Jessica loves the Rent soundtrack and there’s that song.  Seasons of Love.  Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.  How do you measure a day in the life?  The one that usually gets me is by “cups of coffee”.  He drank coffee like I drink water.  He always had a cup in his hand and his “Jelly Jug” filled with coffee, sugar — a lot of sugar — and non-dairy creamer, beside him in the truck.  When we were together in Iowa, he would start looking for a place to find a cup no sooner than he had just gotten one. 

How do you measure a life?  By the way that he died.  That’s how it sneaked up on me today.  It’s been one month since he died.  I didn’t even realize it until I heard the words. 

I can’t remember crying that way.  I have never made those sounds before.  Who is this stranger inside me?

I still feel lucky.  I know I am.  But once in a while . . . I guess this stranger is a part of me now.  A new part.  This sadness too, makes me who I am.

My siblings and I took some time yesterday to start going through the things at dad’s house.  The closest anyone lives to Denver is three hours, so we all wanted to get as much done as possible so that less responsibility will fall upon Melanie.  My wonderful sister-in-law, Rhonda (dark blue Bronco’s t) scrubbed her poor fingers to the bone.  Together; sisters, brothers, nieces, cousins, in-laws and Aunts, we all make a great team.  Melanie and Pat are the executors of the estate, Misti is going to deal with all of the financial stuff and I’m going to deal with his business.  The boys hustled to get U-hauls and pack.  Rhonda and Melanie’s daughters (Breanna, front row, maroon jacket, Sagan and Elisha, front row black coats and Elizabeth, back row, black coat) packed and cleaned the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Dad’s sisters, Barbara (red sweater), Karen (green vest), Mary Lou, Kathy (white shirt) and Susan stayed with Dad at the hospital.  Together they prayed with him and never left him except when it was time to have his bed changed. 

Melanie (orange sweatshirt) and I went back to the hospital around 7:30 pm so the girls could go to dinner.  They were worn out and not planning to return.  We had to wait a while to go into Dad’s room because they were finishing up the bed and vacuuming up the gunk in his throat.  We finally got to go in and Melanie and I, as so often has happened this week, broke down.  My Aunt’s all decided they couldn’t leave quite yet and took off their coats to stay with us for a little while longer.  Dad was having a really hard time breathing, so Teresa (I don’t want to say the nurse, because the nurses were so wonderful, more like sisters than nurses) gave him some more painkiller.  He was all shaved and cleaned up, with clean sheets and freshly fluffed pillows propping him up.  My Aunt Kathy proposed that we all say a prayer and we began to recite the Our Father.  It was followed by a sweetly worded request by Aunt Kathy for Jesus, Grandma, Grandpa and Aunt Betty to come and gather Dad home.  We took a couple more minutes and then the chatter began.  Any time you have five women in a room it’s inevitable.  And then dad took a breath followed by a very long pause.  We all moved in closely and began crying . . . or whaling.  He took a couple of more breaths, swallowed, and then his heart stopped at around 8:30 p.m.  Aunt Susan said he was waiting for his buff and fluff, he wanted to go out looking good.  Even Teresa was crying.

Melanie immediately called Misti so she and the boys could come.  Patrick told me that the call came just as they moved the very last piece of Dad’s beautiful antique furniture out of the house.  There have been many miraculous moments this week, the least of which is that it was relatively quick and painless.  Honestly, I felt such a huge sense of relief that I didn’t feel that much sadness last night.  I couldn’t bear watching him suffer so.  We all gathered in the hotel bar for an improvised Irish Wake, it seemed fitting.  There was quite a lovely group gathered in Dad’s honor.  And we did toast to him.

We will have a simple service at the Scientology Chapel here in Denver Friday afternoon.  And we’ve decided to have a huge blow-out in May when we spread his ashes over the land he so cherished.

Life is extraordinary, and then, you die.

My dad had a stroke on Saturday.  Yesterday we decided to take him off of life support, as per his adamantly expressed and documented wishes.  We didn’t know if he wanted to be an organ donor.  Fortunately, my five siblings, his five sisters and I all easily agreed on the decisions we had to make.  And there were so many.

Do we try to donate kidneys and liver?  That means prolonging the life support for sixteen extra hours in order to determine if there are donor matches.  It also means that he would technically die in the operating room without loved ones nearby.  Finally, we could prolong his life these extra 16 hours and if he doesn’t have a cardiac arrest within 60 minutes of life-support removal we can’t use the organs anyway.  Too many cons.

He smoked for probably 50 years.  There is no way he is a candidate for major organ donation.

