Remembering Dad

How has it been eight years?

Eryn and I played hooky Thursday and went on an adventure to remember Dad.

Eryn picked a route from her Portland Stair Walks book:

It was a doozy!! Dad would have complained the whole time 😉

We stopped at Goose Hollow Inn for a refuel:

It was nice enough to sit on the patio!

Then it was back up, up, up to the car. We complained, too!

But then we met Mom and Brad for ice cream, because that would have made have made Dad happy. It made us happy!

Miss you, Dad. I'd give the world to have you back with us.

Thanks for giving us a reason to skip work and go play and eat fun food 💗

Remembering Dad with hikes, agates, and ice cream

Mom, Eryn, and I spent the weekend of Feb. 12 doing some of Dad's favorite things.

First up: a short hike at Bloom Lake off Highway 26:

Then we stopped at Camp 18 for a brunch snack - scrambled eggs and a giant cinnamon roll:

Dad would have loved that ooey, gooey pastry!

Then another short hike at Soapstone Lake on Highway 53

Then ice cream at Tillamook Creamery:

Much of the weekend was chill... hanging out, watching Olympics, snacking...

Eryn made us cheese and onion enchiladas.

Eryn and I headed to nearby Short Beach and ended up hunting for agates, something Dad spent hours doing on beach trips.

I'd heard it was a popular rock-hounding spot - there were tons of people on the small beach searching for natural treasures. Our haul:

So pretty!

Dinner was takeout from Mike's Mac & Sanny Shack in Tillamook. YUMMO!!!

Sunday I got up with the sun for a run. First up to Maxwell Mountain:

Then down to the beach:

And then some beach miles in the sun:

On the way home, Mom decided she needed *more* ice cream! Dad would have agreed, so back to the creamery it was!

Four years seems like forever, but also just yesterday. We all miss Dad so much. And we're glad we can remember him with food, relaxation, and nature ❤

Miss you, Dad

Four years. It seems like yesterday and forever ago at the same time.

I miss you so much, Dad 💗 You're always in my heart.

 

It could have been my dad

CW: Depression, OCD, mental illness, unexpected death, suicide, police violence

Wednesday, Tigard police were called to an apartment complex less than a mile from my home. Jacob Macduff's roommate says he was having a mental-health crisis, and she called for help. Reportedly, Jacob had been struggling for some time, and police were aware of the situation. 

Police reported that he was armed with a knife and wouldn't leave his car. They said they tried to arrest Jacob and ended up fatally shooting him.

OK - here's where I'm going to get really personal.

Three years ago, my own father was suffering a mental-health crisis. He'd been in a downward spiral, his depression and OCD becoming too much to handle. The recent death of his father, with whom he had a very complicated relationship, played a big role.

Dad's situation played out differently from Jacob's, but I can't help but wonder what could have happened.

My dad took an overdose of his medication, ending his life. We believe it was unintentional. (more about his illness)

But what if, in taking that medication, he'd become agitated? What if he'd become confused? What if he'd become belligerent? What if he'd become violent? What if he'd become a perceived danger to himself or to Mom?

What if Mom had come home and found him in crisis? A situation she couldn't handle on her own? 

She would have called 911. And instead of sending a mental-health crisis team, police officers would have responded. Because that's how it works.

And what happens when those officers don't know how to handle that agitation, confusion, belligerence, violence, or threat of potential danger?

It's absolutely not a stretch to say that my dad could easily have ended up like Jacob. And that's not OK.

We desperately need to change our policing system and our response to people in crisis.

100 years

My grandfather would have turned 100 today! He lived to 97, and I think we all thought his orneriness would carry him across the line. But his body gave up on July 14, 2017.

This day, which has been staring back at me on my Google Calendar since the month turned, is causing me some feels.

So is writing and publishing these feels airing dirty laundry or truth telling? I think there's a fine line, and I've been debating with myself all day. I've decided that authentic living is important.

I called him Grandpa. My parents were young when I was born, and I entered the world with 10 grandparents and great grandparents! To keep them all straight, each had a unique name, and Dad's parents were simply Grandma and Grandpa.

Grandpa was a complicated person. I never doubted that he loved me as his grandchild, but he was definitely not a warm-and-fuzzy grandfather. Actually, I might describe his as a hard man.

Through various circumstances like hard work, frugality, a career in the airline industry, key investments, and inheritance, my grandparents were wealthy. And they did some wonderfully generous things, like setting up savings accounts for all the grandchildren to help fund our college educations, and paying for the entire family to go on a celebration cruise.

When I was a kid, they lived in Villa Park, Calif., about 5 miles from Disneyland. So when we went for a visit, Disneyland was usually involved. That's definitely where my love of Mickey Mouse started.

I remember Disneyland. I remember financial assistance. I remember gifts of Swatch watches, Cabbage Patch Kids, and Sony Walkmans we couldn't otherwise afford. But I don't really remember affection.

I remember harsh, condescending words when my family was late to morning gatherings. I remember being too scared to say anything when I split the front of my leg open hopping into the van because I knew Grandpa would say "I told you so."

