How Do I Miss Thee, Let Me Count the Ways

Dear UD,

This month, everything reminds me of you, and every day feels like a countdown to the day my foundation was shaken.

For instance, Facebook reminded me that one year ago, I tagged you in a photo of Mom’s flower garden, the one that you helped her create by buying her so many bulbs over the years. Yellow daffodils, pretty tulips, purple irises, and so many more.

One year ago today, you were on this earth, and I could tag you in a photo that you would see.

One year ago today, you were at home where I could call and talk to you almost any time of day.

Tonight, I’m drinking tea that I finally dug out of the cabinets, an herbal brand that I took from your home on the day of your funeral. You had so many boxes that you would never have a chance to use so I took one. I didn’t drink any tea for almost a year; opening the box was an acknowledgement that you were gone, but when I came down with a bad cold this spring, I remembered the box of tea, and now I sip the minty brew and think of you. When I drink tea, I will always think of you.

One year ago today, you were drinking iced tea, and I had the hope of another family meal at your place.

This month is a minefield and every day a reminder that the day the earthquake struck is approaching. I take a step to the right, and I remember an email conversation last April where you helped me revise a prompt for my Creative Writing class. I asked how you were, if you were writing, what you thought of the prompt, and if it made sense, and you replied:

               Hey, Rach,

               1)      Okay, not great. 

               2)      Not really. 

               3)      I think it is clear but a bit overwhelming. 

               4)      Yes, it makes sense.

          Grammar—parallel tense:  How did what you learn in Creative Writing . . .

          I would consider selecting 6 to 8 quotes for the assignment and then giving out the rest of them as an appendix for             further consideration.

          Love, UD

I love how you always, always started with a salutation and ended with love. What I would give for another email conversation with you.

A step to the left, and I think about how you coached and supported Lexi as she developed as a performer. Now, she has her first professional dance job, and I am so proud of her. We always thought you would be here to see her blossoming into an adult and professional dancer, and we want to call and tell you all about it. But we're grateful that Lexi had that chance to learn from you on her journey here.

A step to back, and I remember the day before, the day when I talked to you on the phone and wrote my last journal entry. I talked to you about wanting to visit in May, and I said that I loved you. I’m so grateful that I spoke to you that day, but I wish so much that I could talk to you again. That night, I wrote in my journal about my day, and then I ended it with a positive narrative about what my ideal life would be, something I’d wanted to do for years. The next day, I lost you, and I haven’t journaled since.

UD, a friend recently told me that I’d been searching for something outside myself. At one time, yes. Sometimes, yes. I am human, fallible, imperfect, yearning for love and belonging.

If I try to search for answers outside myself, that’s not good. If I’m looking for someone or something to make me okay or to fix or save me, that won’t work.

However, all humans need positive male role models in their lives.

Someone remarked that I am different, unique because of how deeply the loss of an uncle has impacted me, but it’s not just me who is feeling so unmoored in our extended family. Plus, you were one of those special people who impacted so many around you. Not to mention the fact that your loss was near the end of a long, hard set of traumas dealt all within a fairly short amount of time, and like a domino effect, one by one, they crashed down, leaving a scattered mess in my life.

And grief is the same yet different for everyone….it’s the same because, whether we’ve lost a beloved aunt/uncle, parent, grandparent, child, sibling, friend, there is now a hole in our heart, and our life will never be the same; we will never again be the same. Yet, it’s different because those relationships are different and because we are all different people with different personalities, needs, desires. Ultimately, loss is difficult, demanding, arduous, and the grief that follows is something that can take time because it shakes us up and spits us out alone and altered.  

And the thing is…you were one of the very few people on this earth with whom I felt completely safe. One of the few people who saw and accepted all of me. Nothing can replace that.

Safe….I realized recently, that there are only a handful of people I feel completely emotionally safe with and that I do not speak up as much as I need to around those I don’t feel emotionally safe with. It’s time to change that. Though difficult, it’s healthiest for me as well as those around me. I wish I could talk to you about this and process it, but I know you would be proud of me. I hold onto that as I attempt to navigate a new way of interacting and of being true to myself and others.

I feel like I am waking up from a long, hard nightmare…so much to handle in the past few years that I have been overwhelmed, numb, depressed, anxious. January 2013, the girls’ dad dropped a bomb in our lives that we are still processing. October 2013, Lexi moved to NYC for performing arts school, and, while natural and normal for her to go off to college, I grieved. May 2014, Grandpa Crawford died, and a few months later, Dad was diagnosed with cancer and put on hospice. December 2014, Laina and I sold what we could, packed what we could, gave away the rest, and moved back to the farm to be with my Dad and help the family. January 2015, he died. April 2015, you, Uncle David, died suddenly. May 2015, we moved back to Florida so Laina could go to high school with her friends. December 2015, we lost Charlie from Florida (my writing friend and the reason we moved to this area near the ocean), and I fell and broke my right wrist in three places. January 2016, I had surgery on my arm and was virtually helpless for a couple of months. Too much in too short of time, too difficult to process all of this, especially without you.

