difficult pictures to look at

My phone can store an incredible amount of photos. I think I’m up to something like 300, and it still never gives me any warning that the storage is almost tapped out. Last night, Josh and I were “watching a movie,” which really is just a fancy way to lullaby ourselves to sleep (for real, I usually make it through about 10 minutes before passing out, and Josh usually less), and for some reason I decided to look through the pictures on my phone as J. was getting the movie set up. I completely forgot how far back the pictures go, and while I stumbled across many goodies from New Years, birthdays, and beach-trips past, I also stumbled upon some rather difficult ones. Ones that I wish were better quality so I could zoom in and see every detail down to the nose hair. The pictures are of me comforting my dad while he was in hospice care. I guess Josh was touched by the tenderness of the moment (this sounds cheesy but, well, it’s true. there are a lot of tender moments while someone is on their way to the ultimate, almighty check-out) because he snapped some pics with my phone of my dad and I. Looking at these pics, obviously, brings back a lot of memories – what his room was like, how we set it up so it felt like home, the cup of water and the straw that we put next to his bed, the bulletin board of pictures that we arranged, the special knit blanket he had (which I am actually sitting on right now) that he loved, etc etc. I am posting the pictures here. They are poor quality but I want to post them, anyway. In light of not hiding anything about my experience, here are some pictures that I find incredibly difficult to look at (and oddly comforting at the same time, knowing that he was as comfortable and loved as anyone could ever be in his situation):

Wow. So many memories come back when I see this. When I look at these I see how strong I was/am. I mean, my dad was DDDDYYYIIIINNNGGGGG and I am able to provide him with comfort. I remember thinking sometimes that my strength reserves were going to run out. I remember sitting in the parking lot of the hospice unit, unable to get out of my car, crying hysterically, thinking “I can’t go in there anymore. I can’t see him anymore.” Part of me wanted to say goodbye to him early and then stop going to visit him. Obviously, I could not do this. But, seriously, we all have a certain amount of strength in our bodies/minds/hearts, and I do feel that it can run out. However, the second I finally forced myself out of my car and into the hospice to visit my dad, I felt strong, safe, and capable again. It was nuts. It was like, one second I could barely lift my body up out of the car, and the next, I was put-together, strong, and helping my dad eat his dinner or drink his juice or brush his teeth. The second I walked into his room, all of this strength magically poured back into my veins and I was completely capable of handling the difficulty I was faced with. This is when I decided that every body has strength reserves — a shit-ton of strength that your body stores away for times of emergency. When you think you have no strength left, BOOM! THERE IT IS! It’s amazing.

I felt the same exact thing on the day that he died. I remember being at Josh’s in the morning,  my brother was with me, we were going to eat breakfast and then go visit my dad. I went upstairs to use the bathroom and my phone rang and my brother answered, and it was my nanny (dad’s mom) telling me that my dad wasn’t doing well and we needed to get there quickly, something about his breathing. I remember thinking, wow, if someone who is already dying “isn’t doing well,” what the HELL DOES THAT LOOK LIKE?? I was terrified. We got in the car and went over to the hospice immediately, I was driving, and all I remember thinking is “shit, I forgot my jacket, I need my jacket,” it was cold outside. why we think of these oddball things when crisis hits I have no idea, but I couldn’t stop thinking about my jacket. so, we get to the hospice, and I am literally SHAKING, terrified, and I saw my uncle sitting on the couch outside of my dad’s room and he look sat us and says “the doctor said it won’t be long now.” I was so scared and so weak I thought I might fall over, and I crept SO SLOWLY into his room, terrified of what I was going to see/hear/feel. His breathing was all labored and he was stuck in this stare at the ceiling. I knew he knew we were there, but oh my god it was so hard to see that. I held his hand and put my other hand on his chest and tried to catch his stare so he could see me (I don’t know if he could or not), and I said to him, “Dad, it’s ok, we’re here now. It’s ok to let go. It’s ok.” Then, all of a sudden, I got this overwhelming sense that “I can’t do this. I can’t see him die. It’s too much.” I had to leave the room and think about it — did I really want to be there when he died? Could I handle it? What would it be like? I paced back and forth trying to ponder these questions. Then I thought, wow, I have to do this. I have to be there with him. And that’s when my energy reserves flooded my body with strength and for the next 1 1/2 hours, I was superwoman. Holding my dad’s hand, comforting him, being in the room with him and listening to his horrible labored breathing (which still gets stuck in my head like a broken record even today), which gradually became less and less labored until it stopped all together. I can’t believe that was me. I can’t believe I did that and was that strong that I could do it, and do it with grace. In the presence of so much pain — not only my own, but that of my family members, and that of my father, I was able to survive and stand next to my father through the whole difficult time. This is uplifting to me. In this way, looking at these pictures is uplifting, it reminds me of how strong I am even though I feel so god damn weak so much of the time.

