Since you've gone to heaven....

I spent the last weekend oblivious, and it was glorious. No phone, no internet, in the wild blue yonder. I didn't have to watch Father's Day commercials or read Father's Day advertisements or even look at other people's (super sweet, I know- I know!) Father's Day facebook posts with their daddy and/or baby's daddy. I read beautiful books, watched a couple of films about yearning, and moved softly through gorgeous nature.

Then Sunday morning came and whacked me right in the face. We were eating breakfast on the couch when the last song of Brandy Clark's album Big Day in a Small Town came on and it. just. got me. Here it is:
Brandy Clark, Since you've gone to heaven

Clearly this song doesn't apply to my situation exactly (Dilly never even went to college!) but I think she so perfectly captures the emotion of grief, of missing one's daddy and longing to talk to him, worrying about one's family and measuring up to expectations. I got the weeps big time.

You know someone is not only a very good friend, but a truly good human being, when both his arms are tight around you, and you're crying into his elbow, and he  holds you as long as you need without pulling away, and also your mouth is full of bacon because it hurts to swallow.

Then we talked about memory and loss, and people who are gone and where they go, and love. Then I started making lists.

Things that seem (mostly) to get better: playing the countdown + anniversary games (first time since, one month since, x years since), revisiting the old places, only remembering how he looked when he was sick, hearing the old songs, the hallmark holidays, telling someone new in my life that he's dead, looking at old letters, and telling funny stories without choking up.

Things that haven't (so far) gotten better: wanting to share the new songs, people, places; losing the sound of his voice and how he sat, the things that I will never know or ask, the guilt about letting his work molder in a file cabinet, the corroborations and corrections (Yeah, it did happen like that or no, that's not what was said), going to the movies in December, the pangs that are all the more vicious for their unexpected suddenness and sometimes inexplicable arrivals.

Things I hope will never go: the dream visits, hearing his name spoken aloud by people other than me, the sense-memory of matching my pudgy little stride to his long legs.

A day removed and the commercials are gone, along with the resentment. I'm grateful to feel like writing. The memories are back to being more sweet than not. And I can swallow again. Thanks for being my pops, Greg! xoxox

Teacher, you have a lot of Christmas on

This year, I've been riding high on Christmas. I threw myself into the holidays with more gusto than I've shown in years, seven to be exact. I hauled all the lights & shit out of the garage, played every Christmas cd, especially the old ones, shopped like a fool, baked a million gluten-free Christmas cookies, and wore about six different Christmas sweatshirts. One day that I was rocking a Rudolph sweatshirt, red converse, and the huge Mariah Carey gold hoops with Santa picked out in glittering crystal letters inspired one of my students to say, "Teacher, you have a lot of Christmas on." I was manic. I felt like a little bird frantically beating her wings to stay aloft, because if I paused for even a minute I would have FEELINGS, and I was having none of that this year. I raced like an elf on meth through minutes and days, and meanwhile I got circles under my eyes and periodically felt my heart pounding high and fast all the way up in my neck. But I was keeping it together, I felt.

I hate driving to school in the morning when the music sucks. When good songs play on the radio, I feel my mojo rev and I'm ready to face another day of frustration, fun, backtalk and sometimes barf. I'm ready for nine year olds. This morning there was no music. It was all commercials, and I had resigned myself to a long day when I flipped to a new station right as the 101 was turning into the 33, and it was the end of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" by Springsteen. I was smiling and singing along, and Bruce was singing over Clarence doing his jolly ho-ho-hos, and suddenly I remarked to myself, "Clarence Clemons is dead too," and my voice was breaking in all the same places as Springsteen. Only his voice was breaking with laughter, and my face was suddenly wet. I started sobbing all over myself, the road blurring before my eyes. Oh no, NO, I thought to myself, why is this happening NOW? I have to go to WORK. Luckily I didn't have any makeup on yet and I cleaned myself up in the parking lot and I got through my day, and I even allowed myself to pause for minutes at  a time and talked emotionally with a couple of my friends that are going through some family shit themselves.

