alzheimer's, courage, dad, daughter caregivers, death, death and dying, dementia, family, fear, grief, loss, meditation, memoir, mom, truth, Uncategorized

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger

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“You mentioned that you meditate. I am sure it makes you feel good. It calms you, right?”

“I mean, not really, that’s not why I meditate,” I say like a kid who bubbles in the wrong circle on a Scantron assessment, but is determined to make that circle more black than gray. The answer sheet sagging with the weight of lead, a divet in place of a blank bubble.  Shadows of gray that reach far beyond that bubble on the form.

No, actually Mr.-I-Make-Assumptions-Without-Seeking-To-Understand-FIRST.

You’re wrong.

But no worries, keep going. You clearly have A LOT of experience at this so, don’t let my crossed arms, crossed ankles, or blank stare stop you. Even though my insides are screaming- my body, my mouth—to NOT accept his words as mine. Go on. Break me in half like you’re gonna do.

“People do meditation for two reasons. That’s why you meditate, to calm yourself, to feel better?” he went on.

I let that question, which was more of a statement with heaping amounts to judgment gooooo because he apparently already had an imaginary pencil in his hand, a Scantron sheet and the correct answer. Shaking my head on the inside, he was committing a sin familiar to a first-year teacher: leading the student into THE expected answer.

He, the transmitter of knowledge and arbitrator of truth.

I raised my hand, being the one who decided to “go first” in our group of twelve. I sat at the end of the half circle facing him. Sitting on a bullshit black, plastic chair and realizing no one was going to jump in and save me from the Q&A fun.  He continued and I dug in, resigned to the upcoming hyperventilating cry familiar to anyone who has ever felt so fucking misunderstood and frustrated.

“Only it doesn’t work. You meditate to:

  1. Calm yourself
  2. To feel better about your problems

BUT.. It’s a band-aid, really. Your problem is still there. The box you created of your problem, the problem in this box.”

He makes a box in the air.

“It’s still there because you haven’t changed and your perception of the problem hasn’t changed. Same context, same problem. Same YOU. Just a calmer version of yourself. Meditation makes you feel good for a time, but the problem is still the problem. It’s still going to be there. It doesn’t work.”

He said.

The night before I asked, “So, this box that you speak of, aren’t you really talking about one’s perception? My perception of my problem is the problem. The actions I take are a result of the perception I have of my problem. What I think it is, maybe THE PROBLEM isn’t IT after all. It’s what I perceive it to be and my actions are a result of the flawed way I think of my problem.”

To which, the gentleman disagreed, explained it as “context,” but then proceeded to use “context” and “perception” interchangeably again and again. He had an answer in his head and there was no deviating from that answer. He explained that, because we are all intelligent beings, we can explain our problems very well. We are very good at talking about our problems and analyzing them, but those problems persist.

If you are a woman and you are reading this, I am sure you recognize the feeling that was in my shoulders, neck, face—and really fucking present in my teeth and jaw, his words a round peg into my square jaw. The feeling you get when someone, usually a man or person in power, is trying to get you to adopt a certain way of thinking. Call me sexist, I don’t give a shit. It reminded me of all those men I worked for who would ask me for my opinion, typically around a conference table, give me the obligatory moment to explain, but that didn’t really matter because they made up their mind about me or my opinion long before the stopwatch in their mind began and I stopped talking.

Those assholes.

And I say that with love.

Ya’ll ever go to what you thought was supposed to be hard, but inspiring self-work? Therapy, maybe? Where you expected UUGGGLLLLYYYYY-ugly crying, ugly truths, ugly Q&A?

You expect ugly because growth is MESSY. Complicated. It doesn’t have to be soul-crushing, though. I don’t have to make MY point at the expense of  YOU. If I do, I am an asshole. And, I KNOW—as a coach and as Jodi being Jodi—I’ve been THE ASSHOLE.

Takes one to know one.

But that way of operating is never ok.

Back to the perils and my super confused outlook on meditation…

“I disagree with you, “ I told him. “I don’t meditate to calm myself. I meditate to know myself,” my voice too loud to be reasonable. Like saying it louder would make him hear me.

“Ok, if you say that is true, then I believe you.”

Like I’d be lying.

“You can know yourself, and you’ll feel happy for a time, but the problem will still be there.”

Wait. What? You are shit talking meditation? At a retreat that has yoga 5 times this weekend? Huh…Makes total sense to me.