I am twenty-four and have lived through a shit-ton of, well, SHIT. I held my brother’s hand and put my other hand on my dad’s chest AS HE DIED. I was with him the weeks leading up to his death, especially the 2 weeks prior when I was there all day/every day. There is so much difficulty in this life, and yet, so much strength on reserve. I am thankful for that. I am thankful that I could stand next to my dad while he was passing out of this life and into whatever is next (if anything), that I could stand by him through all of his fears, pain (physical and emotional), regret, and tears that filled the days and months prior to his passing. I would sit in his room with him as he cried hysterically about being afraid to die and afraid to live with the pain/misery he was experiencing. One night, he looked at me and asked, “Kari, what does it take? What does it take to die? I feel like I’m ready, but I don’t know what it takes.” And then I said, “I think you are waiting for Jim to come back” (my brother was caught up in some legal-issues in Chicago and was unable to make it to Philadelphia for most of the time my dad was really ill). Apparently, that is what he was waiting for, because once my brother finally made it back, my dad had one great, energetic day, then slept for 3 days, then died.

That’s all I can type for now.

city of (not-so) brotherly love

wow. the weeks just keep getting better. (note sarcasm)

My dad has been dead for almost a year. One would think that, after a year, I would have gained some deep perspective, that life would have begun to level out a bit, that the sadness would gradually have begun to subside. To a certain extent, all of this is true — my perspective has changed and life is starting to go somewhere again (a place other than grieving, that is). I’m definitely not feeling less sad, but I guess that’s to be expected. If anything, I’m actually feeling more sad. In action, I feel like I’m beginning to move on (going back to school, traveling, moving in with Josh to our new house in 1 week!) , but mentally, I am still so fucking stuck. Right after my dad died, I was feeling shock for a long time, major sadness and confusion, and a shit-ton of other awesome brain scorchers. Shock is definitely nature’s way of protecting you from reality, because it kind of keeps the trauma you’ve experienced at arm’s length until it has time to sink in. Without fail, shock gives way to reality, and then the fun really begins. Your confusion and bewilderment turn to disbelief, anger, sadness, resentment, hatred, and the list goes on. And then, the realization that life doesn’t stop for the bereaved is yet another fun discovery. No, life keeps shitting on you, full force, without retreating, and everything just begins to snowball into what I call brain-poop. My brain feels like a steaming pile of dragon poop.

I find the period I’m in now — and I don’t know what to call it — the most difficult. Figuring out HOW THE FUCK TO LIVE MY LIFE WITHOUT MY DAD IS GOD DAMN TRICKY. Waaayyyyy trickier than I anticipated. “Moving on” is really difficult because there are so many questions and ideas I want to bounce off of my Dad, and there are so many things I want to share with him. I want to show him the house Josh and I are moving into, I want to ask him advice about whether I should go back to school for education or nutrition, I want (and desperately need) relationship advice from him, I want to know if my craziness and depression warrant hospitalization, and so on. The past 12 months have been all about trying to deal with my sadness and disbelief, but now, now I need to start moving on with my life and getting my shit together and nothing seems to be fitting. I’m seeing the fault lines everywhere – things seem to be falling apart. Relationships within my family are self-destructing. I never realized how much of a foundation my dad provided for so many things. The world just doesn’t seem to work right without him in it.

My dad! The great buffer between me and the big, scary world. That’s what parents are — they keep you safe in this pseudo-psychotic, cruel, horrifying world.. they make you feel like things are always OK even when they are not. This is the most basic profile of a parent. My dad certainly was this person for me, and without him the world is alarmingly clear and it is burning my eyes. It is cruel out there, man!!!

I’m starting to encounter more and more life scenarios where my dad’s presence would be greatly desired, and if he were alive — he would definitely be involved. But he’s not alive. He’s dead. dead. dead and gone. So, when I come across these moments where I NEED MY FUCKING DAD he is not there, nor is he going to be there. So, I have to figure it out for myself. And I am. But it’s so damn hard! The transition from having a parent to help you with life’s curve-balls to not having that parent is NOT smooth, at least not for me. My mom just doesn’t provide me with the emotional support that my father did, and without him there are so many gray areas that I just don’t know what to do with. My confrontation with this extreme absence and confusion is most prevalent in my dealings with my brother. My dad provided this glorious protection between me and the drug-infused-goings-on of my bro (who I love very much, but who is very very troubled). I never knew what it was like to deal with my brother and his drug addiction first hand, because my dad always did it. He dealt with the 2 AM rescue-calls, the rehab-run-around, the anger, the uncertainty of my brother’s situation, the danger of it all… he kept me safe from all of this. Sure, my dad always told me the truth about what was going on – but he was the big super hero that was piecing it all back together, that was assuring me that it was going to be OK. And now, without him, I just don’t know if it’s going to be OK. And that is terrifying. I have never felt true fright until recent months, and it is a really hard emotion (is fright considered an emotion?) to deal with.

It is an intense thing to confront the constant ups/downs of a drug addict, to deal with them casting you aside when you can’t rescue them, to deal with the reality that you can’t help them and you have to turn them away when they want you to save them. Dealing with an addict who you are EXTREMELY CLOSE TO is more difficult than I ever could have imagined. My dad was the one who always took my brother in (perhaps not the best choice, but I can see now how hard it is to say no to someone you absolutely love when they are in need), and without him — my brother is running into all the same kinds of walls as I am, where the world just doesn’t work without our dad in it. In my dad’s absence, my mother and I have become the go-to-gals for my brother’s relapse-mania and intense demands. With the 1 year anniversary of my dad’s death quickly approaching (TOMORROW), my emotional state is beginning to falter as I am faced with the challenges of moving forward despite my incredible sadness and feelings of weakness, and my brother’s needs are becoming more and more intense and his situation more and more terrifying, and I CAN’T HANDLE IT. I really can’t.

