missing Dad

Bob Goodman, Dad

It's been a time of travel, fear, worry, phone calls, more travel, and saying a final good bye to my father. Dad did not suffer at the end, and that came as a relief to all four of his children.

The busyness of the last months has come crashing down on me as normal life continues but my grief has some breathing room. Every day the sun rises and sets. Every day, people go about their daily routines of work and play and love. It seems a cruel fact of life, that it relentlessly continues. Despite death. Despite the death of my father.

Yet, life goes on. I remember my father and his many good years. I honor his good death. I miss him.

And maybe, just maybe

 in the missing

 I love my husband

 and family

and friends

 just a little more.

Because our days are all numbered.

 I want to leave a 

big trail of 

love 

light

 and laughter

in my wake.

Goodbye, Dad. I love you.

April 2016

Just weeks before his death, Dad sang this song with me. "King of the Road."

And, he pulled out his cornet and played "Taps."

All is well, Dad. Safely rest. God is nigh.

inspiration: St Louis Zoo and Art Museum

I am just back from a road trip to St Louis, MO, where my family had a beautiful reunion. I got to see my father and all of my siblings and their kids, plus a lot of family. 

One special treat while in St Louis was going to Forest Park, the site of the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition and centennial celebration, but more commonly known as the 1904 World's Fair. You can read more about the fair here.

As we walked around the zoo and the art museum, I kept humming to myself the song, "Meet Me In St Louis." Appropriate, since my grandfather's name was Louis and he went by "Louie" and it was this grandfather's children and family that gathered... 55 participants!

I loved the zoo (and not just because admission was free!). Their gorilla habitat was wonderful and I spent a lot of time observing these majestic animals and sketching them. It was tough to sketch them, though, because every time one of them got close to the observation window, he would sit down with his back to us people. It struck me as an act of utter contempt. Wow. 

The art museum was grand all together, but especially grand in its huge entrance hall.

I especially enjoyed this Monet painting.

And this Modigliani.

St Louis is a special town and I look forward to going there again. Maybe next time, it won't be 92 degrees with 90% humidity. That was a little hard to take. The best part of the trip was seeing my father again. I am not sure that he knew me, but I knew him, held his hand, talked to him and loved the chance to see him again.

Love you, Dad.


"Meet Me in St Louis." Maybe you will hum the theme song, too.

dad

Dad, 24 x 18, charcoal on paper

My father has dementia. Each time I talk to him, it seems he has less and less to contribute to the conversation. I believe he is genuinely happy to get my calls, to hear my voice, to laugh at my stories, to celebrate the precious moments of life.

But my rye observations about growing older no longer bring up his own commiserating stories. His stories are lost in the unnavigable places in his mind.

Some days I feel the loss of my father as unbearable. I want to have him sing "King of the Road" with me, or a few verses of "You Can't Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd." But, he can't. I still sing to him, though. You can be happy if you've a mind to...

And this week, I reminded him of his obsession with the rock opera, "Tommy" back in the 1990s. He must have seen the film 100 times. He bought the record and played it so much at home, I think he wore it out. He knew all of the songs by heart. 

Since Dad can't remember anymore, I'll just remember for him. A daughter can do that.

Here, Dad, this is for you.


"Pinball Wizard" by The Who.

honey and yellow saturation

I am trying to understand how the proportions of color in abstraction work or don't work. How much yellow is too much? And, when the blue and violet are also in play, how do the colors fit? Pulled through, the blue/violets turn neutral and yet they still vibrate in those shades of warm yellow.

Reminds me of my cup of tea today. Earl Grey, with just  "A Taste of Honey."

Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass reminds me of my father. Dad played cornet in high school and college, and when I was growing up, it was this kind of music that played on the family hi-fi!

Colorado mountain high

After miles and miles of prairie, it was a thrill to enter Colorado and see the beautiful Rocky Mountains! We spent a joyful, sunny day with friends in and around Longmont and up to Estes Park, which I totally loved.

As a BONUS to this particular stop, I got to meet the one and only blogger Sam Hannaway of "SamArtDog"! When bloggers meet, it's as if you already know one another, but then the virtual relationship has a chance to become a face-to-face relationship. Sam is just as witty and smart in person as she is in writing. Our interesting dinner conversation made the time speed by and we ended up closing the restaurant down. As Sam said, it's a good sign of friendship. I am lobbying for a visit from Sam to the Pacific Northwest!! Check out her blog HERE.

This time in the Denver area was truly a "Rocky Mountain High." 