You know what, maybe I should have offered some disclaimers before I started to conquer his assumptions about me and my meditation practice. Maybe if I told him that I really started meditating because my Mom has Alzheimer’s and research shows that it helps improve the neuroplasticity in the brain. Or that I started meditating last winter because I was in such a deep depression I considered running my car into a brick wall one gray Chicago day. I was that depressed. Would that make my meditation practice more acceptable to him?

FUCK.

My intuition started screaming at me the night before when he bad mouthed the concept of HOPE. On and on he went describing HOPE like she was a  lunatic, misguided sham of a woman, who’d been delusional, irrational, and a big, fat fucking liar who had screwed him over and was now trying to get us to unfollow her on all forms of social media.

Essentially, HOPE is a nice idea when you think about her, but don’t be a fool, she will do you wrong each and every time.

When I found out about this opportunity, I was a little hesitant because there was very little information about the weekend. While I knew there would be yoga I’d dread, there was no schedule or agenda of our time to be found. Sure, I could’ve asked, I should’ve asked. That was stupid, on my part.  I know better. How many trainings have I developed where I attempt to be super thoughtful about the agenda, our use of time, and how to communicate the rationale for each and every decision? It’s time-consuming for a reason. But, I didn’t listen to my little voice months ago. I rationalized the voice was my nemesis FEAR showing up and I put my ear muffs on to the noise. If I’d known I would be expected to participate in 10.5 hours on Saturday and Sunday, plus 4 hours on Friday and do yoga 5 times, I’d likely never paid the money. Truth.

But when I got our Essential Question in an email prior to class, I thought ok, I like it. Seems like a prompt I can work with. Seem like necessary work:

What is the central and biggest problem in your life? It is something you have been struggling with for as long as you can remember, and even if it has changed form, it remains essentially the same. Write the problem down and bring it with you to class.

I thought A LOT about my problem. How do I pick one? I got a list, y’all! But when it boils down to it, my “problems” stem from one overarching issue that flows from and into all others. I NOT am enough. I am too flawed. Too inadequate.

As much as I preach it to the choir, I don’t love myself. That’s probably why I talk about it so much because it is something I am currently working through.

When I began to explain my problem as I saw it, I explained that I didn’t feel adequate, that I focused so much on all the things that were “wrong” with me, the mistakes I’ve made and general feelings of inadequacy, that love and self-acceptance were the root of my problem. In talking, I came to the conclusion, that in all aspects of my life I may not love myself totally and fully because I have this idea that I am not adequate. I admitted to not practicing what I preach, which is to love oneself.

This revelation wasn’t new, but it took on a different life when I had to say it out loud. However, my perception of the problem was not met with applause or confirmation.

“So, what you are saying is that you are not lovable. That is what you are really saying.” 

He said.

I thought for a moment. I thought of all the examples in my mind of loving relationships I have with people.

“No, I don’t think I am saying that. I think that I can give love freely. I give love. I am able to give love. I don’t think I am a great receiver of the love I give to other people.  It’s harder for me to receive it. And I think I can’t receive it because I am not adequate as I am. That’s what I am saying. Like I am not worthy.”

“Exactly. You are unlovable. No one can love you because you are unlovable. We are saying the same thing. You just aren’t accepting the words I am saying to describe your sentiments.”

My shoulders began to move in unison with my belly expanding, crying like a well-orchestrated chorus. I can feel everyone watching me. The woman next to me is crying now too and I wonder if she is crying for herself or for me.

“See. There. What are all those tears about? What is happening in your body right now?”

What I wanted to say is: WTF?! With your unlovable bullshit.

Instead, I said, “I feel like you are putting words in my mouth and trying to convince me of something that isn’t true for me. I am angry really,” resigned because his mind is made up about me and my problem.

“You are just uncomfortable with the words I am using. We can use your words. Fine. You are inadequate. Let’s use that word if that makes you digest it easier. All your life you have worked to prove how adequate or inadequate you are. You do x, y, z and it shows just how inadequate you are. If you do a,b,c you are showing how adequate you are. You say this is about adequacy. I say love. I mean look at your shirt,” he said mockingly pointing to the Love First command that ran across the chest of my t-shirt; a purchase I made before I left on my trip. I thought it was a fun, appropriate way to cheer myself on once I got the “Essential Question” for the weekend.

