point, being discerning turned into being defeatist. It'll never work out, he doesn't actually like me, I'll get annoyed and break his heart. I don't know those people, I won't know where I'm going, I won't get accepted. It's just better not to bother. 
 
But.

Maybe, just maybe, I can change. Maybe, just maybe, I can act despite my fears. I can let myself be unsure and make mistakes and grow from them. I'm sick of having regret not for the things I've done, but for the things I've not done.

I was sitting outside Starbucks today, enjoying the sunshine and my coffee before work. I was reading Rainer Maria Rilke, my favorite poet, and I came across an incredibly beautiful poem. Normally I would be perfectly happy in that moment, but today I had a fleeting thought: I wish I could be sharing this moment with someone. As I sat there, I realized that maybe, just maybe, it's not enough anymore.

"Never change. Never change."

Betty and Harold Brown, with baby Caleb, last March.

This past Friday, my mom and I drove down to Ironton, Ohio, where my Grandma and Grandpa Brown live. Ironton is one of those dying blue-collar towns, so common in the Appalachians. It sits right on the Ohio River, at the point where Kentucky, Ohio, and West Virginia meet. The downtown looks unchanged since the 1950's, back when business was still thriving, except for the general air of dereliction. The storefronts are boarded up, the sidewalks empty of people, the roads potmarked, the factories abandoned.

We actually didn't spend much time in Ironton, but drove over the river to Ashland, Kentucky to visit my grandma at the hospital. Last week, at 90 years old, she underwent a partial knee replacement after a bad fall. The fact that the doctors approved surgery for a 90 year-old woman is a shining testament to her vitality and her spirited personality. She's feisty! She's the kind of lady who drives her 70-year-old friends to the doctor (speeding all the way) because they're too old and sick to manage it. Just two days after the surgery, though, she was able to walk around using only a walker for balance. She is still as hilarious and spirited as she ever was; while stretching her leg to keep her knee moving, she claimed that she was practicing kicking in case Harold got out of line!

Even at 90 and 92 years old, after 60 years of marriage, my grandparents are adorably still in love. They tease each other--even when Grandma has to shout because Grandpa's nearly deaf now. One lights up when the other walks in the room. Grandpa kissed Grandma goodbye as we left to go to dinner. At times, when Grandpa laughs or Grandma says something silly, you can see glimpses of the young people they were so long ago. It's hard to imagine Harold and Betty Brown independently--they have grown to compliment and complete one another perfectly.

As Mom and I chatted with my grandparents that afternoon, I kept on thinking about the last time I'd visited Grandma in the hospital. Five years ago, my grandma fell and broke one ankle and a bone in her other foot. Unable to walk as she healed, she stayed at a nursing home for a few weeks. Grandpa stayed by himself in the house they've shared since 1955. One weekend during this time, my dad and I drove down to visit her. I remember it as such a good day--Grandma was so obviously happy to have visitors, and Grandpa admitted that he was relieved we were there because he worried about her. She hated being confined to a chair. She hated being alone.

(Even then, she healed remarkably quickly. A few months later, we visited them and I remember her dancing around their laundry room. I tried to get her to stop--"Grandma!," I said, scandalized. "You'll fall again!" She just giggled and continued doing her little jig.)

That night after we got home, I wrote a journal entry about our visit--I was impressed by Grandma's resilience, amazed by the visible love my Grandpa had for her, grateful for the opportunity to know such wonderful people. Happy for the day spent with my dad during my last summer before college. I wondered about how much time we'd have left with them: "Five or so years, maybe more, maybe less." It's ironic that it was my dad, not my grandparents, with whom we only had five more years. You just never know.

As I reread my entry from that night I was impressed by the things I understood, even then. Before everything happened. Before my gut truly knew what grief could feel like. My heart ached at the idea of either Betty or Harold without the other, and I didn't know how any of us would cope with it. But, I said, "I guess that all we can do is cherish the time we do have left. I can love and relish their company, and maybe learn something about life from them. I suppose that's all we can hope for in life, until we are together again in eternity."

Hmm. Not bad advice, younger self.

---

"As we were leaving, I gave her a hug and as I pulled back, she held onto my hands. She looked at me, smiling and mouthed to me that she loved me. I told her I loved her too, but she kept on holding onto my hands. She said, 'Never change. Never change.'" 

 ---July 28, 2007

"And when the event, the big change in your life, is simply an insight--isn't that a strange thing? That absolutely nothing changes except that you see things differently and you're less fearful and less anxious and generally stronger as a result: isn't it amazing that a completely invisible thing in your head can feel realer than anything you've experienced before? You see things more clearly and you know that you're seeing them more clearly. And it comes to you that this is what it means to love life, this is all anybody who talks seriously about God is ever talking about. Moments like this."

--Jonathan Franzen, The Corrections

And the Moral of the Story Is...

It's the little things.

It's the little things that can get to you.

Today, for example: I was at Useless Retail Job. I recently decided that if they are going to schedule me by myself for my entire eight-hour shift, just to save money, I would do the barest minimum of work required of me. Normally, I look for extra work, I volunteer, I organize and straighten things and am generally a Retail Heroine. But not today. I decided to do a crossword puzzle while waiting for customers to walk by or the phone to ring. Ha! My little rebellion.

Anyways--I'm doing a crossword, and I come across a clue, 33 Down: "'Slow and steady wins the race,' for one." It's five letters, and at first I think, proverb? No, too long. Adage? But the letters don't fit. Eventually I realize it's "Moral," as in "the moral of the story is."

I suddenly had a flashback moment from my childhood. I remembered that my dad used to tell me a story before tucking me into bed when I was little. I have memories, from later years, of him coming home from work after I already went to bed. The sound of the garage door always woke me up. But maybe, back when we were young enough to want him to tuck us in, he always came home in time.

My very favorite of the stories he used to tell me were The Ugly Duckling and a story about a Donkey. I don't remember the second one well--I think it involved, like The Ugly Duckling, a donkey who had been raised among racehorses and always felt bad about himself because he wasn't as fast as the other horses. Then one day the farmer needed something that only the donkey could do--pull things? What are donkeys good at, anyways? And the donkey learned he wasn't a racehorse but he was still important and he had his own special skills.

But here comes the part I loved the most: at the end of the story, each night, I would gleefully chant the conclusion along with my dad, "And the moral of the story is: don't judge a book by its cover!" I loved this moral, I think, mostly because it mentioned books. And because I always felt like the Ugly Duckling, with my red hair and my lack of interest in either sports or makeup. But it was okay, I knew, because Dad's nightly story taught me that I was actually a beautiful swan. And that you should definitely, never ever judge a book by its cover.

Most of my strong memories of my Dad are recent: my graduation, his "professor" voice, our trip to Maine, Dad at work in his study. Dad riding his bike or talking about medicine or listening to the Reds game on the radio. Or working in the yard. On the flip side of these memories, regretfully, I see myself sailing along past him, in a big hurry to watch tv or text someone.

When you lose someone suddenly, or even if it isn't sudden, sometimes you can feel like they are fading away into the mists of time. You can feel like every step forward is a step away from them. You can feel like every memory you have is just a missed opportunity to say the things that matter.

Every once in a while, though, you are gifted with a strong, pure memory from long ago, like The Moral of the Story Is. I'd forgotten about it. I'd forgotten those nighttime moments. The shiver of joy I'd get from an emotionally satisfying story (It's still the same, today.) The moment of anticipation--"is it time to say And The Moral of the Story Is yet?" Then the satisfaction of another story and another day neatly wrapped up and concluded. After that, I could slip off peacefully into my childish dreams.