During one of my manic episodes, Sharon and I had to make way for the Christmas happenings, so we went through a couple of Greg's boxes, and I took home a stack of his books. I've been rereading them. I forgot how titillated my 15yr old brain was by Lucy Mancini's sex problem, and how Easy Rawlins was in a war before he became a private dick, and how Pennywise took other shapes besides a clown. But I didn't forget the joy of helping myself to Greg's huge collection of books, and how he never caught me with something and said, "I don't think you're old enough to be reading that," except for a Saul Bellow novel, and he was right about that one.

Another thing I forgot: I was going through some old notes tonight when I found one from my Aunt Sue about the Christmas letters Greg used to enclose with our cards. And my first thought wasn't, Man but he used to slave over those letters for a month, or Whoa, I was a dumb kid to be embarrassed that my dad was proud of me and wrote about it. Instead it was, Huh, Greg used to write Christmas letters. I had forgotten about that.

I'm afraid of forgetting.

I'm afraid because the pain's not so raw anymore, but it's closer now to a decade without my pops, and 7 years out feels a lot farther than 6. When someone first dies, it's like an ice pick piercing, sharp and narrow and deep, impossible to ignore. 7 years later it's like a soft hole edged in sand, shallower but wider, with more sand slipping imperceptibly away by the second. You don't always remember what's missing, until something jabs you right in the wound and you think, oh- that's right. Nothing will ever be the same again. I have lost someone who will never come back, and not wishing nor pouting nor any goddamn thing will ever make it right.

I fucking hate the last day of school before winter break. It will always be the day that Greg died. It will always sting, it will always remind me.

And yet, wallowing ain't gonna bring him back either. If I call in sick and get drunk as hell by 10am, Greg won't come back. If I go to work and yell at an undeserving kid because he's being obnoxious and I have zero patience, Greg won't come  back. So I might as well put on some trashy Santa earrings and a pair of red converse, because I'm doing the best I can and it's a fact that I miss my dad. Just a plain fact. Tomorrow I want to be gentle with myself and those around me, because even the forgotten memories are better than a lot of people get ever, and I want to honor my dad.

Merry Christmas, pops, and I love you.

If wishes were horses....

Happy birthday, Greg. This would be #62.  Course, he's frozen in double nickels-land forever. I've been so blue the past couple weeks, but only in spurts. I tell myself, it's a full moon. I tell myself, it's a busted thyroid. I tell myself, it's a sentimental novel. I tell myself, it's all these other people's dads around everywhere! I tell myself, it's this weird huge insect bite on my left shoulder. Mostly, I just ride with it- and I'm fine,  but I'm also weepy as shit.

I feel sad and I miss my old man. It bugs me that I don't remember much of his own birthdays; I remember the vanilla/vanilla cupcakes, and him opening presents and saying gracelessly and honestly, "This isn't what I wanted." I remember Sharon's 40th birthday had a big crazy ping-pong party, and I remember making a movie called "Bearing 40" for my Uncle Bear, but I don't remember Greg's 40th. I don't remember how we celebrated his 50th either. I don't remember his stories about birthdays when he was a little kid, or the early years with Sharon before there were kids of his own. I remember the Godfather party only because there are photos (there's a photo taped above my bar). It's embarrassing to admit that I don't remember; I feel guilty. I wish I'd written more shit DOWN while my dad was alive to tell me about it. Then again, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.

Of course the 55th birthday was when he was sick, but we all thought he was getting better and he pigged out on a Pink's chili dog, which only furthered the idea that he was on the mend. That birthday was also when I got my first teaching job, which I truly believe now was a saving grace from somewhere above to keep me safe and sane and grateful to be alive.

Today at summer school, a 4yr old told me, "Tomorrow's my birthday!" and without thinking I replied, 'Tomorrow's my dad's birthday too!"

In the smallest wistful voice she said, "I really wish he could come. I wish your dad could come here for our birthday." I said, "I wish he could come too," and turned my face away. Of course, she meant Room 1 and I meant Earth, but the tone was the same. Longing, imagining, wishing...

Happy birthday, Greg. I love you and I miss you...

Oh honey, nobody dies! Not really!