There is one other new addition to this whole mess – for most of the past year, I have been remembering my dad as somewhat of a saintly god-figure. Everything I loved about him has prevailed, and all of the other things have been non-existent as far as my remembrance of him. However, now, all of the things that angered me about my dad are resurfacing. All of the issues I had with my dad’s parenting, flaws in his character (alcoholism, isolation, intense fear, lack of motivation, failure to do the things he really wanted in life), the ways he would sometimes retract his love from me if we got into a huge fight, etc., are all beginning to really eat away at me. The fact that he didn’t plan for me and my brother’s future in his absence – no life insurance, no will, no money, etc. – and a number of other things are really starting to bug me. I am feeling angry at my dad for a lot of things, and there is nowhere for me to put this anger except in the garbage, because there is nothing I can do about it now. Nothing is going to be resolved at this point. I need to accept all of the things I hated about my dad and move on from them. This is so fucking hard, though! It is so hard to just dismiss intense anger that has been building and building for the entirety of my life. I feel like I want to do something about the issues that I have with my dad, but I can’t! So frustrating.

Also, I feel intensely guilty for being angry at my dad since he is dead now. I know that when he was dying, during those last couple of weeks, he was struggling with a lot of regret from his life. I know that he accepted all of his misgivings and shortcomings, all of the things he did that he was not proud of, and he released them in order to move on past this life. So, why can’t I release them, too? I am having an incredibly difficult time doing this. I have so much anger and I can’t just make it disappear.

So, this is where I am right now. It’s really hard. It’s very lonely. And oftentimes, it seems really god damn hopeless. I’m trying to be positive but storm clouds keep getting in the way. I am really trying but am feeling so weak right now I can barely stand or think or breathe. I’m going to continue to fight for my recovery, I just don’t know how long one person can sustain such mental stress.

Heavy sigh.

 

 

Some pics that I love, including one of me when I was happier:

(These were all taken in 2003, when my dad would come to visit me on weekends during my Freshman year of college. We would sit by the river for entire afternoons, take pictures, fly kites, smoke pot, hang out, enjoy each other. These are some of my favorite life memories.)

no thank you.

Warning: REALLY UPSETTING POST AHEAD. In fact, it borders on psychotic, hysterical, and deeply depressed. A fine mix of qualities, if you ask me.

A brief background about why this post is going to either   a) make you want to never talk to me again    or    b) make you want to put me in a mental institution: THE HOLIDAYS ARE UPON US AND THIS MEANS THAT IT HAS ALMOST BEEN A YEAR SINCE MY DAD DIED, AND EVERYONE IS GOING TO BE SPENDING TIME WITH THEIR FUCKING PARENTS AND SIBLINGS AND I CANT BECAUSE MINE ARE EITHER a) DEAD  or b) IN REHAB.

I need to start  with a HEAVY FUCKING SIGH. and a tear. and another tear. and then a bout of hysterics. because this has been my life this week… and, really, for most of the past year. god damnit, this shit is fucking HARD. and I wish I could adopt the “get over it and get on with your life” way of dealing. or the “it’s in the past,” “it makes you stronger,” “it’s part of life” or any of the other t-shirt worthy ways of dealing with trauma, but… I can’t. And don’t even accuse me of not trying. I have busted my GOD DAMN ASS THIS PAST YEAR NOT TO FALL OFF THE TRACK OF FUNCTIONALITY. I could have easily just dropped head first into a pit of depression so deep that I would of had to leave my job, my friends, my hobbies, etc etc so I could sit in a corner in a pool of my own tears. But, I didn’t do that. And let me just say – it has been HARD AS HELL not to just completely submit to the sadness and depression that I have been feeling. HARD. AS. HELL.

This week, I really feel like I’m about to lose it. I am seriously about to just lose. my. SHIT. I have been having more emotional outbreaks than usual, even for a bad week. I feel like I’m just going to fall right off the edge of functionality into a world where I can only cry and flip people off and waste away. Some days I just want to stop eating, and live on my couch until I melt into it. I don’t want to talk to anybody, because the lack of understanding that often happens as a result of my reaching out to someone makes me feel even more isolated and alone. Come to think of it, if I could pick two words to summarize the entirety of the grieving process, it would be those: Isolation and Loneliness. I feel these two things more than anything else in the world. And it is all doubled in intensity when I reach down for my phone to call – who else? – my Dad, because who better to help me deal with my feelings of hopelessness and despair than him?? I never realized until I lost him that NOBODY ELSE IN THE GOD DAMN WORLD can understand me like he did. WHAT THE FUCK WORLD! YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT! Taking away the one person in my world who made me feel connected to the planet. Now I feel like some sad floating amoeba that has no means of reconstituting itself into an actual human.

