A Farewell

My father and my Aunt Robin during World War II

One week ago, an insidious disease that our family is all too familiar with, claimed our Aunt Robin. As my cousin Leigh wrote so beautifully of her mother's long fight against Alzheimer's, Robin's fight was dignified.

Dignified. Classy. Kind. Loving. Those are just some of the words that describe my father's sister. Loving is the one that frames my memories most of Robin.

From my earliest days, I can recall my father speaking in the most glowing of terms about his sister. He called her "Pud," (rhymes with 'good'), and to this day, I wish I knew the origin story of that name, but to him, that's who she was. Because we lived in Arizona and Robin's family was in North Carolina, we didn't see each other frequently. I do know, though, that when we did get together in their Durham home, we were never strangers. We were family and even in my peek dork years - 13 years of age - when we all gathered for Thanksgiving, that feeling of family that my aunt worked so hard to create was ever present. As I got a little older, I had the opportunity to visit North Carolina several times as my late grandmother, Grandmommy, was in Robin's care. I have fond memories of attending church with Robin on those trips. She loved music and she was in her element, singing in that stately choir loft in that Presbyterian church in Durham. I was unfamiliar with some of the Presbyterian traditions and she always so kind in explaining how it all worked. Kind, welcoming, warm. Shortly after the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and I married, I was thrilled that we were able to travel to North Carolina to see our family there. Again, Robin welcomed my sweet wife into the family, as if she'd always been a part of it. I have never forgotten that.

When my father died almost eight years ago, Robin was already fighting the monster that would one day take her life but she was able to travel to Phoenix for his funeral. I will never forget seeing her and my mom, sitting on the couch, holding each other by the hand and reliving memories of my father. The bond my aunt shared with my dad, even though he was now gone, was evident and clearly unbreakable. Family chains don't break and now they are celebrating their reunion, along with their parents who had gone on before them. Their family is together again.

In the coming weeks, we will gather to celebrate her life and to honor the legacy Robin has left in my cousins and their children. We will love, honor, and celebrate a woman who left a positive impact on every person she met.

I'm forever grateful for my Aunt Robin and the life she led. Would that we could all live in such a way that every one you met felt better for it. That's an incredible way to live.

Our family - the last time we were all together. Sweet memories.

Alzheimer's is a horrendous disease. If you'd like to donate to the fight to find a cure, go here.

To the DLT Triumvirate

No, not that DLT
@mcdonalds.wikia.org

A long time ago, in a kinder, gentler America, one not choking on the specter of soon being led by a nepotistic, tiny-handed spelling challenged megalomaniac who happens to own what may be the worst restaurant in this great country (as a reminder, this IS a great country), a restaurant you may have heard of, McDonalds, decided that we, the eating public, had had enough of lettuce and tomatoes getting warm on its burgers. So they foisted upon us the McDLT (presented above in its environmentally friendly polystyrene glory). It was in a word a failure, with a capital "F." For those of you who remember tasting it, you know why. If you don't, count your blessings.

I flashed back on the DLT this past Saturday when the mighty fine and stunningly patient SML and I went to see "Collateral Beauty." It was either that or "Rogue One," which was not an option really, as I owed her a 'chick flick.' Without giving it all away (Spoiler Alert: watch any of the treacle featured on the Hallmark Channel and you'll know the entire outcome of the movie in the first seven minutes), the protagonist, played by a weepy Will Smith, writes letters to Death, Love, and Time (DLT). That got me thinking and I've penned a few thoughts of my own to the DLT Triumvirate. Here you go:

DEATH
Like taxes, unless you are *smart* like our Precedent-oops, I mean President-elect, you, death, are as unavoidable as you are inevitable. You are the one constant in the life of every.single.person.ever. Ever. That's nothing to sneer at. You hold every one of us at bay, with your uncanny ability to strike most of us with complete surprise. That's funny because we all know who you are and that you will take us. But, for most of us, we don't know when you are going to make that snatch and grab and that makes life, well, interesting. I'm sometimes envious of those who know you are coming for them. They have time (I'll get to you, Time, shortly) to prepare, to get their houses in order, to say what still needs to be said. I think that uncertainty is one of the reasons so many people fear you. I'm not one of those people though. That's not to say I'm living each day as if it is my last. I can't live that way. There's still too much to live for. That is how I choose to face you, living this life as best I can, in spite of knowing that you're gunning (bad, bad pun) for me. Also, I have faith in what awaits after this life. It's pretty darn good. In the end, Death, this life is not some weird version of "Logan's Run." I know you'll get me at some point, but I've outrun you, living this life as best I can.

