Sometimes a dream is just a dream

The death of my father spurned a string of dreams/appearances from my dad for my entire immediate family. Most of us have had them--short little snippets of him that have been so unique that we are certain they were visits. And this sounds just like something my dad would do in the afterlife.

I've had two. The first one happened while I was still in St. Louis and it was really simple: Dad was there and he hugged me. That was it. My second was a little bit longer. He was there again, smiling. I realized immediately that it was my chance to talk to him and said, "Dad, wait, I've got to know, are you happy?" I was trying to get out the words so hard that I was mumbling in my sleep, so Eric woke me up (so used to rescuing me from nightmares by waking me). I didn't get to hear his reply. Both of them happened right around 5:30 a.m.

This morning, inbetween the wakefulness of early-morning baby feedings and getting Bianca ready for school, I had another dream with dad in it. A tree in our yard fell down and for some reason, we lugged it into the house and put a sheet over it. I noticed the sheet was moving. Two woodchucks came hurtling out, along with some squirrels. Dad and I were chasing them around the house, catching them, and putting them outside. After clearing the house of woodland creatures, I realized I had dad right there again and tried to ask again. My mom appeared out of nowhere and so did someone else, but I can't remember who it was. "Dad, is there an afterlife?"

He shook his head and said, "I don't know."

To which I replied, "But you died. You must know. Is there an afterlife?" I saw a tear in his eye and he looked uncertain and shook his head, I guess so.

I told Eric about my strange dream when I awoke this morning. He then looked very grave and said, "This poses a very interesting question." I was waiting to hear what he'd say about it. Surely something philosophical. Maybe that there wasn't an afterlife or that you don't even realize you're in it. But then he said, "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?"

Yeah, so maybe I've been trying to find meaning or answers when there are none. Maybe sometimes a dream is just a crazy, wild squirrel-chasing dream.

A gift

When I first found out I was pregnant with Portia, the timing was just so (her due date was on Miranda's birthday) that one of my friends, Christie, said that she was a gift from Miranda. I didn't buy it at the time because I'm skeptical. It's just biology, of course. Lately though, I'm starting to believe this more and more.

Since I've returned home from St. Louis, I've gotten settled back into my house and into a scheduled nap and bed routine. Anyone who knows me knows how important this is for me. And Portia responds really well to it.

Most afternoons, Portia sleeps for three to five hours straight. Then I put her to bed at seven and she'll usually sleep until morning (usually around five or six to eat, then she'll go back and sleep until after nine).

I honestly didn't think babies like this existed. I'd heard things about them, but they were usually formula-fed or I simply didn't believe it.

This morning, after 6:30, I woke up ready to explode from not feeding Portia all night. I hadn't heard anything, but decided to creep into her room to make sure she was okay. (I know all moms do it, but I'm particularly afraid of something happening to my baby. I know firsthand how fragile babies are. And I pray every night that I get to keep this one.)

Anyway, she was awake, sucking on her fist, just waiting for me to come in and get her. Despite how hungry she was, just one look from me and she smiled so big. I can always make her smile even if she's so upset just by looking into her face. I fed her and now she's back in bed.

Bianca's in school now, so I've got time to start writing again, and reading more. Maybe a nap here or there. Perhaps to clean my house? (But let's not tell Eric that, as I really like the cleaning people to come.)

This past Saturday marked two years since Miranda passed. With Portia came less time to sit around feeling sorry for myself about losing my baby. It has become easier. Not because I don't feel the same way or love her, but because there's not as many moments that I sit down and let myself think about her. When I do, I'm just as sad as I was.

So maybe it's true. Maybe Miranda sent this perfect, easy baby to me to help me move forward and help me grieve a little less.

A relaxing night at the spa

Spas are not places where I feel comfortable. I know that's supposed to be the point of them: soothing, relaxing places where tranquil music plays overhead and comfortable chairs are set around nearby little pitchers of cucumber water and bell jars filled with mini muffins and scones and grapes. It smells heavenly like oranges or pears and expensive creams.

But my problem begins before, when the thought of spending $50 for a pedicure or $125 for a massage makes my stomach lurch. Add on top of that the dressing room where I'm extremely aware of how inadequate I feel about my not-back-to-prepregnancy-form body.

With the help of several of my wonderful book-club friends Christie, Christie, and Amber, I found myself in the dressing room changing into a robe at a local spa, still anxiously aware of my body, Thursday night. The sign "Embrace the silence" scared me as we were escorted in, knowing full well that silence is the antithesis of what my book club is all about. All we do is talk. Talk about books, life, everything.

But we tried to whisper and keep our laughing somewhat stifled. And they let us be a little raucous in the pedicure room, where four stations were set up altogether. The manager did, however, come and close the door. Didn't bother me. It was still relaxing sitting in a room with my friends, having my feet rubbed and soaked and babied.

And I deserved this three months after giving birth, rocking and incessantly feeding a crying baby, and dealing with the death of my father. My husband was on-board and gave me the green flag to leave the kids with him and go, relax, enjoy.

And I did. The four of us had dinner together before slinking into a quiet house at 11. The baby was sound asleep. Eric was waiting up, playing a video game. I sat down beside him and put my feet up on the coffee table next to where his were resting. I took one look at his cracked heels, compared them to my baby-smooth heels, and decided he definitely could use a pedicure.

What's in your heaven?

A couple days before dad passed away, he started saying crazy things while he crept in and out of sleep. Before he lost the ability to speak, he said something that now seems so intriguing. These were his words: "I always knew there was something on the other side, but I thought I'd relate to it."