Think of it this way: I lived 23+ years with my dad in my life. How the FUCK am I supposed to undo the damage of that loss in only a year? Isn’t it going to take a little longer than that to “get up and get on with it”? Since when did one year mark the point at which I should no longer be seriously effected? Or bitter? Or sad? Or angry? Trust me, nobody wishes I was “better” by now more than yours truly. Seriously. I am SICK AND FUCKING TIRED of having 99% of my waking (and sleeping) life revolve around my dad and how god damn sad I am not only that he died but that it happened in such a disgustingly painful way. I want to live through my 20′s not being depressed, trust me, but the weight of this loss is just so god damn debilitating. Glass shards squeezing my heart every god damn day.

I really have to add an apology here because this post is terribly depressing and for those of you who want to kill me right now I understand.

Shit. Shit!

And then there’s THANKSGIVING!!!!!!!!!!! The world is so clever here, too… making the 1 year anniversary of my dad’s death fall on one of the BIGGEST FAMILY DAYS OF THE YEAR. Are you KIDDING me? Are you fucking KIDDING ME WITH THIS ONE?! Couldn’t it just have been some random Thursday? One where I could have taken off from work and babied myself with hot tea and trashy magazines? No, no. It couldn’t be that. It had to be the biggest family day in existence, where everyone is drinking apple cider and eating turkey with their parents and relatives and enjoying the family-ness that is this day. god DAMNIT. god damnittttttttttttttttt. I want to eat turkey with my dad! I don’t want to sit at someone ELSE’S family dinner. I want to sit at my own!

and this is why I have been losing my SHIT in public regularly this week. Everything is making me cry. Everything is making me want to rip my hair out of my head and shred my eyeballs with safety pins. I have cried at the climbing gym, Bikram (twice!), work, my apartment, my car, my doctor’s appointment, the coffee shop, multiple sidewalk locations, music class (I take Arlo, the boy I nanny for, every Wednesday), and the list goes on. One of my best friends (Julia) who recently lost her mom and who usually helps to pull me out of these awful times is out of the country, my mom hasn’t returned my calls (I’m sure she’s just busy but right now it just feels like torture), Josh is upset with me because I don’t spend enough time with his family (not to mention he is also totally exhausted by the intensity of my sadness), and my dad is dead.  and since I’m jumping on the “woe is me” wagon, I might as well add that my cat has fleas, which means I have them too. Oh, and I had to start this week off (Monday morning, 9 AM) with a very painful procedure at the gyno. So, there you have it folks… another wonderful week in the world of Kari. Life is bliss, through and through!

One day I am going to have nice things to report. But probably not until after Thanksgiving is fucking over.

I miss my dad.

the man, the legend, the epicenter of all my conscious and subconscious thoughts.

Nostalgia

Based on the title of this post alone, you may already have some ideas of what my focus is going to be here. Nostalgia for a time in my life when things were better, perhaps? When my Dad was still alive and well? Or maybe when I was care-free as a freshman in college, skipping classes to hide-out in the woods and read Alice in Wonderland while smoking pot? Or maybe nostalgia for when my Dad took me camping when I was just a wee lass, and we were only supposed to stay for a night or two, and ended up staying for almost the entire week? Well, weirdly enough, memories such as these are not what I am feeling nostalgic about right now. No, I am feeling nostalgic for this same time last year, the glorious period I can only refer to as “the time when my dad was deathly ill, literally.”

Why the fuck am I missing this painful, traumatic, and incredibly difficult time in my life? I really don’t know. I can’t explain it. But as I am trying to squeeze in all of my current responsibilities (WORK, BILLS, ETC)and personal interests (climbing, yoga, writing, reading, etc), I can’t help but think back to this time last year when my main focus was squeezing in visits to see my Dad in hospice care. Since I had no time to do anything but go to work and then go and see my father, I would wake up at 5:30 every morning to go for a run. On Saturdays, I would go for a run in the morning, then go food shopping and afterward come home to bake some kind of recipe I was interested in (peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, banana nut oatmeal bread, mint chocolate chip patties, etc), then go to visit my Dad. No matter what I was doing, I would always find the time to visit my Dad. Then, I would drive to Josh’s and proceed to cry a lot or just sit like an exhausted zombie who has eaten too many brains while he comforted and took care of me or tried to distract me with something happier. Sometimes during the visits to my Dad he would be wonderful and aware and full of life (well, as much life as you can be full of given that you are bedridden and on a shit ton of mind-altering meds). Other visits, he might be sleeping the entire time, or crying, or hallucinating. Sometimes he would confide in me about matters like his fear of dying, frustration with being in bed, desire for a cigarette, or how he missed my brother who was stuck in Chicago at the time. Mostly, however, I would just sit there, and we might talk a little, but we would just enjoy each other’s company. For some unknown reason, I am finding comfort in these difficult memories right now. I am missing these visits. I can’t tell you why I am not missing the times when my dad was healthy more, but I’m not. I’m missing sitting by his bed side and being near him. I’m missing the times when I would get to his room before 9 AM so I could get some alone time with him before my Nanny (his mom) came. I’m missing driving the hour to go and see him after a long day at work. I’m missing brushing his teeth for him and holding him and laying next to him (I was the only one he would let lay in his bed with him, everyone else caused him physical pain for some reason). I’m missing him calling me med-infused pet-names like “his little hot-dog.” Wow, this is hard to write about.