LOVE
Ah, Love. You've been awfully darn good to me, in spite of the fact that I have adamantly refused to celebrate the fraud that is Valentine's Day, wherein we are supposed to honor you. First, a birth mother who loved me enough to let me go. Second, parents who brought me into their home and loved me from the moment I was introduced to them at the wise old age of two days. You then jerked me around a bit in high school, as you do most of us, making me think I was the good guy from a John Hughes film (most of you have seen my high school pictures - you know this was epically delusional on my part). Then you introduced me to the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and that was it. Mic drop. Then came three children and you redefined yourself, becoming something so powerful and unbreakable that I still don't completely understand it after twenty-six years of being a father. Then, just to make things really interesting, you brought out the big guns with the arrival of our grandchildren and redefined yourself. Again. I gotta say, I like how things have turned out with you, Love. You've done really well by me.

TIME
You're a bit like Death, aren't you, Time? You never go away either. You're always looming around, but you're a bit more present than your partner in crime, Death. There are reminders of you everywhere. On my wrist. On my phones. On every device I have, there you are, ticking away. Why then, if you are everywhere, are you so scarce? Why do we wish there was more of you? Why do we regret wasting you? Maybe it's because we know you are there and you seem finite. There are 24 hours in a day, seven days in a week, 365 days in year and we know that we've got stuff to do within those parameters. Because we know that when Death decides to make its move on us, you are done with us. Time as we know stops then. So, with the time we have here, we have things to do. Ironically, as we have you, Time, looming over us knowing that Death is coming for us at some point, we can miss out on the joys of the third part of the DLT Triumvirate, Love. That's what makes you tricky, Time. Figuring out how to make the most of you in this life is one of my biggest challenges. Thanks for that, Time.

Whether we like it or not, the DLT plays a critical part in each of our lives. Make the most of them. Let's just be grateful it's not the McDLT.

79

My father died almost five and a half years ago and today, 8 February, marks what would have been his 79th birthday. Recent circumstances have caused memories of my dad to be at the forefront of my mind. It's days like these, birthdays, that the sense of loss is more acute.

It also reminds me that I've been pretty lousy at grieving the loss of my father. According to Swiss psychiatrist Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and her Kubler-Ross model, there are five stages of grief associated with death. The five stages are:

Denial / Anger / Bargaining / Depression / Acceptance

When I recall the events around my dad's death and the ensuing nearly six years, it seems to me that per the model, I skipped the first four stages and went directly, in much the same you do when playing the world's most arduous board game, Monopoly, bypassing 'go' and going directly to jail, to 'Acceptance.' I don't think I had much of a choice. There wasn't time for the first four stages when it happened and since then, acceptance seemed to be the only option.

To be sure, part of that acceptance comes with my faith and belief in a plan for us after this life. That sense of surety I have is, for me a source of great comfort but today, and I can't quite put my finger on it, I'm just a bit out of sorts over this grieving process. I can't help but wonder that because I wasn't prostrate with grief or anger at the time that I haven't honored my father's life or memory. I don't think so but it's bothering me just a little. I'm not saying that I should have leapt on his coffin as it descended (think the burial scene in Jonathan Demme's delightful Married to the Mob). That would have been ridiculous but I still can't help but wonder if I've grieved appropriately?

Loss and how we handle it is a deeply personal thing. Yet, and I've pointed this out before, it is not lost on me that I am ironically making it a public thing by writing about it in this forum. I know for others, opening up a raw nerve in a silly blog like this would be unthinkable. For me, though, this works.

Sure, I wish my dad was still here to be celebrating his 79th. Who knows? Maybe we'd have been by his side today. If nothing else, we would have picked up the phone and talked. I'm glad I was able to wish him a happy birthday on his last. He was a good, patient man. I take great comfort in that patience.I feel like he's being patient with me to this day as I figure out this grieving process. For that, I am grateful.