I'm not sure what this means. He also said something about where those two guys went who were standing "right there," where no one had been for hours. These were our last signs.

I always thought that heaven would be things we liked. So, of course heaven would be filled with food that would never put a calorie in us. (We wouldn't have bodies, so of course not. It would just melt away after we were able to taste it.) But would there be food? Food is required because we have bodies. Without bodies, would it be there?

But it makes SOOO many people happy. Of course there would be food.

My sister Susannah pictures the food from Harry Potter--how it just comes and is delicious and then disappears. No clean-up. Now there's an idea.

Maybe it doesn't necessarily mean we have things because we need them, but because we want them.

I guess that means there's running, without actually making our bodies any thinner. But maybe there wouldn't be shortness of breath or sweat. . .

I don't know exactly what I'm trying to say, but I also wonder if our "heaven" or "other side" isn't something we can relate to. Like maybe something so absurd that we don't have any idea. Not things that we understand, like food or exercise.

What do you think would be in your heaven?

Tomorrow at the funeral, I have to say a few words

When we were small children, my parents would pack us all in the van early on summer mornings and we'd drive to the track. There, we five kids would run, play, pick dandelions, whatever. And my parents would jog. My dad would jog miles and miles. And my mom would run too. However, usually one of us would walk past her, while she jogged. Then we'd all tromp to the park pavilion and devour a dozen donuts and milk.

Of course my parents wanted to exercise and were teaching us the importance of exercise and staying fit, but they were also creating some of my fondest memories.

Years later, after I grew up, moved away, and started a family of my own, I continued to come home every summer, usually for about a month. We'd practically move into my parents' house. In the mornings, my dad would knock on my door at six a.m., and we'd put on our running shoes and head to the track. Here we'd run. Together. Sometimes mom would walk my girls in the stroller while we ran. Sometimes I'd beg to get donuts, trying to re-create that memory from so many years before. But mostly I enjoyed getting to spend that time with my dad. Doing something that I knew he loved. That I learned to love because of him.

My father always encouraged us to get out there and do something. When I look back on photos from my school days, pictures of me doing long jump or running would many times capture my father in the background, watching. He was always at those track meets or basketball games. He'd stop working, or whatever he was doing, and he'd be there. To support us, his children. To make us his priority. He always supported us, and we always knew we were loved.

My father loved his grandchildren with the same dedication. Several years ago, when my daughter was in the hospital in very serious condition, my father pled with God to take his life instead of hers. He offered himself up to save his granddaughter's life. This wasn't the first time he'd been willing to sacrifice himself for one of them. He was devoted to all his grandchildren and would have done anything for them. The grandchildren have also lost someone very important this week. I can only hope they remember him for the devoted grandpa that he was.

When I think about where he is right now, I picture him in a heaven where he's surrounded by all the things that he loved. I can picture him running strong confident steps. Running marathons each morning. Maybe stopping for donuts afterward. Maybe teaching my daughter who is up there with him to love running. And just maybe, they're up there running together.

It happened

Last night, after seeing my dad completely restless and nervous and jittery and unable to speak words or take steps on his own, I prayed not for the miracle of healing for my dad, but just for his release from his body.

This morning, when my mom woke up, my dad wasn't breathing. She called and I rushed over there, before changing into regular clothes or changing Portia's diaper. He passed away early this morning.

I knew this was imminent, but it's still so hard to see.

My head is pounding from crying.

The funeral's on Thursday.

This life is a trip

very summer, I pack up a bunch of things and head to St. Louis--usually for somewhere around a month. This year, I yanked Bianca out of her last couple weeks of kindergarten and packed up my newborn baby and jumped on an airplane.

It's hard to be away from Eric. I don't have anyone to help me when the baby's crying in the middle of the night. Or to change a diaper once in a while. Or just to hold the baby so that I can eat.

Every night while I'm here, I'm grateful to get through another night. Like it's another check mark on the nearly six-week stay in St. Louis.

I'm not nearly as comfortable here. I only have a handful of clothes to wear, which I have to rotate every couple days. Getting something in the kids' mouths is a major project. But I keep thinking about how this is only temporary and in less than a month now, I'll be back home in my comfortable house where I have everything I need and I know exactly what to expect.

While I'm here, I try to help out with the things my dad needs. I fill up a cup with ice chips and I feed them to him. I try to intervene when my mom pushes food on my dad. He doesn't want it. He has no appetite. But my mom acts like it's a personal affront that he wouldn't want to eat the food she's offering him. If I'm feeding him, he asks me to dump a shake or take the food away. And I do it. Not because I want him to die--which I know starving himself will end up ultimately--but because I want him to be happy. And food does not make him happy. It stresses him out, like it does to me when I'm holding it up to his mouth. He likes the ice chips and I'll feed them to him, until he asks me to stop with the ice chips.

I know what the end result of this trip is probably going to be. I've accepted it. It doesn't mean I don't love my dad. I do. But if you look at the big picture, our life here is just a trip, a temporary ground where we do things, check mark each day, but we aren't quite as comfortable as we will be at our "real" home.

When my dad can be released from his body, he'll be free again. I have to look at it that way. It's the only way I can be on his side of the food struggle.

As I watched him today, I saw him grasp for breath, saw his body shake. I watched him wince in pain while he's sleeping. I know his check-marked days are dwindling.

I can only hope that Miranda is somewhere closeby when his trip is over.