Ugh. I am wishing it was a year ago right now. I really feel weird about having these feelings, like it’s wrong or something. I really can’t explain them. I just felt safe, or something, maybe? Knowing that my whole life was revolving around one of a few things: 1) My dad   2) Long runs    3) Josh    4) Baking     or    5) Food shopping. Now my life is revolving around everything BUT my dad (applying to grad school, Bikram yoga, rock climbing, etc etc etc) and I just can’t seem to find any direction. I want badly to ask my Dad for advice on what to do next, because frankly nobody else’s advice really does it for me. I am entirely left, right now, to my own indecisive nature and it is driving me nuts. I feel lonely. I feel confused. I feel worried. And on top of it all, I feel nostalgic for a time in my life that was incredibly painful. I feel weird about this nostalgia. And, as usual, I feel really fucking sad. The kind of sadness that feels like a flaming bowling ball is sitting inside of my heart. The kind that dominates every happy or joyful moment of my life, the kind that makes me want to cry like an infant all day everyday even though life is a beautiful thing.

Fuck!

I really just want to be sitting at my dad’s bedside right now, sipping hot tea and thinking about how much I love him.

 

 

 

 

 

//

pet peeves of the bereaved: part 1 (of a million)

I call this “part 1 (of a million)” because there are so many things that annoy  me about how the people around me handle my grieving, and there will undoubtedly be more posts that fall into this category. For this one, instead of just putting it right out there, I will first illustrate my topic with a little scenario that exemplifies what I am about to discuss:

Me: Oh, hey friend, what’s up.

Friend A: Oh hey Kari, how are you?

Me: I’m doing alright. How are you?

Friend: I’m fine. Just listening to some Pink Floyd.

Me: Oh, my Dad and I used to listen to Pink Floyd together!

::AWKWARD SILENCE FOLLOWED BY MORE AWKWARD SILENCE::

Friend: So, how do you like that book I lent you?

WHAT THE FUCK PEOPLE? WHY CAN’T I TALK ABOUT MY DAD IN CONVERSATION? I swear, people avoid the word “dad” around me like it’s the fucking plague. And even when I bring it up, SILENCE! Nobody responds. Then I end up feeling guilty for making everyone feel awkward. Damn it! What the fuck?! Do we have to erase him from all daily interactions just because he died?! Ridiculous. It makes me so upset, because in order for me to deal with this loss, I need to keep him as a part of the conversation. It’s like people are trying to erase him from history or something. It is so god damn frustrating. I need to put this out there as to better inform the masses: PLEASE BRING UP MY DAD CASUALLY IN CONVERSATION IF IT SEEMS APPROPRIATE. I mean, don’t go making cancer jokes or anything,  but please don’t be afraid to bring him up. It will make me feel like his memory is still hangin’ around, even if he isn’t. Like some form of him is still here, and full of energy. I don’t want my dad to be the elephant in the room, I want him to be who he was and is: MY DAD.

Now, I understand that people don’t know what to say and that nobody wants to upset me. And I am asking you all – please, take that risk. Maybe I will get upset, but you know what? YOU are not upsetting me. You know what’s upsetting me? That my dad is dead. And, last time I checked, getting upset is a pretty natural reaction to such an event. It actually makes me more upset when I get no response, or when people completely avoid mentioning my father. I can almost guarantee that I would be absolutely tickled to hear someone other than myself (or my boyfriend or my brother, who both know the drill by now) bring up a memory or a thought about my dad. Seriously, I feel like I’m talking to myself when I start reminiscing while in a social setting, because all you can hear are crickets.

For some reason, in this society, talking about people who have recently passed, or asking someone who is grieving how they are handling everything, is taboo. I am here to tell you that THIS IS ABSOLUTELY FUCKING RIDICULOUS. I would love to know that my dad is still in people’s thoughts, or that people are interested in my recovery and wanting updates. This is a HUGE part of my life, and I wish that people would strive more to be a part of it. I’m not going to cry on your shoulder all night (well, maybe sometimes…), but it would be nice if I could feel like this whole “dad dying” thing wasn’t so hush hush.

I guess the point is this: If dying is natural, why isn’t it natural to talk about those who are dead? And if your answer is, “Because is might upset the living,” then my answer is: WHO FUCKING CARES? Because BEING UPSET IS OK. Being sad is ok. These are not emotions we should avoid. When we need to feel these things, we should embrace them. And, if you are friends with someone who is grieving, you should embrace them, too. I don’t understand when being sad became such a big no-no. If something sad happens, be sad. I embrace my emotions, whether they are sad or happy or gooey or slimy. I want to know all of them, in their entirety, good or bad, ugly or uglier.

Ok, so I’ve digressed a bit, but who the fuck cares.

Here are the cliff’s notes of this blog, in case you need a cheat sheet:

1. If someone dies, don’t be afraid to:

a) bring them up in conversation.

b) check-in with the bereaved about how they are handling things.