Last night I dreamed that Greg and I sat courtside at a  Lakers game in the Staples Center. I don't remember why we were there or who gave us the tickets, but there we were. I was eating red vines and watching the pre-game action on the floor; the first quarter hadn't started yet. I remember standing up for the National Anthem and noticing that Greg still had most of his hair when he took off his hat. Sitting back down, I distinctly felt the sensation of my upper arm leaning against Greg's upper arm; in fact, I woke up with that feeling in my right arm, and I was sitting on his left in the dream. The weird thing is that I was sitting on the aisle, and he was sitting in the second seat, which would never have happened in real life.

The Lakers started pouring out onto the court- we were sitting in a corner where I could see down the tunnel and into a room where they were all coming from; Pau Gasol gave me a wave (I know he's not a Laker anymore) and I buried my face in Greg's shoulder in embarrassment. He smelled like Hugo Boss. I can't remember what we were talking about (not basketball, I think it was a playwright) but whatever it was caught the attention of a couple sitting in front of us, and Greg leaned forward to talk to them for awhile.

There was a pre-game show where this fat guy in a sports jacket was going around interviewing people, feeding them one-liners ahead of time and then taping his reaction on the big screen. He was up above our section, but motioned to me and came down beside me.

"Alright pretty, here's your line..." and he handed me a card which I read aloud (no cameras yet). "It wasn't until Robin Williams became my babysitter that I learned what a day off really meant." I looked up at him and said, "I dunno- this seems like kind of an off-color joke since Robin Williams is dead." He laughed loudly and said patronizingly, "Oh honey, nobody dies! Not really!" and I just stared at him until he huffed away to another section.

I turned back to Greg and said dramatically, "I've blown my opportunity to appear on the Jumbo-Tron!!!!" and he replied, "Good thing, since you're wearing a Clippers shirt at a Lakers game." I looked down at myself and I was awash in red and blue. Greg was wearing this Lakers Championship shirt from the 80's (maybe 1988?) that he had in real life and that featured cartoon Lakers with big caricature heads.

"Let me out and I'll go buy you a Lakers shirt to put over it," so I swung my legs over the side of the seat and he went out past me, up the aisle and cutting across a row of seats. He was moving fast and light, and looked so tall and so healthy, and I couldn't help shouting out, "Hey old man! You look pretty good for someone who used to be dead!" He turned around and gave me our secret thumbs up signal, then disappeared up the far aisle.

That was where I woke up. I don't know what the hell any of that meant, and the Robin Williams joke was nonsensical more than off-color. But those vivid dreams where Greg is alive and healthy and not a ghost (at least, not until the end) are few and far between these days, so I was grateful.

So was my right arm.

Tune in Now for a Special Report!

So on top of the master's program, the classroom succulent garden, the Earth Day festival, SBAC state testing preparation, and, you know, TEACHING (sometimes anyway) I started a project with my students last week. Our principal asked the grade level chairs for ideas to get the students pumped up for state testing, and since I have a group of students that has shown interest in TV news, and we are a newly minted STEM academy (the T stands for technology), I thought of using the iPads to create a news report to be shown at the assembly next week. Somehow my idea became my responsibility, and I've been scrambling this week to work on this project along with the million other things I'm spinning my wheels at lately.

The kids have been incredibly enthusiastic! We had "business lunches" to talk about their interview questions, list of topics, and potential interviewees. They came up with their own costumes (mustaches- I mustache you a question, HA). They have practiced and worked on their own time, and a lot of my time as well, of course. This last week I've been freaking and stressing and complaining- "I'm too tired for this, I'm too busy for this, I'm too goddamned overwhelmed for this!" But today the filming started.

And it was.....MAGICAL. There's really no other way to describe the experience. Following them around with their iPad and their clipboard and their fake microphone, watching and applauding as they ambushed staff and students alike with their questions, I was in heaven. Meaning that I actually felt for a second like I was in heaven, with Greg peeping over my shoulder and saying, "You done good, Maxie." I was reminded of the hours and hours he spent with his VHS video camera, tracking shots of Amy and I narrating the Vietnam War in our green helmets and flower children dresses, making music videos, panning photographs with my strident feminist voiceovers, and lots of other school projects I shanghaied him into filming over the years. He was a ruthless, encouraging, perfectionist director, and I adored not only the finished products, but the time spent with Greg basking in his undivided attention.

