Dear Dad (#4)

Dear Dad,

Today is August 13, 2015.  Officially a year and one day since you passed away.  How does it feel?  Everyone says the first year is the hardest.  So is there some magical moment that propels you from year one to year two?  Am I supposed to feel different today?  Lighter?  I don’t.  Recently I’ve been having these nightmares where I wake up with a start and am filled with dread that you died.  Then I realize it’s not a nightmare.  It’s real life.  It actually happened.  You are gone. 

Two days ago was my 30^th birthday.  It was such a bittersweet day.  I’m glad I’ve been alive for another year, but it is weird not having you here.  And today is the day that my world stopped turning one year ago.

According to Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, there is anticipatory grief.  I guess what I mean is that in the back of my mind, I knew you would die someday, but I anticipated that I would be well into adulthood when that happened, like I would be your age when you died, not that you’d be 62 and I’d be barely 29. 

You didn’t keep your promise dad, and it’s a promise that everyone makes that they can’t keep.  You said you’d always be there and you’re not. 

Are you happy where you are?  Or is there only nothingness?  Nothingness like the hole in my heart that exists because you are gone. 

When I got home from celebrating my birthday last year, I discovered that there had been massive flooding in Michigan and that mom didn’t know where you were.  On the morning of the 12^th, Molly texted me to say you had never come home.  I remember being filled with such emptiness, trying to imagine where you might be or what might have happened to you.  I tried to do what I could from New York, calling the Michigan State Police, calling anyone I thought would listen.  But nothing seemed to work.  Then mom called me at around 9 p.m. on the 12^th to tell me that you had died.  The world fell out from under me.  I remember repeating over and over again, through my tears, that I didn’t understand.        

I am still waiting for you to walk through the door, say, “Hey babes!  I’m home.” And act like you’re still here, like you were never gone.  But I can’t hear those words out loud anymore.  I can only hear them reverberate around my own head.

At your funeral, I was crying so hard, I couldn’t breathe.  I didn’t know how life would move forward.  And now it’s already been a year.  How is that possible?  I guess we have two choices.  We either stop living, or we move forward even though life no longer makes sense.

Sometimes, some random guy will pass me on the street and will be wearing your cologne.  It’s disarming.  It makes me happy and sad at the same time.  And I have to look really hard to make sure it isn’t you. 

I still struggle with the religious aspects of your death.  As Jews, we commemorate death on the Hebrew calendar, and the date changes every year.  And I wonder why I am forced to focus on another day, when there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think of you. 

Being in New York, I’ve found it hard to go to services.  And I feel really guilty because it’s something that you took such pride in doing for your own father.  I am doing my best to find other ways to make your life and death matter.     

I went home to Michigan for the yahrzeit and it was good to be surrounded by Mom, Molly, Bubbie, and Nancy.  We also unveiled your stone, as is tradition.  It’s weird to say, but the stone is nice.  When you died and we were at the funeral home, they asked us if we wanted the same casket we had for Zaydie or if we wanted to look for a different one.  No one else wanted to, but I was hoping that something would speak to me.  It didn’t.  But the stone, if it has to be here and you’re not, is dignified.   

I don’t think there’s ever really enough time in life.  And we only realize this when it’s too late.  There’s so much I would have liked to have said to you.  So many more times we could have talked.  So many things that you have already missed and will miss in the future.  You didn’t get to see me graduate from Sarah Lawrence College with a second Master’s degree.  You won’t get to see Andrew and I get married (assuming he proposes) and you won’t get to be a grandfather to my future children.

All that I have left are pictures and memories.  Some days that feels like enough, but most days it definitely doesn’t. 

“Summer has come and passed/ The innocent can never last/ Wake me up when September ends”

-         Green Day

Love,

Leslie

If you are interested in reading the other Dear Dad letters, you can read #1, #2, and #3.

Dear Dad (#3)

Dear Dad,

I haven’t written in a while, but am doing so today in that I am able to find comfort in my own thoughts and words.  And in my memories of you.

Out of all the firsts that have come so far this year, I think Father’s Day was the hardest.  Maybe it’s the fact that over the past month, I have been bombarded with e-mails and TV commercials about what to get dad for Father’s Day. 

For your birthday, I could suffer in silence.  But on a day when everyone is celebrating their father, I can’t celebrate you.  I can’t tell you how much I love you.  I can’t tell you all of the things that have happened in my life over the past 10 months, not all of them good.

I wanted to reply to all those e-mails and tell the offending companies that I don’t have a father to celebrate anymore, so stop sending me stupid e-mails that remind me of what I’m missing and make me feel worse.

Deep down, I know I’m not the only one suffering through Father’s Day.  I know I wasn’t the first person to lose their father and I know I won’t be the last, but it’s different when it’s you.  Because in a way, the pain feels singular.  It’s my own, unique brand of pain, and I can’t shut it off.     

