Anniversary Lost

This upcoming Friday, August 10, would have been my parents' 55th wedding anniversary. As I look back with idealistic memories of my parents and how they celebrated this joyous occasion, I look forward with true sadness and despair. I will still call my mother and wish her a happy anniversary, even though my father will not be there to answer the phone like he always did, I will call her to make sure she's OK regardless. I know it will be difficult for me because I will never hear his happy voice when he heard I was on the other end. I will never hear him call me that nickname he gave me since I was a baby ever again. I will never hear his voice at all ever again.

I'm sad and I'm truly heartbroken. I had hoped that I was able to visit and spend that time with my mother so she wouldn't have to be alone, or have her come here, but since I started my new job, that just wasn't possible. She chose to prolong her visit for another month or so instead. Why? I don't know, but it's her decision either way.

My mother is doing well. Surprisingly well. I admire her strength and I know as their anniversary approaches, I know it will affect her. How could it not? Perhaps that is why she is choosing to not visit at this time, because she probably wanted to be alone during this sad occasion. Instead, she will spend it with my father's spirit and celebrate their love and their many years of marriage, which would have been a colossal observance. It was special to her, and still is. She says she talks to him everyday as if he's still there in the same room with her. Perhaps it's possible he is, or maybe he isn't and her voice goes unheard. But for my mom, it makes her feel better, and that's all that matters. It's her way of dealing with this difficult time as she continues to grieve.

How she chooses to grieve is her choosing and I will not begrudge her for that. It is her choice, not mine. I know she loved him, and that's all that matters.

I will celebrate it in my heart, knowing that it would have been a monumental occasion for them, many years of marriage that has seen many downs, but mostly ups, where they finished each other's sentences and laughed at what most people would find ridiculous and silly. It was just their way. They were like two peas in a pod. A long marriage that unfortunately is atypical these days. 

As anyone could surmise, I still miss my father very much and still continue to think about him every single day. It makes me sad as I reflect on what a wonderful father he was, but grateful at the same time. But mostly, I reminisce about him and how he had such strength and energy, and I remember what he stood for and how hard he worked as we were growing up to ensure we had everything we wanted, and of course, a roof over our heads and food on the table.

Yesterday afternoon during some down time at work, I was admiring some old photos that I took of my father last summer and this past December, and it saddened me greatly. I know it always will for a very long time, and as it still brought tears to my eyes, I realized while I was sitting at my desk, at my new job, I knew I had to put my phone away and look away until I was able to compose myself. It was difficult nonetheless. 

The upcoming celebration of their anniversary will be a quiet one without my father's presence, but I know in our hearts, he will always be there and I know for my mother, his memory will never fade away, even on that celebratory occasion.

I miss you, daddy. I love you very much.

Bipolar Gal on Twitter 

Dreams

Lately, It seems I am having a consistent theme with my dreams—my father's death. But these dreams are unique because they're not dreams about him in memory, but of him dying—whether he realizes it or not—and how he's come back to life. Either he will die again after coming back to life, or will simply just come back. One dream, which I have always believed in, is apparent that he was reincarnated and was completely aware of this. Even went as far as saying he will go back because he was reincarnated as a 7 month old baby.


As these dreams increase with the nights, I wake up feeling sad; wake up missing him more and more with each passing day. Aren't  these feelings of grief supposed to subside with time, and not increase? I admit, and almost ashamed and remorseful, because my crying has diminished a great deal, but I still miss him regardless. I still wish and hope he was here, or even if there was a way that I could at least know he's OK; some sort of solace for me—a sign.


Is that selfish? At this point, I don't care, I just wish I could have some sort of manifestation from him, some indication that he's OK and he is no longer suffering. But I know in my heart that I will never receive this—unless that's what these recurring dreams are about, or just unfinished business I may have with him. 


One last word.


I know I will never have the answer to that underlying question that seems to control my mind and my heart. My dreams are precious to me now and hope I will never forget them, because at this point, I remember every one of them in full detail, as if I had them yesterday. I still see his face clearly and I still see his bright smile because he was always so full of life and energy, and hearing about him play golf, a sport he idolized made me happy.