“The Shirt?” I laugh looking down at my chest. Yea, I bought this shirt for me, which is funny because I can’t actually see it to take advantage of the message, but…”

He didn’t find the humor in that acknowledgment.

“You’re getting off track. Why the shirt?”

People who are not criers, often hold the mistaken belief that crying is some exercise in fragility. What it can be for many women—-because I am one and I have talked to women who have had similar experiences—is a needed release when we are BEYOND frustrated by not being heard and can’t run resort to a punch in the face.

“I AM answering the question. Give me a minute. The world is a really fucked up place, so it is a reminder for people to be good to one another. To love one another,” my voice probably again too loud to be reasonable.

“Ok, now you are talking in political and theoretical terms, we won’t get into that,” he cuts me off.

“What? No, I am not. I am answering the question. The question you asked. I am answering it,” I say like I am 12. I am ready to rip up my Scantron sheet because all my answers are wrong. Yep, I am inadequate. 

“Let’s move on. Ok, close your eyes and take me back to a moment, as far back as you can go when you felt inadequate.”

And so, the next fifteen minutes consisted of me remembering times in my life when I was inadequate, using my words; unlovable using his.

I’ll spare you the examples.

I ended up giving in and agreeing, that yes, given my examples, I must be unlovable because I wanted it to be OVER, which is funny because my biggest dread-the yoga-wasn’t nearly as bad as interacting with the gentleman standing before me.

I gave in. I gave up. And in my head, I remember thinking— I am letting you win, you motherfucker. 

Earlier that morning I mentioned that I have always carried a profound, perpetual sadness with me.  And, I’ve often wondered if it was because my Mom carried so much grief and anxiety in her womb while carrying me. With all the baby deaths before me, the bedrest and news that she wouldn’t conceive me, I could understand if she turned her sadness and anxiety inward, having always been the strong one. I shared that Mom was told I wasn’t supposed to live because I was just a mere 3 lbs. 4 oz when I was born. The size of a pot roast. 

“I am going to bring you back to what you said about your Mom and having you this morning. You said you weren’t supposed to live, that you didn’t deserve to live. Do you remember saying that?”

With extra effort and emphasis on the –, you didn’t deserve to live– eleven pairs of eyes stared at me like a gaper’s delay on the Kennedy.

“I NEVER said that. I NEVER said I felt that I didn’t deserve to live.”

And at that moment, this arrogant man gave me the greatest gift. He reminded me of who the fuck I am. Yep, self-love is work. And no one person, with all the shit behind their name or their experience, can know you or understand you. If YOU are not for YOU, who will be?

“I am sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to put words in your mouth.”

It couldn’t be taken back. He had said it. Maybe in all his careless assumptions of me, he imagined a statement I never made about a belief I never had. 

I didn’t go back the next day. I took a ferry to Bellagio and thanked the man in my head for yet another lesson in learning to love myself. Even when loving yourself means walking away from something that doesn’t serve you.

Lessons come until they are learned. 

 

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AARP, alz, alzheimer's, amylodosis, cardiac amylodosis, caring for parents, courage, dad, daughter caregivers, death, death and dying, dementia, family, fear, featured, grief, loss, memoir, truth, Uncategorized

Gone

April 4, 2018

I’m still in the middle of the gone as the anniversary of my father’s death nears. Some nights I wade in the grief around 6 pm when PBS NewsHour comes on and the seat next to me is vacant. There’s no 2 oz of Dewar’s to measure in the shot glass and pour into his insulated glass with just enough ice, a cherry, and a splash of bitters. I don’t go to the pantry to fetch a Rykrisp and spread the thinest layer of Merkt’s on it like I used to a year ago. No, Jod, can you get me a spoon? so Dad can fish the cherry out of his glass.

God, how I miss the rituals. Those rituals though make the gone so fucking difficult.  I wish I had an imaginary box of each ritual or small moment in the closet to unpack so that I could select one each time I get sad. I’d layer on each memory as if preparing for a winter hike in the Northwoods. Whether it be an imaginary box of small moments or a movie in my mind, these bits of magic–they are here with me–even though he’s gone.  Sure, some days that consolation prize feels as fantastic as the Mr. Coffee they’d give to the losing contestant on The Match Game, other days I am grateful it for the blessing it is.

Either way, I acknowledge the gaping hole that is the gone. Shit is different. I’m different. Everything is different. Loss creates this hole where substance once was. Be it a relationship, a job, a friendship, an activity, anything that was once a part of your identity–if now gone--you might feel like you need to plug the hole with a shitty wad of Double Mint gum that won’t conform because the loss is too real, too raw, and too recent. What’s the saying, “Time heals all wounds?”