As time goes by, things are supposed to get easier.  But sometimes, they don’t.  Sometimes I get so angry about what happened to you.  About the storm, about the police not doing their job.  About the whole thing.  Sometimes, I want to punch someone.  I want someone to experience 1 millionth of the pain I feel right now, and maybe, just maybe, they would understand. 

If there’s anything that death teaches us, it’s that life is short.  It teaches us to remember to say I love you.  I wish I had told you I loved you more than I did.  I wish I would have cherished the memories more while you were here, as much as I do now that you’re gone. 

I wish there would be more Tigers and Red Wings games in our future.  The last time I was at a game until the other day, was with you when I was home visiting last June.  And you had the best time that day.  You were yelling all sorts of things, and embarrassing the heck out of us, but I would take all of the embarrassment in the world if it meant having you here. 

I’m going to Washington D.C. this week, and I find myself missing you all the more.  The one and only time I was in D.C. was with you, when you chaperoned our 8^th grade trip.  It was one crazy busy day, and I’ve found myself wanting to back there for a long time, but it has a different meaning now that you’re gone. 

I guess it speaks to how much you touched my life, when seemingly any time I turn around, there are memories of you everywhere.     

We never know when life will end, and we need to make the most of it while we’re here.  But lately, I find myself depressed.  I can’t really put that much effort into reading or writing, two things that were formerly my passions.  I know this feeling will pass, but it’s hard. 

I hope that all those who still have their father alive will do what I regret I didn’t do.  They will tell them they love and care about them, not just on Father’s Day, but every day of the year.    

I love you daddy, and I miss you more than you will ever know.

Love,

Leslie

If you are interested in reading the other Dear Dad letters, you can read #1 and #2.

Dear Dad (#2)

Dear Dad,

Today is your birthday.  You would have been 63.  I'm not really sure how I feel about this day or how I am supposed to feel.  I miss you...a lot...that's for sure.

Thanksgiving was better than I thought it would be.  Except that you weren't there, which was huge.  But it was the first time that I've been home since you died.  And I had no idea what to expect.

It's weird because I often caught myself thinking that you were at work or sleeping in the next room.  But I had to keep reminding myself that, that wasn't the case.  That you're gone.  Permanently.

And that still hurts terribly.

It's been a little bit more than a year since Zaydie died.  So when I was home for Thanksgivng, we had the unveiling for his stone.  I didn't want to go because I didn't want to face the reality that you died, too.

We went, and it was fine.  Until I walked to where you're buried.  Around the mound of dirt, they've put a concrete barrier.  And it's still so new that it isn't flush to the ground.  It was creepy.  It's still too fresh and new.  Maybe it was too soon for me to go back there.

I don't know how I was supposed to feel being there.  Connected to you in some way?  The place I can go to "see" and visit you?  Because I didn't feel connected or comforted.  I felt empty.

I feel like it's a bad consolation prize for not having you physically around.

Things are moving forward on my project for you.  And I hope that after the New Year, I'll be able to share with you amd everyone else what has been going on.  But for now, mums the word.

Andrew and I started looking for apartments.  Yay!  And I'm sad that you won't be able to see our relationship grow and evolve.  But I'd like to think that somewhere, someway, you know.

It's hard to imagine life moving forward without you, but it has to.  We don't have a choice, or we die too.

As things start to get a little easier, we are hit with Thanksgiving or Chanukah or your birthday or some other even that you're not here for.  And it brings everything back again.

I'm not sure what else to say except that not a day goes by when I don't think about you.  And wish you were here.  And miss you.  And love you.

I love you,

Leslie

Dear Dad (#1)

I’ve decided to write a series of letters to my dad and felt like I wanted to share them here as I hope it will bring clarity, not only for me, but also for those of you who have followed me on this journey. 

Dear Dad,

It has been three months since you’ve been gone, and I’d like to say that it has gotten easier, but it hasn’t.  I miss you more with every passing day.  And while I’m excited to be going home to Michigan for Thanksgiving, it won’t be the same without you.  And I will acutely feel your absence and the fact that, that is never going to change.

I’ve decided to write some letters to you and post them on my blog when I feel like I need to share what’s going on in my life.

You’d be amazed by all of the kindness and compassion that has been shown to us over the last few months, even from strangers, as those that knew you try to grapple with your loss and what it means for our lives going forward. 

I’ve been working on a project for you, and I think you’d be really proud.  I’m putting the letter writing skills you taught me to good use.  That’s all I can say about it right now, but I do hope to share more about it when appropriate. 

I try to hide my pain, but a world without you in it doesn’t seem right.  I know we didn’t talk on the phone a lot, but now that you’re gone, I find myself wanting to talk to you more and more, and wish I had done a better job of cultivating that part of our relationship while you were alive.    

