Month: December 2021

Well, Dad, I think I pulled it off. While everyone else is gearing up to have their big Christmas Day dinners and exchange gifts with family members tomorrow after waking up early, eating chocolate, and watching the littles dive into their presents, I have managed to get mostly everything out of the way today. So tomorrow will be all about Baby Girl and HER presents from Santa, and visiting Mom. And relaxing. And I’m all about that.

I start planning for Christmas in September. I love the whole Christmas season. The lights, the music, the gifts, the wrapping, the magic and the joy. Making fudge. Making cookies. Making memories. But these last three Christmases have been anything but easy. I start planning in September because I know that come December, all hell has usually broken loose and I had better be prepared.

Three years ago my parents had first moved to Pilot Point and it was a month full of the flurry of unpacking, and helping Mom to understand what was happening. Christmas Day with Mom was difficult. She was overwhelmed and couldn’t even open, much less appreciate, her gifts. Though she tried mightily it was obvious to all of us that Christmas as we had always known it was gone.

Two years ago my Dad lay in a hospital bed in Ft. Worth fighting for his life. It was me that bought, wrapped, gave, cooked and otherwise “made Christmas happen” for Baby Girl, my brother and his kids. My Dad remembered none of it. Had no idea that we all trooped to Ft. Worth on Christmas Day to visit. Mom cried when we visited her on Christmas Eve, having moved into a memory care facility just at the beginning of the month. Overwhelmed and emotional, it was hard on everyone, especially her and Dad, who didn’t even get to see each other.

Then last Christmas Dad actually was here, in my home, celebrating with us. He spent the night and was present for the presents Santa brought. He helped Baby Girl un-do and un-box and set up and it was all just so bittersweet. He was here, but Mom wasn’t. Mom wasn’t forgotten, of course, but bringing her home for even just the day wasn’t an option. Mom relies on security and being able to make sense of things. Routine is all important. For any of you that may wonder, “sun-downing” in Alzheimer’s patients is a very real, and very scary thing. Tony made a brisket and we ate that with a few other sides. Nothing crazy. Nothing that would make me break down and cry like I did on Thanksgiving when I couldn’t figure out how to make Mom’s famous gravy.

Fast forward to this year.

Dad – last night I cried. Huge grief filled balloon tears. I felt no Christmas joy, not an ounce of Christmas spirit. This month has gone so quickly. We did all the Christmas things – I bought gifts (online except for the Wine Store – my favorite place to shop), I took Baby Girl and Sissy to Frisco Radiance! A lights spectacular – or so it said. It was really less than impressive but then I’m fairly difficult to please these days. We made fudge. We made Christmas ornaments for teachers and friends. We went to a Christmas party. Baby Girl did a gingerbread house. We took a lot of pictures. But somehow, Dad, it all just seemed so…. quiet.

I just can’t get used to the silence. To the emptiness that surrounds me. Last night it erupted within me. It was all I could think about, all I could focus on. You aren’t here, you aren’t here, you aren’t here – like a broken record. I went to bed full of sorrow and tears.

I woke up this morning with a new purpose. I wrote my list out and started in cleaning the house. I made banana bread. I vacuumed. I sorted and put away the laundry. I windexed. I made corn casserole per the Princess’s request. I did all the things. At noon I put in the frozen turkey I had bought at Kroger. Two hours and forty five minutes later I had a turkey that was actually edible! At 2:00 the in-laws showed up, and just before them was Sissy. Everyone was assembled and as we sat down to eat I smiled to myself. Hello Dad I said silently. I feel you. I know you would have been amazed at the concept of the frozen turkey. You would have ate the store-bought gravy. And if you were here I would have had cranberries from a jar. I smiled because I could hear you. I could feel you. You were here, even if I was the only one who knew it.

Amazingly, Dad, today I’m ok. Today I put it all together. For you. For the us that we used to be. And I think I did alright. Tonight Baby Girl and I will make cookies for Santa and once she’s asleep I’ll sneak the gifts in and do the stockings. We have stockings for everyone in the house, Dad. All four of us plus the three cats, two dolls and one stuffed Cheetah. And trust me, they ALL will have been filled by Santa. The magic is still alive Dad, still here. Baby Girl is having a wonderful Christmas and tomorrow will be even better. I won’t cry when we visit Mom, I promise. I’ll make sure that I hold it together. I’ll make sure Mom feels you, too. By sharing with her my Christmas Spirit, the Spirit that you somehow gave to me last night while I slept.

Thank you, Dad. I love you. Merry Christmas in Heaven.