2. If someone dies, don’t let there be awkward silence when the bereaved gal or guy brings up the person who died in conversation.

3. Embrace all emotions your friends may have, whether sad or happy. This goes for your own emotions, too.

4. Make cookies for the grieving person. The kind with the jumbo chocolate chunks in them. And, while you’re at it, maybe whip up some brownies too?

Ok, so I threw that last point in there, but for real – if you don’t want to talk about my dad in conversation or listen when I do, at least bring me some fucking chocolate, ass.

My love affair with Bikram yoga, and why I am lucky.

Oh. My. Goodness. Before getting too into this post, I need to rewind to a couple of weeks ago when I was sitting at Carly’s kitchen table and we were having a little chat about yoga. It went something like this:

Me: Man, I really need to get back into yoga.

Carly: Oh my gosh, Kari, you need to try Bikram.

Me: Is that the one where they heat the room to 100+ degrees and you want to kill yourself?

Carly: Um, yes.

Me: No thanks.

Truly, I imagined that I would hate this kind of yoga. Don’t get me wrong — I LOVE yoga, and I am quite open-minded to trying new things, but this just sounded like hell. For me, practicing yoga was a quiet and peaceful experience. Yes, of course it could be a sweaty work-out as well, but the intense heat of Bikram seemed as though it would put a huge dent in the peace of my yoga experience. But, as I am with so many things in life, I was wrong. Boy, oh boy, was I wrong!!!

I don’t quite know how it happened – I was at the rock gym one night, and my friend Carl casually asked me if I wanted to come to a Bikram yoga class with him the following evening. He had just started done his first class, and thought that I might be into it. I had an evening run planned, but for reasons that I still can’t explain, even despite my distaste for the idea of an overheated room in which I was to do a rigorous 90 minute yoga practice, I decided I would check it out. Now, let me just say that I have had no interest whatsoever in trying this form of yoga since the day I first heard about it. I have had 2 close friends become increasingly involved in Bikram and have still had no interest. And then, for some unknown reason, when Carl asked me at the gym that night, Bikram sounded oddly appealing. It’s like when you notice that you are attracted to a guy for the first time, even though you’ve known him forever and had theretofore had found him repulsive, that’s what happened to me in the gym that night. Some kind of tiny light went on in my brain, and I thought, “Hey, I feel like I could use a little sweat in my life.” And, that was the immediate end of my pre-Bikram life.

The next evening, as planned, I met my friends at the yoga studio and did my first Bikram class. And, that was it. I mean, really, that was it. It was possibly the most challenging and intense 90 minutes of my entire life. It took every ounce of mental strength I had not to flip the teacher off and tell everyone to go fuck themselves and walk out of that god forsakenly hot room. Oh, my, god, was it hot. Think of the hottest summer day you have ever experienced, then condense it into a 4th floor room in center city Philadelphia, and then crowd it with something like 30 people, and then close all the windows, and then DO YOGA IN IT. Seriously. This is what Bikram is like. And for some reason, after the class was over, I could not stop thinking about it. I felt energized. Positive, even. De-toxified. I needed more! Don’t you love it when you become addicted to things that are actually good for you?

Like any good junkie, I was back for more two days later, and then two days again after that. I am honestly ready to sell my soul to this form of yoga.

So what the fuck happens to me in that room?! Too much to explain. But I do know that, with every session, I prove so many incredible things to myself. While sitting/standing/bending/laying in that pool of my own salty goo, I prove that I am able to push myself to limits I had no idea I could reach. I prove to myself that I can breathe and be strong for an entire 90 minute period. I prove to myself that I can overcome physical discomfort, and rely on my mental strength to keep me productive. I prove to myself that I can, likewise, overcome mental discomfort and rely only on my physical strength to keep me productive. I release so much badness and receive only goodness in its place. Oh, man, what a room!

When I really feel like I’m going to fall over, I remember how lucky I am to have a healthy body that is able to push itself to these limits. Many people out there are not this lucky. I think of my dad when he was the sickest: stuck in a bed for months, unable even to do simple tasks such as brush his own teeth or roll his own body over to alleviate his bed sores. I think how proud he would be to see me using my body in such a positive way. When I recall this simple thought, I am lucky, I push myself even harder. I sweat a little more, I stand a little taller, and I breathe a whole lot deeper. I. Am. Lucky. It is so easy to forget this very simple fact when you are grieving as hard as I am. So often I forget my self worth, my potential, my strength. I forget the possibilities of my life and my body. Pushing my physical and mental limits reminds me of all of this.

So, this brings me to the quote I uncovered while doing some research on this oddly heavenly yoga:

“What do you prefer: 90 minutes of pain, or 90 years?”

And let me tell you – it is pain.  Sweat dripping out of every pore of your body whilst you are balancing in some insane pose and staring at yourself in a mirror, surrounded by other weirdos doing the same thing. It is an out of body experience. For a moment I forget that the person staring back at me is, well, me! I think “Now, there’s a girl who looks so strong. Look at her balancing in that hot room. Oh, shit, wait… I know that person!” What an exciting thing to be re-introduced to the strongest version of yourself.

