Help me get my feet back on the ground….
If I was to make a timeline of the last five or six weeks, I could qualify my life musically (The Beatles, Belle and Sebastian, and Big Star). Or I could chart it via sport (Warriors clinch the Western Division and home field advantage throughout the playoffs while the Giants start the year well, then lose eight straight games). Or I could call upon parties held and attended for my eldest, her husband and their upcoming offspring (but don’t forget about Buttercup please).
But truthfully the best way for me to align the last month and a half revolves around my father’s medical care. Somehow I know those dates like the back of my hand, from the last time we saw his oncologist on Wednesday, 4 March, to Dad’s death at the beginning of this month. From the day heart failure was diagnosed, Dad had less than a month, most of that spent in two different care facilities. I feel like I’ve earned an honorary nursing license, which hopefully I can shelve for a good while. I possess more knowledge about morphine and dilaudid than I ever imagined I would require.
Setting that information aside, I have returned home to sewing, writing, and what my sister-in-law so correctly coined as the new normal. When someone so loved dies, a transitional period emerges. But what I didn’t foresee was how that transition would forge an altered reality for yours truly. Or maybe I was being naive; how could my world ever be the same, regardless of quilts and books, sport and music. And what about grandchildren? Not only did my father die, but I’m still coming to grips with being an abuela!
Whoever said that aging was boring has nothing on my life.
I’ve been back in my Silicon Valley realm for nearly a week; in those days I’ve sewn two baby quilts, published a beta-version of The Hawk (part one), and listened to a LOT of Belle and Sebastian’s new LP Girls In Peacetime Want To Dance. I’ve also endured the Giants’ losing streak, thankfully halted last night, as well as Golden State starting their bid for the NBA championship in a victorious fashion. And I’ve thought heaps and bunches about my dad, both his last days and those from ages ago. I’ve written some poems, although I was sure I would bail on NaPoWriMo. Thankfully two of my sisters gave me the kick in the pants so necessary for healing to continue. Yes, I love to sew, but writing, especially poems, best assuages my heart. And believe me, after a week of baseball losses, I sorely needed that literary lift.
I’ve also soothed my soul in tunes; I cannot fully express how music eases memories, also permitting this new normal to not feel so damned strange. Dad introduced us kids the right way, The Beatles permeating my childhood. But it’s a Scottish band to whom I’ve turned all week, letting Girls In Peacetime lead me along the ironing board path. So as I gingerly reenter this sphere, I’ll close this post with the final lines from what has become my tune of the moment, ironically entitled “Enter Sylvia Plath”.
And when things get tough for you
As they did when you came up through the ranks
You can borrow from my faith
From my faith….