I remember their beautiful Villa Park home but not much warmth inside. I remember my grandmother always looking (to me) sad and tired.

Part of my childhood and life experience was that my other grandparents always lived close. We saw them all the time. They were (are!) loving, affectionate people who made me feel loved and special my whole life. The contrast was stark - living so far away from my other grandparents, mixed with their perceived cold personalities. I never really knew them. I always felt different, distant, out of place, and even unwelcome around them and that side of the family.

I remember my dad talking lovingly about spending much of his childhood with his own grandparents (because Grandpa was away working for the airline). But I don't remember many kind words about his own father. He told stories of very harsh, dismissive, damaging behavior from his father - emotional pain, not physical.

Dad was deeply scarred by his upbringing, and I believe Dad spent the last years of his own life trying desperately to reconcile, gain his father's acceptance and love, and make up for a lifetime of perceived rejection. I don't think it's coincidence that he died just months after Grandpa.

I've truly never blamed my dad for the way his life ended. I know his illness took him from us. But part of me does blame Grandpa and the way he treated my father.

Grandma and Grandpa moved north to Newberg's Friendsview Retirement Community in the later years of their lives. It was strange - and nice - to have them physically close to us for the first time - getting to celebrate holidays and birthdays together and see them way more often than every before. 

I got to see a softer side of Grandpa in his last years. But does that make up for a lifetime of coldness? I wrestle with that question.

My dad loved being involved and helping to care for his parents as they aged. But it was a huge responsibility, and that weighed heavily. Again, I believe his trying to make up for a lifetime of hurts played a huge role in his mental health issues and final decline.

So it's with very mixed feelings that I say, Happy 100th Birthday, Grandpa! I wish you were here to celebrate with some cake, balloons, and family. But more than that, I wish I would have known you as an affectionate grandfather, and I wish Dad had known you as a supportive, affectionate father.

crusty edges

You get a cut on your knuckle. Because your body's amazing, that skin goes right back together, sealing itself up in a matter of days. But then, just as it's getting better, you forget and bend your finger, and it spreads apart again.

You're not bleeding, and the healing isn't reversed, but the skin is now a little crusty on the edges where it's not quite together anymore. And then you pick at the little pieces of crusty skin. It's annoying but doesn't hurt. But now there's a bit more awareness than before you bent that finger.

Are you picturing that? (Maybe I'm the only one who does that?!) ☝

Side note: I just did a quick Google image search for finger cuts. DON'T DO THAT! Yikes. I should have know better! 😒

I think I'm healing well from my dad's death. It's now been two years, and the pain has lessened considerably. I go about my day without being consumed sadness, regret, and guilt. Those emotions do surface, but not constantly as in the beginning. Joy has returned, and I am finding pleasure and happiness where I feared it would never again be felt.

Wednesday was the anniversary: Feb. 12, 2018.

Mom, Eryn, and I spent the day exploring Milo McIver State Park on the Clackamas River, then eating Beyond Burgers and tots at nearby Carver Hangar. Then we hung out for a bit at my house, attempting to plan a baseball trip to San Diego, before going to Sonic for milkshake dinner. A perfect tribute! 🍔

It was a good day - full of fresh air, laughter, memories, togetherness. I didn't feel particularly sad - more resigned (which is a little sad). That's now the new "normal" - and my heart and mind seem to be dealing OK with that.

But Wednesday evening, I got a message from a woman in my morning running group: Our leader had just come home to find her husband collapsed. He could not be revived.

Instantly, my phone blew up with friends searching for answers and understanding and details and wondering what to do.  

The experience has been a little bit traumatizing, mostly because of the proximity and similarity to my own family's tragedy. But I'm OK. Friends who know have asked, and I appreciate that. I decided last night that it's like the aforementioned finger wound: It's all still sealed up, but now a little crusty along the edges. I have some things to process.

I am absolutely heartbroken for Nichole and her family. I *know* how an unexpected death hits like nothing else and shatters your world.

But one "good" thing about my own fresh experience is that I have a unique understanding of what she's going through. I pray that I can use my own experiences to help her through her grief and the tough times ahead. I pray I can be someone she can count on as she navigates her hurts and life changes. 🙏💗

Two years

On Feb. 12, 2018, my life turned upside down by the sudden, unexpected death of my dad. 

The premature death of a parent is something I never even considered. I was devastated, but there was also work to be done.

Now, two years later, much of that work has wrapped up and life is "normal" again. I feel so much relief that every moment isn't consumed by house sales and taking care of Mom and Eryn. But I also feel sadness that "normal" now means no Dad. Life is moving on without him.

I am good. But life without Dad still sucks. While the total heartache has subsided, there's still a big hole that will never be filled. I miss my dad.  

I don't have big words to share on this anniversary, which is, of course, just another day without my dad. Life goes on. I keep moving forward. I keep healing. I keep reflecting and prioritizing, knowing life is short and precious.

Today, Mom, Eryn, and I will be together, breathing fresh air and eating all the food - just like Dad would have enjoyed 😊 

I miss you, Dad! 💖