But this month, this month, every day, I remember you…

Love, Rach

A Year without Words

Dear UD,

April is the month of spring renewal and poetry, a mix of greens/reds/yellows/purples, of budding limbs and of word play. And now also of a sword that strikes suddenly, swirling death into the pretty mixture. Everywhere we turn grief rises up to greet us—suicide bombings in Belgium and Africa, the protagonist of a post-apocalyptic series sacrificed, movie or rock stars like Alan Rickman and David Bowie falling, a supreme court seat emptied in an election year, and on and on it goes.

And you, gone with no goodbyes.

The one-year marker of your death approaches, and I am still numb, hurting. Sad. Tears still fall so often.

Soon it will be…

365 days since a dam broke inside from too much to mourn in too little time (Grandpa, then Dad, then you).

365 days since my body’s visceral keening. All of the pain flowing up and out of my throat, leaving me voiceless, wordless. And now, almost a year later, I am starting this month of April with no voice, literally, from a cold virus.

365 days with no words. Journal pages blank. Empty.

For a year, I’ve written letters to you but nothing else. No diary entries, no stories, no essays, no poems.

Empty pages, empty landscape, empty love tank.

I feel so alone.

Uncle David, I still miss you. I wonder how I will endure this, how the heavy grief that has taken up residence in my body will ever leave.

There are no words.

During this month of spring and poetry, I can only think of elegies I’ve read, so many poems of sorrow, a human experience we all know. These woeful songs of lament and grief leaving me voiceless, wordless.

Bereft.

I am still not ready

to say goodbye.

Love,

Rach

March Birthdays, Take Two

Dear UD,

Today, I have no words.

Today, you would have been 62.

Today, a year ago, we celebrated your 61^st birthday all weekend at your place, another family celebration filled with kids playing ball outside (and Little and Aiden jumping cliff to cliff, flying over open space), dogs romping around (except poor O. B. who shadowed your every move, sitting between your feet at every chance), and cousins/siblings/aunts/uncles all playing various games of Scrabble, Bridge, and the new Dragon Joust card game that you created. And you, cooking, grilling, making special meals for all of us even though you were the honored birthday boy. 

Sonny, Mom, and I stayed up until midnight on the night before, playing Bridge with you to ring in the first moments of your birthday. We saluted your birthday, and you jumped to Three No Trump, like always, winning the rubber.

We sang Happy Birthday (something you did for every single one of us on every birthday through a phone call), ate cake, and watched you open presents. Last year, mostly, you received cards, as you requested, where we told you how much you meant to us.

Did you know then, somewhere hidden inside, that it was your last birthday?

Did you know, in a way that we did not until after, how deeply you impacted our lives on so many levels? How very much we loved you? How special you were?

Even as we brought you presents, you gifted us with everything you had, with everything you were. 

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. ~Hamlet (1.5.167-8)

Today, a song comes on the radio, and the lyrics slay me. No longer are you “only one call away.” No longer are you “there to save the day.” No longer can your siblings or 17 nieces and nephews or 30 plus great-nieces and nephews call to share news, get advice, wish you Happy Birthday.

Today, we vote in the primaries, trying to pick the best of the worst, without a viable option. I imagine what you would say and wish we could talk about it.

I’ve heard some people laugh at the idea of Trump, saying he wouldn’t have the power to do anything if elected. I’ve heard others say that Trump is a refreshing choice, someone to bring new life to the political hypocrisy and depravity of this corporation-run government. Both of those are furthest from the truth. This election year has been a debacle of Hunger Game/Nazi proportions. Will we not learn from history or from futuristic literature? George Santayana said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” but World War II wasn’t that long ago. Surely we haven’t forgotten it already or forgotten where racism, prejudice, and blindly following dictators who use repeated common fallacies in reasoning leads?!

I would remind you of the stories I have read, of Fahrenheit 451, “Harrison Bergeron,” The Handmaid’s Tale, The Giver series, the Unwind series, and ask how people cannot see the parallels. How they cannot see our country sliding headfirst into a dystopia.