That’s bullshit.

The gaping hole changes form a bit. It may scab over or shrink a little as life continues and you figure out how to live with your respective gone. The thing is you might not be 100% healed because you’re not 100% YOU anymore. You’ve changed. The gone changed you. It had to, didn’t it? Unless you are a completely soulless individual (which you clearly aren’t because you’re reading this book), loss changes people. That’s the gift like a  plate of fries next to the shit sandwich that grief served you with your gone. Get it? And now you’re standing in the kitchen with this shit sandwich of grief, but you’re still here-standing. You acknowledge the hole next to you where the ritual was or the memory or the person. You see it. You feel it when you need to or want to. Some days you take down the box and try on the memories like preparing for that hike in The Northwoods. Other days you praise The Almighty for a heaping hot plate of fries next to that grief sandwich and keep it movin’. The fries so tasty, you might not even take a bite of that grief sandwich, not today-anyway.

5 second rule, alz, amylodosis, cardiac amylodosis, caring for parents, courage, dad, daughter caregivers, death, death and dying, family, fear, grief, loss, mom, truth, Uncategorized

The “F” Word

The pictures that Dad taped to our outdated fridge have started to curl and bend. Circles of scotch tape have become more prominent than the pictures they are supporting. Pulling a couple off the fridge to do some triage I consider tossing one in the garbage. I love the picture, but I have zero patience for the woman staring back at me.

I shake my head remembering.

Me in my green t-shirt and a little black eyelet tank I’d gotten from this trendy, now shuttered store on Damen Avenue and Dad in a red striped Pokegama golf shirt he’d bought on one of his latest golf trips smiling for the camera.

A crowded room of friends in a bar whose name I can’t recall, drinking Miller Lite and toasting a move to North Carolina.

Hindsight being 20/20, I’d have suggested that my former self get a new pair of glasses and a lobotomy prior to leaving Chicago with a man she met a year prior. What a fool I say. Negative self-talk for the moment be damned!

Sure, I knew him. But do you ever really know someone?

People only reveal what they want to sweetheart, I’d have told my former self.

Some are lovely, lovely people. Others are complete pricks. I plucked a prick right off the rack. Tried him on, but didn’t read the label. And we moved to North Carolina where my life unraveled.

What complicates matters further, is that at 30, I thought and thought and agonized about being just past 30 and unmarried. The thoughts turned into a college-ruled notebook of fears: Fear of being alone, fear of being single forever, fear of not having babies, fear of never having my parents meet those babies, fear of never having dinner parties with the other marrieds-you get the idea. And on and on and on.

The faith I carried like the most curated protest sign in my 20’s had been blown to bits by the looming fear in my 30’s.

I’ve been thinking A LOT about fear recently. How fear became a houseguest and overstayed its welcome. Fear took a seat, ate a meal, did the dishes, came back for seconds, and took a long damn nap.

Fear is a motherf**er.

It was impossible, literally impossible for me to listen to my intuition because I made the decision to not be single. Checking my rear view mirror, love had zero to do with it. 

It was the “F” word. Fear.

Fear of my future. Fear of being the last of my single friends. Fear of no one ever loving me. And on and on.

I got a list, ya’ll.

Pushing the mute button for an extended period of time on instincts can do a number on the head and heart. My intuition, the knowing--an unbiased, unemotional assessment of the present, was outmatched by fear.  And when that happens– it sucks.

Reminds me of an episode of Seinfeld titled “The Opposite,” in it George decides that every decision he has ever made in his life has been wrong.  Jerry says, “If every instinct you’ve ever had is wrong, then the opposite would have to be right.” Therein George goes about his day doing the opposite of what he’d normally do and has better than average day.

Haven’t we all been there? So confused by outcomes of actions taken that we begin to question even the smallest decision.

Just pull a George Costanza.

Tried that a time or two!

But life can be like that. It’s like acting out of fear versus love messes with the equilibrium of the universe that surrounds you or something.

Acting out of fear is easy–especially if you’ve confused fear with intuition and your intuition has ear muffs on. Courage, man, it can be hard to conjure.

So what would I start by telling my 30-something self in this picture?