As I set aside the math notebook and stick a post-it in the informational essay prompts, I realize now how the time spent with me and my friends on our projects obviously took him away from his own writing. Although I never thought about it then, there must have been times that he was tired, or busy, or overwhelmed by his own shit. There's been an undercurrent of resentment (so unusual for me because I truly love my job) when I've woken up in the last month and felt more like bullying a short story into submission than coaxing a 4th grader into fraction-land. I don't ever want to lose my writing voice, and I was panicking because the well had been dry for a long time and suddenly it was gushing, and I wanted to stay home and write, and I had to go to work. Today was what I needed to realize that Greg's presence and attention was a gift, and so is mine. The words will still be there- as long as I dash off good notes in those fleeting moments between lessons. Maybe I could adopt Greg's method of sticking notes on the back door until I'm ready to tackle the next piece. Maybe it's time I got my own method.

I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started feeling grateful, and everything got so much better. I drew down on the good karma Sharon built up over the years as a room parent supermom, and I reached out to my own room parent for help. I started appreciating our awesome site leader and all of her technological support. I put my head on my desk after school and wandered daydreaming through memories of my dad and his two big hands with the thumbs put together, framing the scene.

Filming a phony news report with a bunch of children with fancy coats and raised eyebrows reminded me why I love teaching, and love my students, and why I don't ever want to burn out. Next week is back to math lessons and essay prompts, but I think I got "an elbow to the head" reminding me to make it rigorous, make it valuable....but make it joyful. Keep the kids wanting to be there and learn. Keep myself wanting to be there and learn. Have some fuckin' fun with it all!

As my journalists said today to every subject they interviewed, over and over and over, "Thank you for your time."

Pennies from Heaven

Pretty sure 6 years officially puts me into the void. Most people won't remember that Greg died on December 19th anymore, and some people might not even remember that it was Christmastime. But this is not a sad-sack self-pity whining-into-my-wine post. 6 years later and that shit is getting tiresome.

Thursday night I had a bad dream about Greg. I was in a Starbucks and there were some people there that I knew. I was in a very long line and talking to someone I hadn't seen in a few years, and I looked over that guy's shoulder and there was Greg, across the Starbucks and standing near a table. He looked kind of sick but was upright and not too thin, standing there with one of those surgical masks across his face but in regular clothes and scanning the room. A million feelings rushed through me at once and I absurdly said to this acquaintance, "Do you want to meet my dad? He's dead, actually, but he's standing right over there..." He just stared at me, so I said, "No worries, I'm just going to excuse myself though because I haven't talked to him in a few years and there's some catching up to do." I started to walk away and ____ grabbed my arm, started asking me if I wanted to sit down and what was I having to drink because we'd both been in line for a long time and were finally near the register. I tried to pull away and that's where it all got ugly. I don't remember the rest of the dream vividly, except that at one point I was distraught, with people crowding around me and trying to force me to sit down, and I tried desperately over and over to explain that I needed to get to my dad, he was just over there and I hadn't seen him in SIX years and especially he was DEAD, so I really needed to just go talk to him for a minute. Of course no one else could see him. They thought they were being good Samaritans and protecting me in my grief. Really, they were keeping me from an unknown and unimagined opportunity.

The boychiks have been naughty felines of late, and my sleep hasn't been good. I don't know what to make of that dream, except that I'm always grateful to see Greg, even in a dream, even in a lousy Starbucks.

The dream world is a strange one, and I've been a restless inhabitant for many years. One of my very close friends lost her dad a few weeks ago.- without telling all her business, there were parallels and it was hard. I wanted to console her but I knew better than probably anybody how fucking shitty she was feeling. We sat in her backyard the day after, and the sun was shining, and she asked me about a conversation with her dad, a conversation that as it happened I had also had with Greg. Our dads were both artists (writer, musician) with artists' souls and demeanor. The conversation was about being part of a small special tribe, artists with intense feelings and thin shells. We feel it all and we feel it so very much, and our dads both knew how it was a gift and a hardship. But they both encouraged us to never stop feeling EVERYTHING, because our depths of despair will be matched by dizzying love that many people will never feel in all that burning, gasping glory. We loved our dads, and they loved us, and they did the best they could and were gone too soon.