When he was first diagnosed with prostate cancer two years ago, he had to stop playing golf not long thereafter because of the treatments. They significantly weakened him and therefore playing on a 9 or 18 hold golf course would have been impossible for him. That saddened me the most because I know how much he loved it. This one sport that he enjoyed over the years and brought him so much joy.


I still miss him and I hope these dreams will only continue and not diminish. I don't want to ever forget him or his smile; his vibrance. 


With these dreams his memory will persevere in my heart.


Bipolar Gal on Twitter

"Smile, it can't be that bad"

Call me crazy, but I have always loathed that catchphrase, especially when I'm out shopping and the sales clerk or cashier says it to me. Why would anybody say that to someone they don't know? I never understood this. First of all, they don't know me, and they don't know what's going on in my life, therefore the fact that I am not smiling should never be of their concern, nor should they ever assume that "it can't be that bad."


I've always been polite when someone communicates that, especially someone that is an employee of the establishment to where I am shopping. Mostly because at the time, nothing was wrong in my life—that I can remember—so I never said a word, just dealt with it politely with a fake smile and continued to walk away.


I know for the most part they're trying to brighten my day, but will a smile honestly do it? Maybe, but for the most part, I've always been one of those people who would walk around, unbeknownst to me, without a smile on my face. Maybe it's the New Yorker in me, I don't know, but I just never paid attention, nor should I have to. Or should I?


I just never really thought twice about it—until someone would say something to me. Say something that is really none of their business. Unless they're a friend of mine, I don't see the point.


But these past 6+ months in my life proved otherwise. Smiling was literally a struggle for me and I didn't know how to "fake" it. I think for the most part, that is why I never showed up to my daughter's soccer games this past spring season to avoid such questions and inquiries. I just wasn't ready to face the music, if you will. I wanted to crawl into a fetus position and cry, that's what was pleasureable to me, not smiling. That was the last thing I was thinking of doing during the worst time of my life. And after my dad died, I was a spectacle of sadness—although that's a legitimate action during the mourning of a loved one, I'm not sure if that's still how one is supposed to act while out in the public arena.


Thankfully, nobody had uttered that phrase to me during those tumultuous days, otherwise I don't know what I would have been capable of or how I would have responded to them. And with the recent passing of my father, I most likely wouldn't have cared either way. 


So yeah, it IS that bad.


Life is short, I realize this—especially now—but when your mind is at a stand still and depression is a common daily occurrence, how could I be happy or smile? I just couldn't. I wanted to so badly, but after my lovely visit to the psychiatric hospital and recent events surrounding the death of my father, my bipolar disorder and thoughts of suicide, is it that bad? I would have to say the answer is yes. A solid yes.


It's a disease we cannot control, as much as we would like to think otherwise, it is out of our hands without seeking proper medication and therapy. In my soul and my brain, I couldn't comprehend that this was happening to me. Bipolar disorder only happens to someone else, right? Not me. It took me a long time to accept this and now that I see the results and success of my medication, I now know that bipolar disorder is what I have and how it was legitimately diagnosed several years ago.


I won't give up, regardless of what anybody says to me. I can't, I have to realize that life is so very precious, and how my family mean the world to me. I don't want to give up. After seeing my father lying in his hospital bed fighting for his life, he finally came to the realization that his life was over. He had no choice but to stop fighting. I knew the time had come while I was there with him, every step of the way, and nothing saddened me more. I wanted him in my life and I didn't want him to go. But it was out of my hands and into God's instead. I'm not a religious person, never have been and most likely never will be, but I knew right then and there that we had to give in to his cancer and end the fight.


As I currently wallow in my surroundings of pure bliss and recent creative inspiration, I must proceed with all things secure and happy. Maybe now, given my state of mind these past few months, if and when someone says to me, "smile, it can't be that bad," I will respond with "you're right, it's not," and proudly display my buoyant smile.


I must give in.