Well, I’d tell her this: Her life didn’t start unraveling in North Carolina like I said earlier. Nope. The analyzing, agonizing, and the thinking and overthinking created enough self-doubt and worry that I said YES to fear which propelled me into a series of bad decisions–well before North Carolina.

Dad likely knew it’d be a shit show when he met the man and I floated the idea and he tried to tell me, but did I listen? And Mom? She would’ve said, “What on earth are you doing? Haven’t I taught you to love yourself enough? Walk. Away.”

Yet, the list of fears that were once just thoughts prevented me from acting on the thing I needed the most: Courage. Because I was so in my head I wasn’t listening to my heart. My instincts had ear muff on, remember?

There’s a quote I’ve read and reread recently in Mel Robbin’s book, The 5 Second Rule that almost knocked me outta my chair when I read it. In the book, Mel writes, “When you act with courage, your brain is not involved. Your heart speaks first and you listen.”

Two of the most profound life-changing decisions I’ve ever made in my life I made in less than 5 seconds. It’s true. I hadn’t realized it till reading Mel’s book.

Life changing decision #1:

I moved to New Orleans in 2011 with a packed car, a $28,000 pay cut, and zero friends.

Life changing decision #2:

I moved back to Chicago 7 years later to care for my dying dad. Left my career, my life in New Orleans, and had no real plan aside from taking care of my Dad.

Here’s the thing about those two decisions: I never hesitated.  There are a million reasons why I shouldn’t have moved to New Orleans: Hadn’t taught in years. Had a great pension and job in Chicago. I was too old to have to make new friends. Did I mention I took a $28k pay cut? So, yea the list was L-O-N-G.

But the thought bubbles full of question marks and exclamation points–they never came.

I just acted. I went with it.  There weren’t lists of worries and self-doubt like before North Carolina. My heart was propelling me to go. And I listened. And you know what? I fell in love with New Orleans. And I made wonderful friends. And had a respectable career. And drank a sh*t ton of purple drinks.

Then, when I got the call during a teacher meeting that my Dad had been immediately admitted to the hospital at a doctor’s appointment, I remember turning to a colleague saying: I need to go home. Now.

No hesitation.

So I did. And it was hard. And beautiful. And then hard again. And here’s the thing: I have these teeny tiny moments with my Dad that makes the paycheck and job title just not that significant. 

Middle finger and ear muffs to the “F” word.

I choose courage.

I hope you will too. I really do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AARP, alzheimer's, amylodosis, cardiac amylodosis, christmas grief, dad, daughter caregivers, death, death and dying, dementia, family, grief, loss, memoir, Uncategorized

Rejoice: You made it out alive

 

The knocking of the 1980’s refrigerator serves as a reminder that I am not alone when I am my most depressed. The birdfeeders out in the yard hang and sway content with the charcoal sky that seems to never turn blue here.

When the ice falls in the freezer I jump a little and turn my attention to the family photos that dot the refrigerator. Heat and neglect have caused old memories to bend and curl.

The tape mere decoration.

The kitchen clock, off by an hour, ticks and tocks as it always has since Mom and Dad bought this house in 1975.

Sometimes, in moments of sheer desperation to remind myself of my father, I turn to channel 216 and hear Wolf Blitzer tell the latest Trump tale that makes the crease on my forehead even more pronounced.

The Make America Sane Again baseball cap on the shelf mocking me from behind.

It is in these mundane moments of the day that I miss my father the most.

So I hide my unkept hair under his mint chocolate chip green Pine Meadow winter hat as I take out the garbage.

Or I scream, Goddammmmnnn it, Dad! when adjusting the logs in the fireplace because his goldenrod yellow fireplace gloves have a hole in the thumb. That hurt. A Lot.

And most mornings I make my way up to the exact spot where he laid in his hospice bed for two whole days.

I turn on the light by where he left us all last May, lace up my gym shoes and set my timer.

Then, I pop my earbuds in and Sia is reminding me what I need to remember:

But I survived
I’m still breathing, I’m still breathing
I’m still breathing, I’m still breathing
I’m alive
I’m alive
I’m alive
I’m alive
I found solace in the strangest place
Way in the back of my mind

And yea, I breathe.

And remain hopeful.

And grateful.

AARP, alz, amylodosis, cardiac amylodosis, daughter caregivers, death, family, grief, loss, memoir, truth, Uncategorized

My New Now

I don’t have dreams about my Dad like my sisters do. Even Li, Mom’s old caregiver says he hugged her in a dream last week.