I have tried to stay out of the political debates this year, but Trump scares me. He should scare all of us. Elie Wiesel, Holocaust survivor, winner of Nobel Peace Prize in 1986, and author of Night, wrote, “We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”

You always wanted to see the best in people, in our country, in our world. I wonder what you would say now, after all of the headlines and horrors of the past year. After the past week when our first amendment right to peaceful protest has been under attack. In the words of Elie Wiesel, “There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.”

 

So, today, I speak up and cast my vote. 

And, today, I’ve heard from various family members who are all thinking of you, honoring you, missing you.

Mom is planting a flower garden with roots and bulbs of perennials such as lilies, irises, wildflowers, and bleeding hearts. Every spring when they shoot up and bloom, she will think of you.

Others will watch a musical or Hitchcock classic or Shakespeare play, and some will reach out to a sibling or cousin and cherish the mundane fact of having a phone conversation with a loved one.

Still others will cook a meal that they learned in your kitchen while most of us will play a board or card game.

Whatever we do, we remember you.

Today is your special day. We love you, Uncle David. Happy birthday!

Love,

Rach

March Birthdays

Dear UD,

Today is Dad's birthday, the first day of March and yours, the 15th, halfway through. 2016, the year after we lost you both, the year when March limps in without roars, the year when spring, renewal, rebirth all seem out of reach.

Today, I honor Dad by remembering his beautiful and eloquent words to me on this day, 16 years ago:

I think all of us tend to look back on our lives on our birthdays, and solitary reflection is good for the soul…summoning tendrils of sadness and regret…but bringing also joy and the quiet contentment that comes with remembrance of things past. On this day I feel doubly blessed to have lived and loved, and I wanted to share an epiphany that intruded forcibly…bringing the greatest birthday gift imaginable...an ineffable sense of wondrous awe. Hovering always at the periphery of conscious thought is the blessed awareness of the people I love, my fellow traveler through this vale of tears. But this morning, in pensive solitude…I felt you all as a powerful presence…as a celestial choir singing the Happy Birthday song…I truly felt you all as if physically present…our hearts thrumming a delicate refrain of indescribable loveliness. And I thought that there is great beauty in this imperfect world…the indescribably sublime wonders of nature…the unutterable beauty of song…Willie Nelson singing “Always on my Mind”…the baroque counterpoint of Bach…The Winged Victory of Samothrace standing in Majestic grace after 23 centuries…fragments of thought from other fellow travelers we have never met, snatches of incredible poetic utterance…”And the women come and go, Talking of Michelangelo”… fictional characters we feel we know, like Yossarion and stately, plump Buck Mulligan. But shining above all of this with effulgent brightness is the blessed assurance that Love is the one thing that makes life worthwhile. I think there is a certain amount of wisdom that comes naturally as we age and mature, and I think walking for a year in the shadow of darkness has helped me see a great light…like Saul on the road to Damascus…I see how we are transported by love to any earthly paradise beyond description…that love for intimates, affection for friends, and good will towards everybody…redeems our tenuous lives and makes our transient pilgrimage significant. For above all else, I am assured that our love is a pearl of great price, a solitary Rose blooming in a wasteland. I love you, Honey. Dad

 

Flash forward to 2009, the last of his birthdays I celebrated with him in person. A trip to the Crawford farm, snowed in by a blizzard which blanketed the world in white, nestled in with family for cards, movies, music, and birthday cake, and a trudge through the snow with some of the younger kids.

I remember more clearly my last time celebrating anything with Dad. Christmas 2014. During the last week of his life, Dad remarked that he was glad he had moved back to the Ozarks, to the family farm, because it was home.

You, too, moved back to Missouri, near family. Home is where the heart is.

 

Yesterday, or so it seems, you said I was… and then my girls were… growing up too fast. If only you and Dad were still here to see them (and all 20 plus of the next generation) grow into their talents and careers and lives. Now it's their turn to ask, Do I dare disturb the universe? But I wouldn't want to be there (young adults who have to find their way) in this postmodern society. You, Dad, Eliot, all three of you pondered, probed this extraordinary, harsh, dark, and lovely world. If only both of you were still here to share your wisdom and counsel.

Today, I honor Dad with a movie marathon of some of his favorites. From the hilarious and beyond cool Blues Brothers to Kiss me, Kate to the mysteries of Agatha Christie to the bumbling Colombo played by Peter Faulk to the sharp and witty Sherlock Holmes. At least I will watch as many as possible after work, and I will laugh and cry, but love these classics and the memories they inspire.

 

Today, I light a candle for Dad, and on the 15^th I’ll light one for you. You were both such a blessing in our lives in so many ways, and we are blessed to call you family. So I declare March birthdays a blessing. Happy birthday, Dad. Happy birthday, Uncle David.

We miss you both more than words can say.