Going back to the quote, I do think that this is how pain works. I think you suffer a fixed amount of pain for each hard experience you encounter, and the more pain you can get out now — whether it be in physical or mental form, but it does have to be some balanced composition of both — the less you have left for later. Just to clarify – when I say “physical pain,” I do not mean cutting or harming yourself, I mean pain that is the result of exercise or physical exertion (ie: muscle soreness). I am willing to condense my pain into shorter intervals and leave more space for the sunshine. Bikram yoga helps me use my pain in a productive and satisfying way, a way that does not make me feel like I just wasted the last four days on my bathroom floor crying. My body and mind feel electrified, and I feel empty of build-up.

90 minutes of pain is NOTHING compared to the shit I’ve been feeling without enduring it!

a visit at work from my friends, Bitter and Sad.

Typing that out really makes it seem uber weird.

No matter, on with the post. As a full-time nanny, I spend 40-50 hours of my week in someone else’s home, watching someone else’s child, sort of pretending I’m some real part of someone else’s family unit. It would be easy to make the mistake, as an outsider, that I was, in fact, a part of the family.

I spend a great deal of that day at the playground, making sure the little munchkin doesn’t hurt himself. I know what you’re thinking – what a breeze, right? Well, sorry to offend you – but you’re wrong. My job is really rough. And it’s not because I have to deal with diarrhea explosions or temper tantrums or messes or long hours or crying or any number of other factors, though I do have to deal with all of that, too. Rather,  it’s because I have to be some faux-part of a working family unit complete with mother, father, baby, and the plan for more babies in the near future. Everyday, I see mother and father leave, I see child play happily and carelessly, and I see mother and father come home and dote on said child. I see the immense amount of love between parent and child, and I can’t help but realize that the love I feel for this little person is not quite the same, and the love he feels for me is certainly not the same. I am a removable part of this family – if I were to quit or get fired, they would hire another loving nanny and that would be that. No more Kari.

There are a number of reasons why this is a difficult reality for me to face. First of all, I can’t tell you how challenging it is to see the end-of-the-day reunion between father and child and have to remain positive and unaffected as it unfolds. Every. Single. Day. For me, this is hard to face. It reminds me of the fact that I do not get anymore of these reunions with my father. It makes me remember back to when I used to spend weekends at my father’s (he lived with my grandmother, his mother) and he used to deliver pizzas until late at night. When he would arrive home at 3 a.m., tiny me would be sprawled across his bed so that he could not go to sleep without first waking me up so that I might give him a long-awaited hug and kiss. Now, the non-mourning person might have a response such as “you are lucky to have such a beautiful memory with your father!” Of course, this is true, I will never say otherwise. However, people tend to overlook the immense amount of pain and sadness that comes along with any happy father-related memory. With each moment of blissful nostalgia I encounter, there is an equal amount of stomach-in-my-throat sadness. To put it non-poetically: it really fucking sucks. I think of all of these wonderful memories and then am faced with the fact that there will be no more like them, no more happy reunions between my father and I, no more end-of-the-day-glee. Nor will I ever be able to reflect upon them with my dad again, either. I had my chance at childhood, and now it is over, and my father’s death makes this fact really sink in. No more chances. Next!

But, lucky me, I get to watch someone else live out these happy family experiences everyday! Every god damn day. And it fucking hurts. And this is where my friend Bitter comes into play, paining me with its relentless and sour-tasting presence. I leave work bitter. Bitter that I have to watch another family live in their wonderfully optimistic and love-filled lives. Bitter that I have to go home to only my cat, no family or boyfriend (he lives an hour away and who the hell would want to live with my sorry ass right now?). Bitter that my dad is missing and I have to watch someone else’s  joyous reunion with theirs each evening. Bitter that my family never had the togetherness that this one has. And let me tell you something about bitterness: IT BLOWS. It makes you feel like the lowest form of a human, sort of like the Grinch.

I want to be happy for this family, but I am not. I am bitter that I do not have what they have. That I never get to be the kid again who is excited to see their father after he comes home from work. I am upset that my family was never quite this together and functional (but that’s a whole other post… don’t worry, it will happen). I am upset that I come in the morning and leave at night and am never really a part of this family, nor do I feel a part of my own. It is as though my father was a huge connection for me to my family, and without him, I feel like I’m dangling in the distance.

Another reason that being a nanny is incredibly trying becomes apparent when you consider my role as the caretaker. When you lose a parent, you are really losing one of your greatest caretakers. And with this, you begin to yearn more and more to be taken care of, whether by your remaining parent or your boyfriend or your friends. As an adult, this care-taking is not necessarily as available to you as it would be if you were, say, four. However, this fact does not stop the undeniable yearning that you have for it, and the difficulty in processing the fact that it is not there. This is why it becomes increasingly difficult to care-take for others, since you are in such great need yourself. For ten hours a day, five days a week, I need to look after the needs of this little person who has not even the slightest inkling of concern for my own, and more and more I feel drained of my energy to fulfill this role. All I want is for someone to take care of me, and yet my entire job relies on my ability to intensely care for someone else. Ironic? Check. Difficult? Check! Near impossible some days? CHECK!

