thoughts in a swirl

I have not been able to face the harsh reality of my thoughts and write a blog or in my journal in quite some time. Instead, I have been hiding from the reality of my overactive mind through mind-numbing syndicated television and light reading.  

I need to move past this blog--this first blog after a hiatus of so many weeks.  I am making new memories that squeeze at these words requiring them to find a place on the page and so that I can move on and write about happier, more current events of my life in Scotland. 

My last posting was on November 9.  November 11, I was on a plane from Aberdeen to the USA because I had just received a call that my father was in intensive care.  He was declared dead on November 13.  I was with him when he died.  Many of my dear friends and my loving husband traveled to Pennsylvania to be with me during the funeral.  I am eternally grateful for their support and for the support of the many more friends who wrote to me, phoned me, and offered long distance condolences.   

The extent of my grief is as wide as it is deep.  I am trying to come to grips with the loss of his humor, his guidance, his unending support of me, and the very real feelings of his love.  In my grief, I have lost the sound of his voice, but not the shape of his hands--not that detail, just yet.  

When my mother died, the images drifted away steadily and stealthily until one day, in a shocked panic, I realized that I could not remember what her hands looked like or the curve of her smile.  To this day, my mother is more of a composite of photographs and not memories of my own.  

I have been thinking of my mother a great deal--odd isn't it that there is room for almost ancient grief within the frame of my heart, jostling for position with the very fresh grief for my father.  Today, January 24th, thirty years ago, my mother was declared brain dead due to a cerebral hemorrhage.  In this, the first anniversary where I no longer have my father's soothing voice and understanding of my loss, my memories for her are sharper, even as my pain is more intense--magnified with the pain and loss of the man who was both father and mother to me for almost three-quarters of my life.  

I grapple with how I can make sense of what I am feeling and also with what makes me so numb.  Writing is proving a great challenge.  The truth of finding words to evoke a moment or articulate a feeling dredges the myriad emotions into a spiral of colors; shapeless pain; hot, stinging tears; and surprising moments of joy. 

Here is one memory of both of my parents.  When I was little, maybe 7 or 8 or 9, my family would play hide-n-seek, outside in fair weather, or inside.  One rainy night, we were playing and my father disappeared.  My mom suggested that we look for him.  My dad was very good at hiding.  We looked in every room.  No dad.  Mom suggested that we look again.  My young and jittery self stood in the door way of each room listening, listening and waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.  I knew we had thoroughly looked.  I was a good seeker.  That we were unable to find my father meant that he was going to surprise us but good.  The suspense was nearly painful.  I have been known to jump at "Scoobie Doo" cartoons and scream my head off in the very few scary movies I have been suckered into watching.  Suspense for me is a full-bodied reaction.  My mother's trick for chasing away what scared her (and me), was to sing.  So we sang some pop song from the 70s,  and we poked back into every room of the house looking deeper into every shadowy corner.  The singing made me brave.  

The brightest room in the house was our kitchen, a warm and yellow place--kind of like a mental base--where, upon entering, I let down my guard, relaxing for a moment in the safety of the light.  

Of course, that was when my father leaped, snarling out of the a-joining dining room (where we had just looked for the third time).  My mom and I screamed and shook until we all collapsed into a giggling, and for me slightly tearful, group hug.  

I miss them.  

  

In case you were wondering, my father was hiding under the dining room table.  His legs were on the seat he usually sat on.  His right arm was on my chair, his left on the chair where my little brother sat.  He rested his head on my mother's chair.  He kept himself like this for three, slow passes around the house by a little girl gripped on her mother's arm.  He kept himself suspended by the strength of his arms--in that sneaky position, elevated enough that my peering under the table would not see.  

It is a good memory.