Walk With Me

I keep thinking about how utterly painful life would feel right now if Dad were still here and I could not visit him. I cannot imagine what it must feel like for those no longer able to visit their loved ones. I cannot imagine what it must be like for those living with dementia and no longer having that familiar face or touch. Then, I think about what we would have done if Dad had passed away in the midst of all this. The inability to gather as a family to mourn and plan a funeral would be excruciating. My heart breaks to think about those having to deal with this exact issue. I’m thinking of all these scenarios happening for others and my heart breaks. Yet, I’ve used it to keep from the personal heartbreak I continue to feel. Life still feels utterly painful because Dad is not here. Maybe the distraction has been good, the pain lessened for a little while. Yet, it wasn’t by anything that brought joy. Just more fear and anxieties and what-if’s; sometimes I wonder when God wil...

Today is the 28 th ; it’s almost 2:11. One month ago I looked down at my watch; it was a milestone I never wanted to mark. I look at my watch today and cry. They’re just minutes and it’s just a date, but it marks much more than that. Now, it’s one month later. I’ve had moments of bolstered resolve to live the life I’m meant to live and I’ve had valley low days where I just wish the ache would go away. In that time we came dangerously close to losing Jon’s Dad and I’ve cursed God for this life that just seems relentlessly hard right now. Life never goes the way we plan. I stole the title, for this post, from Dad. Apparently I wrote this a day or two after Dad's funeral. I remember it now that I read it, but I honestly don't remember writing it. For sure it was cathartic, I was trying to process the week…. February 2, 2020 We saw Dad on Monday. I didn’t necessarily plan to visit, in fact I was feeling a little worn down that day. However, the girls had t...

I think it started back in October when we put Dad on hospice. This feeling that something was shifting and I could feel it while it was happening, but I couldn’t name it. He was still doing okay at that point. He was eating and reacting and still had some good days. That little glimmer of hope always hung there even though after 4 years of this, I’d all but done away with that word hope. I mean, dementia can really steal that word away from a person. Dad has a good day and you think all is going to be well. But he was sleeping more and the look in his eyes seemed different. He seemed to be withdrawing more. I could feel it in my bones and I shoved it way deep down in my heart because I knew. I knew Dad was preparing to die. He wrote about that; about how someone at the end of life can seem like they are selfishly pulling away from the people they love when in fact it is just the person withdrawing from life in preparation for death. From Christmas into all of January I felt ...

A year ago, we put Dad into memory care. Not long after, I wrote a blog post titled A Thousand Goodbyes . I wrote it on a Tuesday – the day of the week the girls and I went to help Dad at home and then the day I typically went to visit Dad once he was in memory care. Some weeks, more days than others, but Tuesday’s especially. Today is Tuesday and the first “normal” Tuesday in terms of being back into a regular routine. While I’ve been riding the waves, this morning just felt heavy and hard until I realized it is Tuesday and this time, there’s no going to visit Dad. “Dementia steals memories, moments and just so many things. Today is Tuesday. Rachel knows it is Tuesday. She had a rough morning and I couldn’t figure out why. Until I sat her down and waited patiently for her to talk. And when she finally did she said she’s sad and misses her time on Tuesday’s with Grandpa.” I’m sad, and I miss my time on Tuesday’s, too. You know, it’s just not fair; grieving over ...

Somehow it's already been 2 weeks since Mom called to tell me we were losing Dad. Somehow it's already been 1 week since we said our final goodbye and buried Dad. In many ways, life has moved on. I taught water fitness and piano lessons. I've done laundry and school drop-off's. Yet, in many ways I don't want life to move on. The permanence is starting to settle in and I don't like it. There's the Dad I remember before he got this disease, but those memories seem so far away now. There's the Dad I remember when he was first diagnosed - changed, unsure but still laughing and playing with the girls. But those memories are just in pictures and video and in some ways it seems cruel because it isn't Dad in those pictures and videos. The cruelty lies in the fact that this disease gave me a different Dad these past 4 years and while I loved him no less; while the unconditional love magnified tenfold, this disease stole my Dad's soul and my family...

This week was a hard week; it felt like a really long week. Today was a long, heavy heart day. As Christmas draws near, there's a sadness in my heart that is hard to overcome with Bing Crosby singing White Christmas, decorating cookies, or watching Frosty the Snowman with the girls. Then I think to myself how much worse it will feel when Dad is not here.   I know I’m not alone in feeling this way this season. So many others dealing with loss. Right now, I so badly miss hearing my Dad's voice. How heartbroken I am now when he looks at me as though he wants to speak and nothing comes. I wish he were here speaking to me telling me it will be okay, because he would be the one to tell me it will be okay and I would believe him wholeheartedly. I remember playing piano for one or two of his Longest Night services. While my heart aches to hear his voice, I'm grateful to have his written words. In my mind, I can hear him speaking these words and that is what I have n...

I walked out the door this morning, the dog on leash and feeling hopeful for a quiet walk in the woods and a good reset to the week. I came home feeling defeated. Any other day it probably wouldn’t have mattered much. Even now, I know I’ll be able to call the company and they’ll send a replacement or we’ll just have to buy a new one. But I lost the dog collar remote and dang it all if that wasn’t the straw the broke the camel’s back. I searched for over an hour. Retraced my steps multiple times, kicked away snow, and knelt down near indents in the snow thinking it was where the remote had landed. Debris on the snow just played tricks on my eyes and I’d get this little glimmer of hope only to be let down when I got close enough to see it was a stick or a leaf.  (Meanwhile, the dog gleefully running and playing through the woods.) But to lose something yet again; to be wandering around there in the woods feeling lost, looking for something that was lost, and hoping for some...