Oh, Jodi. I had to call and tell you because I know how much you must miss him. Especially now. He was a good man, your Dad.  He was gone too quick. Much too quick. I miss him! God, how I miss him screaming all the time about losing this or that. I got used to the screaming, you know? Or him telling the people on the phone that he was an old dinosaur…

It’s easier to just rest my left hand over my eyes as I listen to Li remember Dad. That way I can mop up the drops of saline before they slide down my face.

..but he hugged me in my dream and I thought of you. I know it must be really hard right now. 

Right now.

Right now being this very second? Right now as I watch Dad’s arch enemy the backyard squirrel dig for nuts and tear up the greenery?

Right now being–Every. Single. Day.

Little does Li know that I blotted pools of saline mixed with under eye concealer with the kitchen towel an hour prior. Or that I shouted, God damn it, Dad! as my right toe met the handle of an ice cream container full of marked and sorted golf balls.  Right now being November? Better yet the day before Thanksgiving?

Well before he joked about the weight limit on the casket, about God ordering the sod, about a half-dug grave, I knew that bitch called grief would be pulling up a chair and settling in at 1202 today. Feet planted, knees bent, she’d have a front row seat at The Arndts First Thanksgiving with a Dead Father and a Mother Home from the Memory Care Center.

So many moments in which to shine, Arndt kids!

But grief will miss Dad whipping out the Dirt Devil two minutes before everyone arrives so he can vacuum up some spot on the carpet I missed which then causes Mom to declare, I wanna get outta here! 

Grief won’t spy us all raise a glass at the dining room table as Dad’s Hip! Hip! Hooray! annual toast to me tomorrow will be absent.

All those moments together as a family. Oh, how Dad loved them!

And I loved helping curate those before/during/after Thanksgiving moments.

Grief won’t feel my arms hug Dad’s shoulders after dessert.  His left hand, squeezing my elbow twice as I plant a kiss on his cheek and say, I love ya, Dad. 

Grief, she will miss all of those moments.

My new NOW, I guess is the one that follows my Dad’s death. This new NOW takes some getting used to.

I don’t like it. I hate it actually.

But when things are shit, when I am so very sad, like today; I play back the movie in my mind of ever so small moments between Dad and me. These teeny tiny fragments are deposits he left in my heart and on my mind.

And when I want a version of those moments all to myself, I stick in some earbuds and and remind myself that this is my new NOW.

Hi, Jod, Dad. Just a little before 7 on Thursday. Or could be Friday. I don’t even know what day it is. Can you believe it? Oh, here looking at the calendar it’s Thursday. Call me back because I want to talk with you about what to get from Costco for Thanksgiving. Looking forward to having you home, Jod. Ok, love ya. Bye-bye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

AARP, alz, amylodosis, cardiac amylodosis, caring for parents, dad, daughter caregivers, death, family, grief, memoir, truth, Uncategorized

That B*tch Called Grief

I cradle Dad’s pillow and push it into my right ear as I lay on my side staring at the bedside table that’s now empty.  Gone are the bits of the pot-infused chocolate chip cookies. I can’t do anymore, Jod. He’d say. Food is life, Dad. You don’t eat, you’s gonna die. Sometimes he’d come back with: Yes’a boss, Yes’ a boss. And take a tiny piece chewing it in silence. Our banter always left me with the widest smile.

But at the end-the exchange wasn’t quite like that.

Greeted with peer pressure to consume, he’d raise left index finger in silence, signaling me to cool it with the talk. Then, raise his right index finger to his throat making a saw-like gesture back and forth. Message received. Lay off the request for me to eat, kid. Defeated, eventually, piles of small, white plates lined that bedside table with the cookies he couldn’t eat.

Gone are the glasses that no longer needed to be found because its owner was confined to bed. No more, Well, I am on my daily hunt for my glasses. God damn it if you ever know where they are, Joe. Jesus Christ, it is infuriating. Absolutely infuriating. I tell you.

Gone is the insulated glass with water and just the right amount of ice so it’d be the right amount of cold for Dad. Never a water drinker, Dad would sit on the edge of the bed sipping in silence. At the end, it took too much energy to talk and drink. He had to pick one over the other.

It’s been three months since I played nursemaid to my Dad. Three damn months. And this bitch called grief, she ain’t going away.

So, in order to be proactive, I come for her well before she sends for me.  Climbing into bed with Rosie I push my face into Dad’s pillow and bitch at myself for washing this pillow case in the week that followed his death.