Bipolar Gal on Twitter 

My Rock

Who is my rock? If you've been following my posts, I think you would know the answer to that. 

One word...Husband.

Yup, during this past year has been a tumultuous one—for everyone in my family. Everything in my life this past year, not just my bipolar disorder, but my father's illness, our finances and of course, my brother's nutty behavior. If I were single, I honestly don't know how I would have handled it. Seriously. I'm a weak soul when it comes to situations like the above. I truly am. So having my husband there meant the world to me. Even friends here and there, but as I've also mentioned in prior posts, I am very selective with who I discuss these private issues with. I try to keep it as minimal as possible; I keep it simple.

There are many issues that I do trust with my friends, but one of them is definitely not my bipolar disorder or finances. I've learned that people tend to judge you for these "problems" and hold it against you—especially financial hardship—so I keep it on the down-low. 

When people asked me how my father was doing, or what happened with my brother, I don't go in depth other than the basic information. Even though I know they're only inquiring because they care, I still share with them as little as possible.

My husband is different. I realize that these situations involve us as a family, however, but he has stood by me through everything. He has taken over everything within our household so I would have limited, if not any, problems clouding my mind or issues that could affect my getting better from my bipolar disorder. He knows under these extenuating circumstances that my reaction was typically accentuated beyond the normal boundaries that most people react.


He has seen me through everything, including my tantrums that were clearly out of my control, but also my brother, my father's illness and our financial hardships that have collided with my bipolar disorder; even though he works two jobs, everyday he would walk through the door, and even though he would be physically exhausted, he still held his head up high and he was proud, proud of everything he had accomplished in life. That takes courage. Throughout all of this, like you could imagine, he was mentally exhausted as well.

My husband means the world to me, that much is certain, and I truly hope that while others are suffering and struggling with bipolar disorder and depression, they too would be lucky enough to have the same support system that I have been so blessed with. Nothing is more important than having someone that loves you and never judges you and help you.

So as I sit here drinking my cappuccino and writing this post, I am eager to head home tomorrow and be with my "rock" once again.


Bipolar Gal on Twitter

Burial of Emotions

Today is the day. The day of my father's burial service. I know it'll be tough to say goodbye. Perhaps this will give me the closure that I need, even though we were by his side when he passed. The entire time we were there, I never let go of his hand. I just sat there as I gazed in his eyes, even after his death, to ensure he was gone. I still can't believe it, even as it approaches a week after his death. I am in shock and I am in denial.

I look around my mother's house and I am filled with reminders and memories of him. His smell, his clothes, his glasses, his golf clubs, pictures scattered throughout. All of it. 

Sunday I will head home and mourn by myself. It's time. I need the time away from these reminders so I can be alone and handle this the way I need to. The only way I know how to. I know I will cry, and I know I will be forever saddened by this loss, but it's time I handle it on my own.

It's time for my mother to do the same. We both are mourning in our own way. Neither way is right or wrong, it's just how we need to do it. My mother has had to live with this for several months, whereas I just embarked on it. Watching him wither away into a weak and scared human being was not the father I have known my whole life. So for her, it was time that he be removed from his pain and peacefully die. 

It's what he wanted.

My father served in the Navy from the age of 18 to 22 during the Korean War. It was important for him to serve the full four years because for him, it was a matter of pride. Having a traditional veteran salute and folding of the flag and burial in the veteran's cemetery was what he wanted; what he longed for.

How can someone prepare for this? How can a daughter prepare for this? It will be just my mother and myself mourning the loss of my father. Aside from friends, we will be the only family members there. Since my brother ostracized himself from our family 2 years ago, he will most likely not attend. 

I find that sad; truly sad. Nothing breaks my heart more. He is now walking around unaware that his father has passed. I have tried to contact him with what little contact information I have. Because he continues to move around regularly, I have no idea what his phone # or his email address is. I wanted to try, at least give him the option and the opportunity for him to say goodbye. It saddens me that he won't be there, but I know my father had accepted their demise as father and son years ago. He had accepted their fate.

