The Space Between Doing and Feeling or How I Love My Dad

So tonight, a night when I should have been doing a million other things in preparation for my family's arrival on Christmas eve, I found myself listening to Rosanne Cash's album Black Cadillac, an album which she began writing after her father's death. Specifically the song "I was Watching You" in which she tells her father that before she was even born, she knew him because "before life, there was love." This was a bad idea, because I really, really love my dad. And as the years go by and he gets older, I feel like the reality of a life without his physical presence in the world comes closer and closer and I do not want it to. And I try to tell myself that missing him before he is gone is not helpful, that it does nothing, but even the idea of him being gone creates a vacuum inside me and I feel profoundly alone.

A part of this is good. That I love my father, that my last name, my giant round head and huge duck feet are all things I inherited from him fills me with pride, that with my life, I feel I can make good on the promises he made to himself as a child--these are wonderful things. I can't deny the fact that someday he, and everyone, will die and that it will be painful, but I also cannot forget that right now he, and I, are alive. And I have wasted my first free evening in 8 days, feeling afraid of something I cannot control and allowing my heart to break before it really has reason to.

What I find difficult, is how to clean the toilet and the bathtub, when you cannot stop thinking about how your father is... how he is almost god-like in his presence in your life, the way he finds his way into your everyday speech, the texture of your gray hairs, your eyebrows, the way you handle conflict at your job, the way you talk to people at the grocery store, the way you love being admired for your intellect, the way you love spirituality, the way you search for god (even if you have found different ones). My dad isn't just himself, his physical body. There is me, and Allan and Adrienne and all of my siblings, and he is there too. My heart beats because he existed, because he exists. So what will it do when he is gone?

And what will I do in the meantime? The problem is that I cannot not think of it, but I can't just think of it. Where is the balance? How do I find the place where he can die and I can wait to be sad and I can continue breathing and just clean the bathtub and wash the dishes in the sink and wash the sheets and be ready for him when he comes, alive and well, not as far from death as he was 20 years ago, but far still, to celebrate Christmas with his family in my unique, strange adult life? Where is this space?

It is a small space I think, a narrow hallway. And I may never find it. My life isn't necessarily the epitome of balance. Perhaps, when I feel afraid of my dad's death, I can reach further into my chest and find that what lies at the foundation of that fear, is a bottomless ocean abyss full of loyalty, gratitude and love for the first man for whom I ever felt loyalty, gratitude or love. And maybe once I am there, I will be able to clean the bathroom, so that when he gets here, he won't have to worry about slipping on the floor of my shower.

The Art of Crankiness (or when to hold your tongue)

I have been increasingly cranky the past four days. And when I say cranky I mean easy to irritate, easy to yell, easy to upset, and then equally as easy to calm down once I've yelled, been upset and been irritated. I suppose a better word word would be moody, but the thing is that the very juvenile nature of my irritability requires a word associated with toddlers.

This morning, a friend of mine (taking a hint from Resevoir Dogs let us call her Mrs. Pink) and I had made a coffee date (like we do almost every single day). Poor Mrs. Pink woke up late, thought she could still get to Starbucks on time but couldn't, called me to let me know she wouldn't be able to make it and unknowingly placed herself in Cranky Deb's line of fire. I attempted to shame Mrs. Pink on the phone (lucky for her, she refused to accept said shame) and when that wasn't enough, attempted to shame her via text message, the most juvenile form of reprimand. Then, while we reconciled ourselves via g-chat, I proceeded to emotionally vomit upon Mrs. Pink my disappointment about she and I going to a different mall then I had wanted to go to on Tuesday, at which point I realized I had gone too far.

When I was growing up, my parents were firm believers in expressing one's emotions at all times, and this, not so surprisingly, has translated itself in my adult life to a complete inability to hold anything back. Anything I think, feel, experience at any given moment must be described to anyone and everyone, be it the time I pooped my pants, a magical experience seeing Symphony Hall completely empty for the first time, or my concern for my Dad and his swollen leg. Most of the time (I hope) this is just entertaining.

But what I'm starting to realize is that there is also a time to just shut up. Not everyone needs to know everything and I am not necessarily talking about my own embarrassing stories. The thing is that Mrs. Pink doesn't need to be subjected to my anger because she is late once out of a thousand coffee dates. There is no reason for her to feel guilty or for me to try to make her feel guilty. And, yes, I feel better after I've talked about it, but at what cost? Maybe it's about time for me to reign it in and to start expressing myself with a little grace and tact, which, though hard to come by when you are a member of my family, would be appreciated by all my loved ones. So, stay prepared for stories about excrement and my beard hair, but know that hopefully, if you are late, I can be capable of loving you enough to know that, sometimes, you just oversleep.

The Tell Tale Signs of Monday

1) You have been at work for less than 3 hours and already feel as though it is time to go home.

2) You have a list of things to do, but no matter how hard you try and no matter how time sensitive the things on said list may be, you cannot bring yourself to do any of them.

3) Your friends who are still students tell you they are still in their pajamas and a pit of rage and longing wells up in your gut with such intensity you feel you may ralph.

4) You are hungry all the time and hence, count the minutes until lunch (30 minutes to go).

5) You walk very VERY slowly to the bathroom, hoping to maximize time away from your desk only to return to find 3 minutes have passed. In response to this you drink as much water as your poor stomach can hold in order to take as many 3 minute bathroom breaks as possible.

6) You start to fantasize about what you would be doing if you had the day off. For example, let's say it's 60 degrees and sunny out on December 1st in a city renowned for its terrible weather. As a result of this you find yourself spending tens of minutes imagining sitting in the sunshine and reading a book. Or maybe, regardless of the weather, you just wish you were ANYWHERE but at your desk.

7) You imagine how great it would be to live a nomadic lifestyle. To grow your hair out and make it into dreadlocks. To grow out your beard (if you are so inclined) and stop showering. To hitchhike across the country until you reach your parents house and live with them just so that you won't have to pay rent so that you won't have to have a job that would require you to be in any sort of building for 8 hours a day.

And then you think of your iPhone. The one which you have been wanting for so long. And you think that if you can just sit at your desk until lunch, and then after lunch until 6pm you just might be able to buy one someday.

And then you think that maybe tomorrow you should call in sick.