As for the lost childhood realization (god! I’m such a cliche sometimes! did I really just write that???), don’t get on my case with comments like “Well, it was already gone anyway,” “you’ve been grown for a long time now,” etc. etc. Of course, all of these statements are true. But the fact is, when you lose a parent, the lost childhood factor is so god damn apparent, like fire-in-the-middle-of-the-ocean, black-man-in-the-south, cheesesteak-sitting-on-top-of-a-vegan-salad apparent. Bing! There it was and there it went: your childhood.

And it really does make me sad.

rapid fluctuation: a naturally occuring event

I just wanted to add a short note about the fluctuation of my feelings. As fellow mourners would understand, the grief process considerably resembles a little thing we in the business like to call schizophrenia, and now that I think about it, PMS. Yes, another fun side effect of the already shit-soaked process of grieving is: MOOD SWINGS! High five!

I wanted to mention this mainly to clarify the up/down nature that could possibly be found in my future entries. In the morning I may be contemplating suicide, while in the afternoon I am shouting joyously from a mountaintop somewhere celebrating my very existence while wearing a thong made of organic sunflowers. That’s right – one minute I’m on death row, and the next, jubilation! Overall, however, it’s all very frustrating. I am wishing I could hold onto the moments in the jubilation category a little longer, because they seem to be the ones that get away.

In short, expect fluctuation. It happens. 100% natural. 100% annoying.

me + grief = this blog.

Holy shit, blog, what’s up. I guess I’ve finally fallen victim to the craze. I’m surprised it’s taken so long, as I love to write, and I love to spread my feelings and thoughts (whether positive or negative or funny or poop-ish) to those around me, strangers included. So why has it taken me so long to get here? The world may never know.

I think it is fair for me to warn you all in advance — perhaps many of you know me so what I’m about to write will be old news (though it still feels like a news flash to me), or perhaps you just stumbled onto this blog somehow (perhaps on your internet quest for fecal photographs or poop jokes) –  that a lot of what I write may be down right depressing. I hope it’s not, but I need to be honest - and if you know me, you know that there is a picture of me next to this word in the dictionary – that there is a very great chance that it will be. Maybe “depressing” isn’t the right word, perhaps “sad” or “reflective” might work better and be more positive, but fuck that. I am not here to emit rays of sunshine into anybody’s life. Don’t misunderstand, if I’m feeling the world’s good energies I will no doubt pay them forward, but lately I’m kind of in the dumps. There, I said it. I am in the dumps! Enough with digression, I will just get right down to it – I am in the throws of what I would call a traumatic experience. I’ve recently lost my father to cancer (what an ASSHOLE cancer is! Setting up shop uninvited in people’s bodies! that space is RESERVED for use, not for uncontrollable and mysterious mean cells of death and destruction!), and this has proven to be an incredibly difficult experience for me. More difficult than I could ever have imagined. So, needless to say, about 90% of my brain power is currently going towards recovery, which means that roughly 90% of this blog might be reflective of that fact. Read: possibly depressing/hopeless blog entries ahead. At least they will be well written, though! I am the world’s most annoying English major, afterall

Back to the matter at hand — I need to just comment briefly on the nature of grief (consider this depressing fact #1). In order to do this, I’m gonna take it back to when my dad was really sick, in the hospital, with very little chance of survival. When one finds them self in such a position – on the brink of losing the person who loves and understand them the most, whether this be your father, mother, brother, or pet fish – there are certain natural processes that take place in order to prepare them for the experience that is soon coming. For me, I began to really try to put things in perspective and imagine what my life might be like once my dad took his last breaths. What were those next couple of minutes, days, weeks, years going to look like? In my head it went like this (and looking back now, I should have known that life could never be so simple or so kind when it comes to these complex matters):

Death of my father —-> sadness, confusion ——> more sadness ——>lots more sadness —–> less sadness —–> resumption of normal goings-on

BOY WAS I EVER WRONG!  Well, sort of. I was right about all the sadness, there sure is a lot of that. But, what I forgot to include, or failed to foresee, was a little thing we like to call ANGER. Anger, and it’s friend Resentment, and IT’S friend Ongoing Pain and Sadness and Regret for as far as the eye can see.  Oh, and another good friend of mine who joined the party was my amigo Inability to Function. And then there’s my friend Irrational Emotional Outbreaks – at home, in public, and everywhere in between. And then, of course, how did I forget good ol’ Crying on the Bathroom Floor Whilst the World Sleeps Peacefully? Or Control Freak? Or Starvation? Or Extreme Bitterness? Or… Or… well, the list could go on indefinitely. The point is – this shit is complex. And me being the already overly complex and emotion obsessed gal that I am, even more so.

But, here I am. It’s almost been a year (November 26, thanksgiving day, will mark the official day… yet another of life’s cruel jokes, which will certainly be addressed in a future blog), somedays I feel like I’ve gotten nowhere regarding my recovery, and now you are all invited to read and participate in the rest of these grief-tastic times.

And for all of you mourners out there, I say: MOURN ON, MOURN ON UNTIL YOU ARE FUCKING FINISHED.