I was in Boston this weekend for a blogging thing, and I cried the hardest I have for you in a long time.  It took me by surprise.  I’m not sure what brought it on, other than the fact that the project I’m working on has forced me to relive the details of your death over and over again.  Some days are okay, and some days are harder. 

Mom made Molly and I pick out something from a jewelry box I never even knew you had.  I picked a cool ring that is square and very geometric.  I wear it every day, and in a weird way, it makes me feel more connected to you.

I’ve gotten so many compliments on the ring, and I proudly tell people that it was my dad’s.  I never realized how small your fingers were because the ring actually fits me fine.  I don’t want to be a downer, but it’s hard not to tell people that you died and that’s why I have the ring.  I’d much, much, much rather have you here than have one of your rings, but every time I look at it, it’s a reminder of all of the good you brought to my life, and the fact that you will always be with me. 

There’s a lot I haven’t said, but it’s important that the world know what happened to you.  It’s important that you know that I am fighting for you, and that I won’t stop fighting for you until things change.  I don’t want another family to go through what we went through.  And I hope I can see this through.    

I love you daddy,

Leslie

Building A Better Me, Part 1: Being A “Smart Patient” Matters*

“Wham! From the very first moment of a health crisis, you’re unprepared and not in control […]” (170).

Welcome to my first blog series. I’ve been on a self-improvement kick lately, so I’ll be exploring a variety of issues, some which deal specifically with chronic illness, others that do not. I hope that you find some of these posts useful for your own life, and that you’ll humor me as I do some rather public self-exploration.

When I embarked on this journey of self-discovery, which basically meant scouring the shelves for books related to various aspects of self-improvement, and devouring them as quickly as possible, the one thing I promised myself is that I would try and stick to looking towards the experts for advice on the things in my life I was looking to improve.

That said, I wasn’t too impressed with myself that I scored a 19 out of 40 on the “Smart Patient” Quiz. On the other hand, though, I wasn’t all that surprised. When you’re not expecting more than annual visits to the doctor and a few minor ailments here and there, when you’re hit with a chronic illness, you’re thrown feet first into the medical “ocean”. And honestly, it’s not always that easy to keep up. It’s literally sink or swim…

While I don’t pride myself on being enamored of Oprah’s cronies, I’ll admit that “You: The Smart Patient” by Drs. Michael Roizen and Mehmet Oz was very useful and user friendly.

They say, “[…] our patient really plays a triple role, he or she is our partner and our chief, and also the very citizen we’re protecting and serving” (13). I really like this analogy because a lot of times, the doctor-patient relationship can be very unbalanced. It’s nice to hear doctors acknowledge that we are their business, front and center. However, much of the onus is still on us, the patients… “Most patients don’t do a great job of communicating with their doctors […]” (41).

In my opinion, these are the top 10 tips that I gleaned from the book:

1. Ask questions of your doctor. “Sweat the small stuff.” In other words, don’t lay low. “Speak up!”
2. Know your family history.
3. Find a doctor who is experienced, but young enough to see you through the majority of care over your lifetime (Not sure this is one is doable for some us in the young and chronically ill category).
4. Explore cutting edge techniques, the best doctors, and hospitals (“size matters”).
5. The pharmacist is a great resource for medical information.
6. Always get a second opinion (you shouldn’t feel guilty about doing so).
7. Appoint a health advocate.
8. Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet.
9. Even though you are a patient, you have rights. So use them or lose them.
10. Be skeptical about and cautious of alternative medicine therapies and remedies. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t utilize them, just always make sure to consult your doctor in order to avoid any interactions with medications you are already taking.

And remember, all of this is the advice for the (currently) healthy folks… Means some of us “sickos” have a lot to learn…

Overall, “You: The Smart Patient” is a good resource to look things up in as needed, but I don’t recommend you read it cover-to-cover like I did, and I don’t feel it is particularly useful for chronically ill people (especially those of us new to this camp). For instance, one suggestion is that you take all of your actual medication bottles to doctor’s appointments. Really? You’re lucky that I take my medication, so don’t push your luck…

The main thing that this book emphasizes, which I think is critically important, is that we have to be our own health advocates. While it’s also good to have someone appointed as your health advocate in case you can’t make decisions for yourself, we are the keepers of ourselves. We have to be the first line of defense in finding the right doctors and providing those on our medical team with the information they need to help us get the best care possible.

There are so really useful handouts in the book, though, that you can use to keep track of all of your health and medical information. You can find versions of these for free at www.realage.com.

*My friends have had it with me, but they’re going to have to hang in a little longer. They can no longer ask for book suggestions because all I read are patient narratives and books for my self-improvement “project.”

*****

(Roizen, Michael, and Mehmet Oz. You: The Smart Patient. New York: Free Press, 2006.)