Love,

Rach

Conversations with UD

Dear UD,

I don't know when spring will come again for me.

A year ago, February, we were planning your March birthday party, not knowing it would be the last one we would celebrate with you.

Today, I reached for the phone to call you after work, an automatic response, still, and a piercing jab to the heart reminded me that you're not here anymore, and my whole body aches that loss, mourns the knowledge of the world without you, grieves the ability to dial your number and hear your voice.

Today, the sun is shining and spring is in the air, but I can't seem to feel spring fever this year. Mom said a crocus came up in her yard on Saturday. She sent me a picture of the yellow beauty blooming in the midst of mud and brown. From a bud you gave her last year. She said it reminds her that you are still helping make her life better so we remember that you love us, but I want you here. This is so hard. Still.

Tears fall but the pain is still here. I don't know when spring will come again for me.

I want to look beyond this cold, dark winter and spy something better, but all I can see is a bleak, desolate landscape.         

Those who say time heals all wounds don't know a loss like I do. Just aching emptiness, a hole that will never be whole again.

I just want to be able to pick up the phone and then talk to you, my uncle. Conversations with you were precious. People say we don't know what we have until it's gone sometimes. That is so true.

I just want to have a conversation with you again. I miss that. I miss you.

I don't know when spring will come again for me. But I know, if you were here, you would be outside feeding the hummingbirds, walking the dogs, inspecting tree limbs for emergent buds, watching for robins, hunting for crocuses. Searching for signs of spring.

So I, too, will venture out in the fresh air, probing, hoping for a hint that spring will return again for me someday.   

Love, Rach

Disaster

Dear UD,

One of the worst things I can imagine is the carcass of a charred library. Can you imagine if we lived in Bradbury’s world? All the libraries burned, empty husks. All of that history, knowledge, shared connection throughout time wiped away as if never there.

That's how I feel in this world now.

One by one, you topple, the generations before us, gone of a sudden.

We are not ready to carry on without you. 

I am not ready to be the one who remembers.

I remember the generation before and the one before that and even the one before that.  Four generations, five including the one that comes after me, but I don't remember clearly. I don't know enough.

A kaleidoscope of images flashes through my mind:

Picking strawberries from the patch with Grandma Iva, snuggling on Grandma Bonnie’s lap as she reads Hop on Pop and The Little Red Hen, turning the handle as I make ice cream on the back porch with Grandpa Bruce long before he teaches teenage me to play Bridge, picnicking with Grandma Bessie at the yearly reunion, peeling fresh garden tomatoes at Grandma Juanita’s knee, reeling in big ole catfish from the pond on the family farm with Grandpa Crawford, listening to Dad’s eclectic music while learning everything from vocabulary to tolerance to history from him.

So many memories, so much shared history.

And you, Uncle David, you who could hold me in one of your hands from the day I was born, you knew me, the real me in a way others don't, can't. 

And now that you are gone from this world, I stand alone in the ruins of all of that history, knowledge, shared connection and weep. 

Love, Rach

New Year Musings

Dear UD,

It seems unbelievable that we are starting a New Year that you and Dad will never see;

I have been so sad the past few days as 2016 approached.  

2016, just a number, a New Year, a blank slate,

yet it heralds a time in this world where we must go on without you, 

a path on this earth where you cannot follow,  

a journey we must now make alone.

It doesn't seem right.

I made a 2016 family calendar since you are not here to do it anymore,

and there were too many dates I had to leave blank,

no labels but heavy with meaning,

strong with memory.

January 4^th—the day we lost Dad,

March 1^st—Dad's birthday,

March 15^th—your birthday,

April 28^th—the day we lost you.

The funeral days are sharp yet blurry,

and every day after pregnant with a grief we do not want to birth.

We stumbled through our first holiday season without you,

and most of us became ill,

vomiting up all of our unspoken words and emotions.

But me, I stepped on the cat's tail, on Christmas Day,

fell and fractured my wrist. A trip to the ER

and I came home with a splint on my right wrist.

Shattered lives, shattered bones.

Broken bones, broken spirits.

Losing you was like losing my right arm, and now I am utterly

helpless.

We all feel so bereft, unready, lost.

We miss you both so much.

We wish we could rewind to you.

But time waits for no one so

we are marched into 2016,

a year we are not ready to face,

into a world we are not ready to know,

into a time without you.

Out of the remains of our battered world,

we must create a new normal as our new selves emerge.

But we carry your love, your hearts, your memories into 2016, and

will band together, help each other, and

use the knowledge and gifts that you taught us

to move forward, recover, and become more resilient

as we remember to cherish every

moment and memory

with those we love.

Love, Rach