Monday, September 13, 2010

Six Months

Good things happened today.

Ethan had a great second day of third grade. 

Jacob had a pretty terrific first day at his new Special Ed school.  The woman who greets the kids at the door, who helps them off their buses (when we finally get his bus service functioning) is the warmest, kindest, friendliest woman on this planet.  And she’s one of the assistants in his room.  His teacher?  Equally lovely, smart and caring.  So far so good.

But it’s barely skimming my surface today.

I was up nearly all night.  Moving slowly, unfocused, sleepwalking through finishing up all the things that needed to be done to settle Jacob into his new school life.

I thought it was anticipatory anxiety.

I thought it was classic Momsomnia.

And then I looked at the date: September 13th.

And remembered.

Today is exactly six months since my beloved, frail, elderly father died in March.

He passed between the worlds right at midnight as the 12th slipped unquietly into the 13th, my sister waiting by his now quiet body. She had gotten a final hug, gotten to say goodbye. It was good.

I was states away in Vermont, but that was good too.  I had been saying goodbye daily for months, the local, caretaking daughter; the hauling him up off the floor daughter; the change his diaper daughter; the holding my Mom while she sobbed daughter.

The memories of those last awful months slowly fade.  The memories of my father will last a lifetime, and hopefully beyond as he lives on through his amazing body of work, through his family who remember him and tell tales.

A year ago he was slowing down, but still here, still Daddy.

Six months later, gone.

And tonight my husband sits by his 93 year old mother’s side in the emergency room, as she too fades away before his eyes.

Tomorrow morning I will have to tell the boys: Daddy’s not here, here’s at the hospital with Grandma Blanche.  Ethan will ask if she’s going to die, and I will tell him the truth: probably not today, but soon.  He has seen this all before.  Jacob won’t understand, he will just be missing his Daddy. 

And I know. 

I know how that feels.

If you would like to know more about the father I loved and his last months on this earth, please click through the links above to my earlier posts, and to his dealer's site, showing a small sample of his photographic work. Bring kleenex.


  1. I'm sorry sweetie. You write so eloquently of your loss. You must miss him; what a talented man and a talented daughter. I'm sure he was proud.

  2. It's hard. My sister just got a reminder from Amazon that our (dead) mother's birthday is next week. Ouch.

    Your father's photos are lovely.

  3. that is so beautifully written. I am so sorry for your loss and for the hard times your family has had this year. 12 years ago this Nov, I was the one sitting by my dad when he died - my brother had just left to go back to school, my mom and sister were sitting down to dinner. Just me and him in his room. Still remember it like it was yesterday.
    My condolences.

  4. Oh, Varda. I hear you.

    I looked at your dad's work. Breathtaking. There was one in particular - the old woman looking out the window - that I love especially.

    There is nothing to make this easier, but I am sending you love. Much of that.

  5. Such sad posts Varda. But so much love in them as well.

    Thanks for Rewinding at the Fibro.

  6. So sorry for your write about it beautifully. Keeping sane for any mom is hard, but when there are special needs involved it is especially trying. My sister has an autistic stepson and I have seen first hand how much joy that can bring but also heartache as they make their way in this world. Blessing to you and your family.


I am so sorry to have to turn word verification back on, but the spam-bots have found me - yikes!