He was out of our lives completely.

I won't even bother applying makeup today because I know as I read the eulogy and the poem I wrote for him, it will be too emotional to keep the makeup from dripping down my face. It's easier this way. I want to cry without holding back because I want that forever ache to fulfill me.

I will not be there to look good, or even look fashionable, I am there only to mourn my father's passing. But one thing is certain, I will ensure that my nail polish is clean and unchipped. It's something my father taught me from a very young age—something that was important to him. He always said it looked "trashy" in addition to another Italian expletive that I will not share here, as I do not want to offend anyone.

As a result and as a tribute, my nail polish is applied perfectly, just for my daddy.

The house is quiet. There is nothing to be said. We're walking around as if nothing has changed, aside from the quiet pin-dropping sound permeating throughout the house. My mother and I are both very sad and neither of us don't know how to act. Again, we will both mourn in our own way.

As I sit here drinking my cappuccino, I honestly don't know what to do. I am at a loss. What is protocol, if any? Do I go about my daily chores and habits, or do I walk around the house and gaze at his pictures and personal artifacts and embrace them as I attempt to say goodbye? 

I honestly don't know. I am new at this. It's all so surreal for me.

As I sit here in the empty chair of my father's disembodied spirit, it's tough for me. I am still unable to accept his absence; his death. He's not gone. He will walk through the door at any moment now. I just know it. I have faith.

The emotions that will fill the warmth of my heart will only confirm that he will always remain in my soul and my thoughts. I will never let go of his memory. 

My burial of emotions

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

Goodbye, Daddy.

February 16, 1936 - June 17, 2012

You Were There

Poem by Me

You were always there for me

Through thick and through thin

We always fought

We always cried

We always smiled

We always tried

Sometimes I hated you

But I always loved you

Sometimes you were disappointed in me

But you were always proud

You had a short temper

But I knew it was your way

What I would give to hear your temper today

I miss your voice

I miss your smile

I miss your laugh

I miss your charm

I miss your kindness

I miss your love

I will always look upon you from the wing of a dove

I'll never forget

I'll always remember

How close we became

When we were together

You easily got upset

But told me you loved me

You may have yelled

But said you were sorry

The time we spent together

Was precious and meaningful

  

Even when you were serious
You continued to smile

You were protective of me

But happy when you walked me down the aisle

I'll never forget when I saw you cry

You met your granddaughter for the first time

As she grew, so did your smile

Spending time with her was worth the while

These last days have been sad

But spending time with you made me glad

You were always there for me

And that I will never forget

Goodbye my daddy

You will always be in my heart

Forever

Bipolar Gal on Twitter

It's time to say goodbye...forever!

Yesterday morning after I walked in the door from my morning run, took a shower and made my morning cappuccino, I received a phone call from my mother. The phone call I've been dreading after all these months; many months since my dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer.

Since I just came home from taking my dog out, I saw her message blinking on my cell phone. Scared, I immediately listened to it with anticipation; as I always do when she calls. But they typically had only been just to say hi and give me an update about my father.

Until now.

Listening to her message and listening to the tone of her voice, I knew that something was wrong, or worse, something had happened. She succinctly said, "please call me, it's important."

My heart dropped. It dropped to the floor. I heard it in her voice. Calling her back was the scariest thing I had ever encountered in my life. I didn't know what to expect, but clearly it was the worst scenario I had thought about after all these months since his diagnosis.

Once she picked up the phone, it confirmed my worst fear. My father was deterioating, his organs were failing, and at this point, he had only days to live. She simply said "I think it's time you come out and prepare to say goodbye."

Hearing those words I can't describe because I never ever thought I'd be confronted with those words, those harsh saddening words. How can I prepare for something like that? How can I prepare to say goodbye? Saying goodbye to the one man I had always looked up to and always respected. He was a good father; an excellent father. He had his moments, like we all do in life, but overall, he always made sure we had food on the table and a roof over our heads. We were always provided for.