Yesterday I drove out to the Central Texas State Veteran’s Cemetery to visit my Dad’s grave for the first time. The headstone takes six to eight weeks after the burial to be installed, so I was very interested in finally seeing it. I picked up my best friend, Val, just this side of Ft. Worth and we were on our way.

The drive is about three and a half hours from my house if you factor in stops for restrooms and Diet Cokes. We arrived at the cemetery at about 11:30 in the morning. There was a lady sitting near a freshly installed headstone, just visiting her beloved. Val and I walk to find Dad’s among the rest in his “unit” as we called the collection of graves in that area. I was surprised to find that the marble was ice cold. You know it will be, but just how cold is pretty amazing. I laid my hands on it and instinctively I wanted to rub the side of it the way I rubbed his shoulder when he was dying.

We looked at the inscription. The Christian cross at the top. David Lee Thomas. LTC US ARMY. Vietnam. (Why only Vietnam I wondered) Mar 5 1946 – Aug 21 2021. BSM & 3 OLC. DMSM MSM ARCOM. Bullworker. Loving Husband and Dad. Val texted her Army sister to find out what it all means. BSM – Bronze Star Medal. 3 OLC – Four Oak Leaf Clusters. Defense Meritorious Service Medal. Meritorious Service Medal. Army Commendation Medal. Your Dad was a Badass, Val says. Well obviously.

She keeps the atmosphere light, as I knew she would. We joke about pulling up some lawn chairs and cracking open a few beers with a tribunal whiskey at the headstone, while kicking back and watching an Aggie game on the laptop. I can hear Dad chuckling. Just the kind of humor he appreciated.

Val goes off to pick up all the fallen over Christmas wreaths in Dad’s unit while I stay and talk softly to him. I tell him I miss him, that Fu Fu misses him. That we’re doing alright and that I’m taking good care of Mom. I don’t talk a lot but just absorb where I am. I kneel behind the headstone with my arms draped over it. I feel closer to him that way, as if I’m giving him a hug. I stay that way awhile. It’s very peaceful in this cemetery. I don’t cry – I just try to remember. How we laughed, how he loved, how it was over much too quickly. I feel him there, in my heart, but I do not feel any kind of spiritual presence. I never have, it just feels like he is very far away. There hasn’t been any kind of whisper or chill or anything that tells me he’s right there. I know he isn’t. I feel like he is at peace and in the presence of God. He can see us, and hear us, but he knows there isn’t any need to “be” here. We’ve got this. We’re alright.

I get up and wander around a bit. I notice coins on the tops of some of the headstones. Naturally I have to find out what they are for. I google it. A penny means someone visited. In military terms a nickel means they were in boot camp together, a dime means they served together and a quarter means the person was with him when he was killed. Val and I decide we will leave pennies and start to walk back to the car to get them. I get close and stop dead in my tracks. Val – look! There is a bright red cardinal on my car. Peering and preening in the side mirror. He flies off to a tree as we approach but presently comes back again. Dad, I say, quit showing off. Val takes pictures while I appreciate the moment.

I decide to leave a quarter as well as my penny. The coins will be collected about once a year and used for cemetery upkeep. In civilian terms a quarter means you were with him when he died. So I go with it. We place the coins and tell Dad bye. It was good to see you Sir, Val says. I know he’s answering “I’m glad you got to see me.”

We stop to eat at Cheddar’s and as we sit down at the bar I glance up and there is a bottle of Jameson straight ahead of my face. I smile. Dad, you are still larger than life. Still invincible. I feel something like the “let down” after Christmas – anticipation now satisfied and fulfilled. It was hard seeing that name in stone but I am relieved to know it’s perfect. The inscription, the place, the peace.

Bye Dad. I’ll be back sometime. In the meantime I’m glad I got to see you.

On Saturday I convinced Baby Girl to let me take her earrings out and put the cute, newly purchased, reindeer ones in. I showed her how it doesn’t hurt to take earrings out and put them back in. Convinced, she let me do it. I got both stud earrings out which had been put in in the summer when Sissy took her to get her ears pierced. Then I noticed that her ears were bleeding a little. Strange, I thought to myself. They should be fully healed by now. Of course Baby Girl wanted to see the holes in her ears and thus immediately noticed the blood. She also then noticed how pointy the ends of earrings are. I noticed that she had what looked like blood blisters on the backs of her ears. I decided I better not point that out to her as she was already of the verge of backing out completely. We managed to get the reindeer earrings in and go to the barn Christmas party, with minimal fuss. Later that night when I took the reindeer earrings out I again noticed the little bit of blood. Ignoring this and her whining that her ears hurt, I wished Baby Girl a goodnight and left it for the morrow.