6 years farther along the path and I couldn't really tell my friend a bunch of bullshit about feeling better because we know each other too well and we're too much alike. I could say, The raw moments will get fewer and farther between, but they'll still come over you like black dogs barking and you'll feel helpless and hurting until they fade again. I could say, Try not to play the game with yourself where if you just act really REALLY good, he'll come back from this extended vacation called death, cause I played that game too long and he ain't coming back.......unless the seventh year holds a BIG surprise for me (kidding!). I can't really say it gets better, but it does get farther away. Probably the only thing I could tell my friend that would be both helpful and true is this- the bad parts fade first. The hospital scene and struggle and guilt will dissipate. The love and gratitude will remain. 

I wrote in another post about leprechaun money in Greg's office. When my cousin got married in September, the aisle was strewn with leprechaun pennies from LA. My precious creative aunt made my cousin and I these bracelets; pennies from heaven...

Fare Thee Well, Faithful Escort

I've been in an awful mood all weekend, but it took me til this morning to finally make the connection. It wasn't stress, illness, or romance, but a big hunk of metal that brought me down. After a long exhausting week already, Greg's car took a dump on me Thursday night. I got it to the mechanic's and Saturday morning, sat down in his office for the bad news. Luckily Javier has a good bedside manner, because it felt exactly like being in the doctor's office. He gave me the diagnosis and the price(it's A LOT), and I asked, "What will happen if I do nothing?" He said, "Well you definitely can't drive it on the freeway, but if you insist on driving it in town as is, it will experience a slow decline over time until it dies." I probably looked like I was about to start crying, because he continued with, "You don't have to decide right now. It's your dad's car, yes? Maybe time to start thinking about changing to a new car.." He gently smiled and gave me back the keys. 

I drove away (hobbled away) and immediately began rationalizing and denying. I don't need to drive on the freeway! I'm not too old to learn how to ride a bicycle! I'll move to the Avenue! I have a lot of friends with cars! This is totally fine! When I called Sharon, who is often more attuned to my volatile Irish moods than I am, she listened to the explosion first and then very carefully suggested leasing a car, saying "There's a lot of affordable options right now, and that way you can have a couple of.............years.............to get ready to make a decision about Greg's car." I put her off by dramatically exclaiming, "I can't even think about this right now! I'm in a master's program for God's sake!" 

But of course that's what I spent most of the weekend thinking about (and drinking wine from a jelly jar since I obviously wasn't going to be driving anyway). Every time I went downstairs to change the laundry or take the recycling, I'd give the car a baleful look. I was one glass away from literally shaking my fist. Here are all the things I understand- I know, it's just  a car. I know, someone's possessions are not the same as someone. I know, Greg cares more that I'm safe than sentimental. 

And yet.....

This is the car that's been there for me on long drives at night through the hills with the windows down. I've cried and snotted all over the steering wheel more times than I care to admit. Greg's envelope with his headshots and his ratty blue towel are still in the trunk. It was the last car we were in together before he died. I feel better when I see it in the parking lot at school. 

Someone I love asked if I could try to reframe this experience. He said, "Maybe instead of feeling let down and disappointed, you could imagine the car is telling that it's served you well, that it's tired and getting old. What if you focused on how far this car has taken you already? Consider that maybe it was there for you as long as you needed it, and feel gratitude." 

I'm not buying a new car right now, I just ain't. I'm probably not coughing up [amount redacted] either. As usual, Sharon has the wisest solution and I was too bullheaded to admit it up front. Greg's car and I have a lot of history, but this weekend was probably the beginning of the most gentle letting go of which I'm capable. Time to say goodbye.....if slowly. 

By the way, can I get a ride to school tomorrow?

A tiny flame burning...

I wonder how many people remember today is Greg's birthday. I know I can't count them on one hand, but I suspect I probably could with both hands. Our wonderful friends sent a bouquet of sports cookie flowers( sports! cookies! So Greg!) which was an incredible gesture of warmth, and I've received a few messages, but that's about it. I don't remember most birthdays after the first year someone's gone either (including people I loved very much), so I'm not resentful, but it's like there must be a birthday party happening somewhere- only was I not invited? I'm rather lonely.