Please forgive me if you find this post insensitive, but it's something I need to express, my feeling and my soul here. Although for the most part, my blog has become therapeutic for me, I honestly don't know how to react to this, something like this. Something I had never expected to happen in a million years in my life. Since I had discussed my father's illness in prior posts, I wanted to share this with you as well. So please accept my apologies in advance if it insults you.

As I immediately started researching flights, I was able to get on the next flight 2 hours later. Once I arrived, I was scared to see my mother's reaction, but she gave me a tight loving hug instead. No tears, just strength. She was so strong throughout this whole ordeal that I can only learn from this trait of hers, as opposed to being insulted by it. As I look back, I honestly cannot remember seeing her cry. Throughout my entire life, she had always been stoic towards many situations, even the death of her mother and father. Regardless, she was a loving and giving mother. Always there for me and always made sure I had anything and everything I needed in life. Even while I was away at school.

As we were driving to the hospital she warned me that I must brace myself as he is not the same man that I had always known and had always grown accustomed to. He was very weak and very thin. I could feel my heart pounding inside of my chest wanting to pump its way out, but I wanted to remain strong. She then told me that she didn't tell him I was coming so it could be a surprise for him. Even though I loved this idea, I was concerned that seeing me unannounced would only scare him, instead of pleasing him.

But we lied. We told him that we had been planning this trip for over a week now. Planning it making sure that my meds were now working.

Thankfully he never showed any indication that he caught onto our scheme, only surprise and happiness as I turned the corner of his hospital room in the ICU. At first, I didn't know how to react. Seeing him lying there in the hospital bed was not the man I knew; not the man I grew up with and not the man who provided for us. I had even hoped we accidentally walked into the wrong room. He was someone else entirely. It was difficult, I admit, but after talking with him for a while, I felt confident. Not necessarily confident of his recovery, just confident of his alertness and lack of pain. He looked comfortable and at peace. Just relaxed and completely alert. At least I could take comfort in knowing that he wasn't in pain or appeared to not be frightened; a pillar of strength like I had always known him. Especially considering the current situation, this made me feel good. Albeit only temporary.

As we were sitting there gazing at the television screen, in comes his Gastroenterologist with grave news. "I think it's time you need to plan for end of life."

Hearing those words were beyond devastating, but shocking nevertheless. Even though my whole trip consisted of this possibility, how can one still be prepared for such shocking words?

Nobody can.

I couldn't control myself, I couldn't handle it. I ran out of the room and into the hallway of the ICU and just started crying. Holding my face with my palms and started crying. I couldn't stop. And I didn't want to. I wanted to cry and feel this ache that was starting to overcome me. He was my daddy, of course.

It's gonna be so difficult for me to let go and say goodbye. I don't know how to. I don't know how to make peace with something like this. I've never been in this situation before with the excepton of my grandparents' death when I was 11 years old, and then the death of my in-laws. But this is different. Don't get me wrong, I loved my in-laws and grandparents very much, but it's not the same when it's your father. Your blood relative. Nothing can compare.

On the eve of Father's Day, it'll be the most difficult reality I'll have to face. I love my father very much and looking at him lying there in the hospital bed all wired up and tubes coming out of everywhere, is a harsh reality for me. I know I will breakdown and cry. Hopefully not in front of him but I'll breakdown either way. I am already mourning the loss of him.

Even today, as my mother and I spent visiting him, it's as though he's finally giving up; finally accepting his fate. Maybe it was seeing me is what he needed to say goodbye himself, I don't know. But he seemed calm, but not his usual jovial self. Thank God he's not in any pain, but either way it still doesn't make this any easier. It only makes you realize that it's real. All of this is real. Not a nightmare like I had hoped.

We're expecting to say goodbye to him within the next few days. Am I ready? No, I'm not. I don't want to say goodbye, but aside from a short miracle, it'll have to happen, most likely on his own; a natural exit. Something like this is never easy, and looking into his eyes (the same eyes I inherited) only makes it worse. He's alert and he knows. Knows it's time to say goodbye forever.

Bipolar Gal on Twitter