Finally, here's another (about my) Dad sketch.

thumnail thoughts

My father has dementia.

I know that. And I know that it is a progressive condition.

All of that knowledge did me no good when I saw him earlier this trip. And saw him struggling (and failing) with my name. And forgetting where we were or what he liked to eat. I still felt like the air had been knocked out of me.

Since that visit, I have been filling my sketchbook with thumbnails about Dad and my feelings about his dementia.

It ain't easy!

Happy Father's Day

My father is a great man. A real gentleman. He was raised in Illinois and in his growing up years he was exposed to farming (cousins Tommy and Margaret), car mechanics (his father), kindness (his mother), music (his father again and friend Thelma). When he went to college, though, he took up Electrical Engineering. He was a true "Fighting Illini."

Over the years, he worked at various defense contractor positions. He could never talk about his work at home because his work was top secret, so I thought he was a train engineer for the longest time. Kids. They will always sharpen your sense of humor, won't they?

Dad helped me with my Math homework. Dad studied my report cards and told me he was proud of me. Dad always listened to me play the piano and would wipe tears at my recitals. 

Some of you know that in the last year, my siblings and I helped Dad decide to move to an assisted living facility in Florida. He is doing well, has made some friends, and has gained some weight. He spends a lot of great time with my brother and his family. And he has been diagnosed with dementia and short term memory loss. 

In her book, "Finding Water: the Art of Perseverance," Julia Cameron talks about the importance of having encouraging and optimistic people in our lives. She calls them "believing mirrors" who "reflect back to you your competency and potential."

My father has always been one of my believing mirrors. He would tell me how proud he is of me, and celebrate my successes and accomplishments with an epic poem like account of my previous successes. He believed in me without hesitation and only asked which new mountain I was planning to tackle next.

Not now.

And that is a painful loss.

So, Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love hearing how happy you are when I call and the cheerfulness you have about your life. Never do I hear a complaint or a negative word. Your caregivers love you to pieces and can't say enough positive about you. You are a great man. A real gentleman. You were my #1 believing mirror. And I miss you.

Quiet goodbye

No bling. No quinacridone fanfare signalling the end of the day. 

A quiet goodbye, a door shut but not latched. A whisper and an ending with edges fuzzed and a light fading like the slowest dimmer switch.

Far Away Nearby

9 x 12 on recycled Pastelmat

"Well, my kids decided that it was a good idea for me to live near one of them," my father told me today on the phone from Florida. We have had this conversation many times before. I am one of his kids. He forgets that sometimes. I helped him move last year from Southern California to an assisted living facility in Tampa Bay, to be near my brother and his family.

Dad forgets a lot of things. It's a sad part of dementia. Some days I can laugh off the absurdities. Some days I just feel sad. Today was one of those days. When my tears start, I try to end the conversation quickly.

"I love you, Dad. I'll talk to you soon."

"I love you, too, honey. I always love to hear the sound of your voice." He is completely sincere. But, he will not remember that I called when he talks to my brother just a few minutes later.

Dozing

Some days there was nothing to do but sit by Dad's bedside. Here's one of the sketches I did during those first days of his illness. His health has improved and he is out of the hospital, but life continues to provide challenges and surprises.

Music and thinking of Dad

I was seven years old when I fell in love with the piano. I heard a friend's sister practicing "Fur Elise" and I knew I wanted to be able to make sounds like she did. I begged my parents to rent a piano and start me with a piano teacher. They did. I have played ever since.

Piano lessons led to piano recitals. Then competitions. Then more recitals. Finally, serious concerts (where people even paid real money to hear me play!). Later, I had a band, then played in various bands. Now I just play with my kids at Christmas. But it's all been fun.

Though there are a few musicians on Mom's side of the family (cousins who played banjo and accordion), I got my musical ability from my Dad. Dad's father could play any horn that was ever made, plus guitar, piano, and ukulele. I inherited all of Grandpa's sheet music, marked with his notes, including the piece below, "Yes, We Have No Bananas."

Dad played the cornet. Somewhere in his house sits a black leather case with college stickers on its ragged surface. Inside is his horn, tarnished from age and disuse. And medals. Dad played horn through college and was proud of his "great lips." All horn players say that.

As I make my way south, the music in my mind is sad. I go to see my father in the hospital, where he is very ill and confused. But tonight, as I rest from travel, it is sweet to remember this tune and the sound of Grandpa playing his ukulele and Dad singing along in his one note kind of way.