Many of the people I'm closest to these days didn't even know my dad. They know about him, or they've seen photos, but they didn't know him, so it's natural that he's less and less a part of my daily life, even as I still think and dream of him often. The St. Patty's day party is precious to me because I know I'll see many of his friends, and I know his name will be said and it won't be because I brought him up first. C and I still talk about him, mostly telling stories that would sound a little dumb to someone who wasn't there, but make for great shared memories. Every year, Greg's death comes out with a new group of students during my "Star of the Week," when they get to ask me questions about my family and someone always always asks, "Where does your dad live?" Of course, he's still in my dreams.

This morning I started to say to an acquaintance, "Today would have been my dad's birthday," but I amended it to say, "Today's my dad's birthday" because technically it IS the anniversary of his birth in the present tense; but then of course I was asked, "Oh! Are you seeing him later?" and I said, "Not likely, he's dead" because it was 7am and I was tired and didn't have it in me to gloss.

So I guess at least THAT poor person knows today is Greg's birthday.

The good side is I think Greg is turning more and more into a glow in my periphery instead of a storm cloud on my horizon, which I appreciate because it's pretty disrespectful to take this person who was present and loving and creative and vivid for over 25 years of my life and reduce him to an excuse for emotional stagnancy under a guise of love. There are thin ribbon scars instead of gaping wet wounds; as it should be. Today's his birthday and I remember, and I'm sad but I'm basically fine. I honor Greg by being a stand up guy as often as I'm able, and by sending him love, and by setting a tiny flame burning on a birthday cookie from his best friend.

Love you, daddio...

Rhapsody In Blue

Standing at the kitchen counter, listening to Gershwin and cutting up a melon. Remembering how Greg used to use the top of a pizza box as a cutting board when he would cut up the melons he'd buy for a treat - this after lugging them home from the market and up five flights of stairs. Once he forgot the umbrella by the door and I remember a pissed-off Greg hacking into the watermelon and spitting epithets. Usually, it was a mellow Greg talking about the play we were going to see, asking if I wanted to go to Sardi's after the play, or reminding me that he was going to meet me at the bookstore when I got off work (so we could go see a play). 

All those watermelons and cantaloupes were much healthier than walking to Haagen-Dazs or Ben & Jerry's every night he was there (which we also did), but in NYC, watermelons were probably just as or more expensive than gourmet ice cream. I think about and dream about Greg so much more than I ever take the time to write about anymore, I just figured I'd postpone grading for all of 5 minutes and share a happy memory...maybe easing back in with a quick one will get the old wheels turning for a more elaborate post. Also, I actually picked out a rather shitty cantaloupe on my own and I really miss my old man tonight. Them's the breaks....

Every time A Bell Rings...

An angel gets his wings.
5 years. These big round numbers just get me every goddamn time. 5 years, and memories get faded and fuzzy, and there's no one to collaborate yer story 'cause Greg's dead (pass it on). The last week or so, I've cried easily and often....but I've also laughed maniacally, been deeply in love, and made ridiculous amounts of cookies. I might even watch old Clarence get his wings this year. Life does go on, and sometimes it fucking stings- but it's not a betrayal. This morning when some students were bugging me about Santa Claus, I told them this story:
"A lot of people believe a lot of different things, so it really comes down to making up your own mind what you believe. All I'm going to tell you is that when I was a kid, one year I woke up on Christmas day and there were muddy boot tracks coming out of the fireplace and snags of tissue paper on the grate. I've never lost my faith since; what I believe in is love."
They went back to nattering about the naughty/nice list, and I went back to tying ribbons and seriously consulting about the effect of green paint versus silver. I've got a long fucking way to get all Buddha on the mountaintop- I get pissed off and scared and resentful and melancholy- but Greg was right when he said nothing passes like time.
Sometimes I get scared, not just because Greg is getting fuzzy; his voice, his mannerisms, his post-it notes all over the back door. I get scared because nobody keeps the family record anymore. I have all his journals, and although I haven't been brave enough for more than the most casual perusal, at least I know the record's there. Who's keeping track now? And does it even matter? At least this blog is something. The handwritten mail I still send and receive is something. My brain is a sieve...but hey, it's something.
What I wish most is that the pain of remembering would fade, while the recollections stay crystal clear. For the love to get deeper and the ache to get duller. I dunno, it seems like things are maybe going that direction. A lot has changed in the last 5 years, but there's still love in my life. I still believe in love for what can't be seen, and what is recognized only in traces of early morning light......