I want to remember his smell.

Through the months during and after Dad’s illness and death, I’ve learned to be quite the efficient crier. Sobbing is limited to the car or the upstairs bathroom once a week or so. In Mom and Dad’s bed, I allow the tears to come in spurts like a midday rain in the summer. Through the silence, sometimes Rosie will say, I hope it gets better for you because I like you. And we lay there together, Mom staring off into whatever her reality has created and I now scared that Dad has forgotten that I am down here wading through shit piles of grief, fear, and uncertainty.

And then this morning I realized something. Whether we be among the living or the dying, not a single one of us wants to be forgotten.

Yep, this 44-year-old woman is worried that her dead Dad, who is no longer physically present, will forget her. She can’t even see him or hear him yell, JJJJOOODDDDDIIIIIII, I need you.

But she’s petrified that he will forget her.

Insane. Right?

God, but it’s the fucking truth. And, in truth there’s strength, so I’m putting it ALL out there today.

This realization reminded me of Dad’s eulogy. It gave me great comfort and pause in writing it and sharing it at his service, so I say, what the hell and share it here with you now.

A couple weeks ago, our dad sat perched on the edge of his bed, his blue, yellow, and white striped bathrobe now much too big for his 145 lb frame. His bedroom had become a gathering place for us kids because Dad spent most of his day now in bed. And we ALL know that Dad was ALWAYS on the move, So to be sick, unable to do all the “Joe” things he’d do was torture for him.

In the dark with the hall nightlight on, his kids sat on the edge of the bed with him and he said something that broke our hearts a little.

It was a simple statement. He said:

I don’t want to be forgotten.

Looking out at all of you here today-buddies from Marquette, fellow Evan Scholars, members of the Western Golf Association, former colleagues, family, friends, neighbors, of Dad, Rosie, and his children,-who have come here today to pay your respects and honor Joe, I know it is virtually impossible for Dad to be forgotten. Think of all those long-winded conversations you’d have with almost complete strangers, Dad?

How could our Dad ever think being forgotten would be part of Joe Arndt’s story?

Each and every one of us has these stories that make us who we are. As a teacher and a writer, I always tell my students–Be sure to tell your story. Be proud of your narrative. Write down those seemingly small moments. Share them with others.

So today. with so much humility I attempt to tell a small portion of our dad’s story. Being a visual learner, I thought it prudent to include some of Dad’s favorite tools as a way to illustrate his story.

Tool #1: Take this Folding Carpenters Ruler. To some, you might use it to measure wood planks, maybe to then build something. I mean, it’s a carpenter’s ruler. BUT… for our Dad it was a tool he used with his morning Strawberry Cheese Coffee Cake. Crouching over the long strip with his green golf pencil and ruler in hand he’d make tick marks along cardboard to mark 16 1 inch slices.  When asked why, “Why not? I want even slices. “Everything in moderation, kid. That’s all I allow myself.”

The lesson: Do things in a way that make sense for you. If no one understands, so be it. No need to always explain yourself–even if your kids or anyone else–give you a hard time. 

Tool #2: While Dad was NO lover of the computer, the man LOVED him a spreadsheet. Making burgers up at Aunt MaryAnn’s cabin? Yep, there’s a spreadsheet for that. And the spreadsheet that you then nail to the tree so you make sure the correct cheese is on the correct burger. Analyzing individual golf scores of your fellow Evan Scholars so you can make informed gambling decisions?  You betcha. Binders and binders of spreadsheets spanning years and years. Organizing your charitable giving by letter grade? Come tax time, you know Joe did that too. Down to every last detail, Dad prided himself on exceeding expectations. Whether it be to ensure he and Rosie had all their cross country gear, snow shoes and all-He’d make meticulous notes and create spreadsheets to ensure nothing was overlooked.

The Lesson: Give 110% to everything you do. From making burgers to organizing a golf tournament, give it your all. People will remember and appreciate the effort and care you take.

Tool #3: From file folders, to one of Mom’s toothbrush that says “Rose 6/16/16” you’d be hard pressed to find something that DOESN’T have a label on it @ 1202. Take the dryer for example. There are 5 labels on the dryer that read, “Don’t ever even think of putting anything on this dryer!”  Can you just see Joe now, slapping his forehead and massaging his face because one of his kids clearly left the laundry detergent the dryer, which then caused the blue liquid detergent to make an impromptu pool on the laundry room floor. You just know–after mopping up that mess with old undershirts and underwear, yes that is what he called old rags, he ran into the dining room to find the label maker. Likely using language that you’d hear him shout on the golf course.

