|My Sailor came home with flowers on his day off, since he knew I would be flying solo this Father's Day weekend.|
This week has been a rough one. And that's the be expected. After all, my dad just died a few months ago. But I've made a few discoveries through this whole process too.
I've discovered that my way of dealing with intense situations is somewhat unique. I don't blubber through days of self-pity and stay in bed. I do manage to channel it on the gym floor and the running track. Most uniquely of all perhaps, I dream about dead people.
Now, before I go all Sixth Sense on you, I don't' see dead people'. I think it's just a way of the subconcious to process and deal with it all.
When my grandmother died, I had a dream that we were making glass beads in the house I grew up in. Now, we never made glass beads in life. But there was a small torch and the house was abustle with activity (apparently, in dreams, you're always in a hurry to go somewhere when you think "Darn it! I need to make some glass beads!"). Grandma (who seemed to still be suffering from dementia) was standing near the torch and I watched her put her hand into it. Everyone else was bustling around and didn't seem to notice her. I was watching her because I was concerned that woman + torch + dementia = bad idea. Well, she stuck her hand right into the glowing hot blue flame of the torch. I dove to pull her hand out of the flame. Panic flooded through my veins. But as I looked at her hand, it wasn't wounded. No charred marks on the aging skin. I remember turning her hand over in mine, in awe. And then, as my gaze floated up to her face, it dawned on me. Nothing can hurt her anymore. She's in a place where the dangers of every day life don't exist anymore. The need for a watchful eye are gone. I hugged her in the dream and woke up with tears streaming down my cheeks.
It's the first time I remember waking up crying. It was about 10 years ago.
I never dreamed of Grandma again.
So far, Dad has beaten that record. I've dreamed of dad twice this week, but only one awoke me in tears. Honestly, it pretty much wrecked me for most of the following day (as if the seasonal insomnia didn't help at all either). I DID get up. I DID get to the gym. But it hit me again in the car in the parking lot, and I had to cry it out for a few minutes before I could head home.
The thing is, this holiday seems sort of lost on my family right now. At least to me.
Dad passed, so aside from honoring his spirit, there isn't a "father" in the immediate family to celebrate. Since our adoption got halted last year, we're no closer to getting there in our house. My brother doesn't have any kiddlets out there, so it's just sort of a day we don't fit into.
This morning I find myself re-reading bits of Jai Pausch's book "Dream New Dreams" about her life after her husband (the oh-so-quotable Randy Pasuch) passed away from pancreatic cancer. She had 3 kids under the age of 7 to care for, so their life was vastly different from ours, but it's made me think a lot about the kind of way I'd like to be remembered when I pass away. Though I have NO plans to hurry towards the end of my days, when Jai calls her husband her "magic man" and her fear that the magic of her life would be gone once he passed, I'd have to say, that's quite a compliment.
I often feel like the "rational one" all too often in my day to day relationships. While that is a skill, I really hope that someday, when it comes time for folks to toast at my wake, someone says "She had her feet on the ground, head in the clouds, and heart in the right place."