Sunday I told Baby Girl that we had to get the stud earrings back in otherwise her holes would close up. I was fairly certain that this would actually happen because it did not seem as if they were as healed as they should be; after six months?! At any rate I went at her ear with one earring and she immediately started crying and backing away from me. She wouldn’t even let me try. Convinced that it was going to hurt, a lot, she kept repeating that she was scared and that it was pointy. I was patient. I told her I knew it would hurt a little bit but not that much. Like pulling a tooth out. It wouldn’t last long. She still resisted. After thirty minutes of me desperately explaining that we only had two choices in this situation (go ahead and do it or let the holes close up) I finally succeeded in getting the earring in through the hole, only to have her scream like I was stabbing her with a fork in the eye. I still had to get the back on. Well, those little stud earrings are teensy tiny and you have to get a good grip on it in order to get that back on. Every time I went anywhere near her ear fresh hell would break loose. Huge tears and snot running down her face and I was all out of patience. I had no idea what to do. I am not a terribly patient mom in the first place and I was damn near the end of my rope. Of course the more irritated I got the worse she behaved, and vice versa. A never ending loop of frustration and tears.

After another twenty minutes I got the back on that one earring. To hell with it. The second earring would have to wait. I tell Baby Girl we will deal with it later. Exhausted, she readily agreed. We spent the next few hours watching movies and painting Christmas ornaments.

Baby Girl is never one for jumping up and getting ready for bed. She likes her bath but she’d rather be playing (on her ipad usually). So every night we struggle at bedtime. I want her to get in the bath; she wants to prance around the house in her underpants. I want her to get out of the bath; she wants to pretend she is in a submarine spouting water all over the bathroom while rising from the deep. I want her to get her PJ’s on; she wants to get her dolls ready for bed. I want her to brush her teeth; she wants another snack. I want her to get IN the bed; she wants to be a puppy rolling around and yelping.

Sunday night was going to be no different, even though every night I tell myself it will be. I tell her it’s time for her bath and I go and start the water. She morphs into a sloth and makes her way to the bedroom to remove her clothes. I tell her if she will *quickly* let me put that other earring in then I will let her have a gummy. She hides in the hallway. I tell her repeatedly to COME HERE and let me do it. I start out patient. I start out explaining why we must. I start out full of empathy and understanding.

It escalated like a house on fire. Pretty soon we are in flames with no hope of rescue. She cries, I cajole. She screams, I tell her come on it’s just temporary. I’m scared she cries, I tell her I know but we have to do it anyway. As she gets more and more worked up I get more and more frustrated. In my head I know that me getting upset isn’t helping, BUT I can not control it. I tell myself stop – you are traumatizing her – she will never get over this. But as she loses her shit I completely lose the plot. If I tell her fine, I’m done, we won’t do this she screams bloody murder and grabs at me to sit back down. She reaches for me, wanting me to hold her, which I do, but at the same time won’t let me touch her ear. I tell her you are making a mountain out of a molehill. A phrase I am sure she doesn’t understand. I tell her again that we either have to do it or we have to let it close up. She just cries harder. I am all out of options, all out of ideas, all out of patience and all of a sudden I just start crying, too.

We are a mess. For forty minutes we have battled. For forty minutes over an earring. I am angry, more at myself than at her, for not knowing how to handle this situation. Baby Girl and I are so alike that we battle constantly. I think – how will I ever handle her at 12? 15? How will I ever be able to control this attitude, this passion, this fire in her? Or more to the point, how will I DIRECT her attitude, her passion, her fire? How will I teach her that sometimes things have to hurt a little bit, in order to move forward? That pain isn’t the end of the world? That there is no choice in this world but to be brave? If I can’t even get through a forty minute battle over an earring without crying myself, how will she learn to control her own emotions? She hates being yelled at. I hate being yelled at. I can’t stand for her to be upset, I can’t handle her tears, and she can’t handle mine. Sometimes I try to ignore her tears and then she accuses me of not caring. Oh Baby Girl, if you only knew how much I care. That I have to walk away sometimes because it hurts to care so much. That you will somehow have to learn to stand on your own two feet, without me. That you will have to somehow learn how to be strong. How to be brave.

Baby Girl I want you to move mountains, not create them. We are on the same side, you and I. I know you are strong, maybe even stronger than me. My own strength I would give to you, but it isn’t what it once was. Life has been cruel these past couple years and my heart isn’t into life like it used to be. I was lucky to have my parents for so long, with their unwavering love and support. It kills me that you won’t have them at all. I hope the love they gave you for your first seven years has been enough. I hope you can look past the emotional grave I find myself in and realize I only ever loved you more than I loved myself. Move mountains, Baby Girl, and know that I’m never going to not be there for you. Battle on, Warrior, for I know the demons you are slaying. We are stronger than we think.