The Lesson: Say what you mean and mean you say, but do so with heart, passion, and honesty. As Chole, Joe’s granddaughter reflected, “Grandpa can be tough, but he has a soft side.” 

This brings me to our last tools. Plural. It’s fairly straightforward. Dad would be lost, lost lost, without his pencil, his random scraps of paper, and his piles of mail from every non-profit under the sun.  I swear any construction, excavating, bridge building company that ever existed —and Dad has a pad of paper with that company’s name on it. Literal mountains of paper and mail would greet me each time I flew in from New Orleans. Possibly boarding on hoard-ISH tendencies. Love you, Dad.

Love you, Dad.

From handwritten notes laid at the front door to remind Mom of his Saturday tee time and estimated arrival home, to letters to the Minnesota Court Payment System to dispute a speeding ticket, scraps of paper and cups with golf pencils and highlighters dotted any available table in the house.  Those scraps were action plans for Dad. He used them to plan out his words to Mom before he’d write in her birthday card, he’d grab a scrap to write down directions after plotting his course on one of his beloved maps, and lastly insert them into his CharityWatch bulletin–because he only gave dinero to those organizations that earned a B or above. He’d even mark the mail. I swear I can’t make this stuff up!

As I write this, I am realizing it all came down to Dad doing things with such passion and conviction for those things and people he cared deeply about.

The Lesson: Be generous and loyal to those things and people dear to you. Take time to pause, reflect, and live a life with purpose and conviction.

SO Thank you, Dad, for giving me the strength and courage to speak about you today. I hope my words paid tribute to the father, husband, brother, uncle, friend, golfing buddy you were to each and every one of us. I hope your children and grandchildren continue to make you proud, to live by the examples you set for us.  Rosie and your children will continue to honor you and your story by loving one another fiercely, by giving 110% to all that we do, living principled lives full of purpose and passion.

With all my heart, I love you, Dad.

AARP, amylodosis, cardiac amylodosis, caring for parents, dad, daughter caregivers, death, family, grief, memoir, truth, Uncategorized

A Little Birdie Told Me

 

 

 

Robininwindow

Well, damn I am so sorry to hear about Joe. They certainly don’t make ’em like your dad. He was out here on the golf course every single Friday–for I don’t know? Years? Before he’d take your mom with him in the cart, but I guess when she got too sick, then he just came alone. He’d spend the whole day out here, you know? Going from wood duck box to wood duck box. I never did ask him how he started making these boxes. I just never thought to ask…He loved those birds. God, he kept a log book documenting the condition of each wood duck box, the number of eggs hatched, which ones were being visited by the birds, the ones that needed more cleaning…I just don’t think we have anyone that can take care of these birds and his boxes like your dad, Jodi. 

Like my dad. The list of things that no one can do quite like my dad is just too long to share here. We don’t have enough time to recount all one liners, exasperated exclamations, and meticulously sometimes maddening behavior that is our Joe.

You see, our dad, he is dying.

And so, it would happen that last week a pregnant robin sat contently perched in a nest that could barely contain her expectant belly outside the kitchen window.

I have never seen a bird build a nest here. This is unbelievable. God, the universe, whatever is watching and listening to the happenings in this house of horrors. $100 says this young mother will give birth just as dad dies. I swear to God. This is right out of The Alchemist. It’s an omen. 

Fuck.

Katie, Jaime, Meghan, Holly, whichever sister was helping me run the show at the little place we lovingly call The House of Horrors has seen the young mother too. A head shake and a smile follow such a noticing. Oh, how the appearance of this little bird has brought us comfort amongst all the grief. Always one with the sunshine and sparkle, sister Katie coined the phrase House of Horrors in response to the accidents, the amyloidosis, the Alzheimer’s, the sequence of events that confront us.

One of my old teacher friends, Ms. Jaffe used to say, “When confronted with a pile of shit, do you walk through it or around it? It seems like you often walk through it, Arndt.”

Oh, Shelia how you knew me well. So right now, we strap on our boots and wade through this pile of shit with an expectant robin doing her best to watch and wait to give birth. Until we are ready.

But are you ever ready?

The damningly beautiful, yet sad cycle of life.

So much love for you, dad.