We decided that something is better than nothing, he will officially be a tissue donor, they can use his skin, his corneas and his bones.  And if a recipient chooses, they can contact us after receiving their new parts.  That would be so neat.

This morning I had a chance to be alone with him for a couple of hours.  He was able to squeeze my hand in response to my questions.  I explained everything that was going on and let him know that we would take away all of the life support once his sisters had gotten a chance to say goodbye. 

So now it’s 2 am, the TV has some fat-burner x-treme commercial on, with the volume so low I can’t make out a word.  My sister, Melanie, who has spent every night by his side since Sunday, is sleeping with her head on the bed and her hand on his.  And dad is struggling to breathe.  He has a piece of tape on his arm that says 1/7.  It’s taped to something that’s poked into his skin that has no tube running from it.  All of the tubes have been removed and the equipment wheeled out.  His breathing has been very, very labored.  He’s been on his back since late Saturday night and now he’s developing a fever.

Some stuff I learned:  statistically, smokers are 80% more likely to develop pneumonia as a result of surgery.  Smokers are twice as likely as others to have strokes.  Smoking constricts the blood vessels and makes them brittle.  Want to quit smoking?  Come see my dad.  He’s at Swedish Medical Center in Denver.  Frankly, I hope he’s not here much longer, the suffering is unbearable.  His extremeties are sometimes cold and now I’m told that it doesn’t even matter because he can’t feel anything anyway.  But I still want him to be warm.  We have him on a sedative for comfort and an air hunger suppressant.

Before today I never really registered the meaning of the phrase “death rattle”.  I’ve heard it before, but I never, ever imagined what it meant.  Dad started with a rolling snore, long deep drags of air followed by very shallow breathing.  He has progressed to pulling air with his diaphragm.  His breathing is so labored and his airway is getting blocked about every thirty minutes.  I understand that his physical reflex to cough will begin to diminish.  His whole body is working so hard to pull air that his chin moves down and since his head is tilted back, he looks like a baby bird; so hungry.

His stroke was caused by blockage of three major arteries to his brain on the right side.  The cat scan told us that there was no electricity on the right.  No synapses talking to each other.  The only thing that works are the instinctive impulses, like a baby sucking.  The blockage caused a major brain swelling.  One of the possible early treatments was to open up the side of his skull and allow his brain to mushroom outside the skullcap assuming that the swelling would finally reduce.  But this treatment has never been successful for anyone over 50.  If he were miraculously able to recover right now, he would probably never be able to walk on his own.  He would always need a wheelchair and 24-hour care.  His vision would go from 180 degrees (which is what we normally have) to 90.  Dad turned 62 in November, this photo is from our trip last October to see my brother Patrick in Dubuque.

At 6 am yesterday morning, after four hours of sleep I bolted upright . . . Lucy! His beloved Cocker Spaniel.  She must be heartbroken.  Whenever dad spoke about Lucy he transformed into a four-year-old boy instinctively wagging his whole body as if he were Lucy’s tail.  He would tell about their routines as lovingly as a mother with her new child.  I don’t know how she’ll get over it.  I know how she feels.  I just want to take her home with me, but I’m afraid Miss Peppo would be terribly unkind.  I wish she could go with him.  I know she would if she could.  To that big doggie park in the sky where daddy doesn’t have to pick up poo and you get lots of bacon cookies.

Dad’s a Scientologist.  His people have been very kind, available and supportive.  When we were ready to take away all of the life support, they came to do an Assist.  It lasted only about fifteen minutes, but I almost passed out, TWICE and then I almost threw up.  Now, I am a very healthy person and I can spend an hour on the Precor Machine, no problem.  But something happened in this room, which doesn’t feel too full with six people in it, mostly been the case since we arrived.  There was all of this hot energy coming from the center of the bed, spiraling out like a vortex.  I was standing on the side of the bed, in the middle holding the hands of Corban and Melanie.  I kept looking across at Trevor, Patrick and Misti and I think Trevor was looking at the monitor, because the bells were going crazy.  Or else he was looking at the points the Auditor was suggesting.  I ended up having to sit down twice in fifteen minutes.  Trevor felt the heat and Patrick almost passed out too.  The woman who was doing the Assist is quite a powerful woman. 

The one really wonderfully great thing is being here with my brothers and sisters.  My brothers never cease to make us all laugh and we have all been telling lots of stories.  My aunts have loads of goodies about dad growing up and we have all grown so much closer.  I feel very supported. 

My friends really rallied for me.  I called Marci on Sunday just to give her a heads up and before I knew it I had Stephanie in my living room Monday morning, helping me shove an absurd amount of ridiculous clothes choices into an enormous suitcase.  Leilani called me and emailed me with critical lists.  Marci came through with cold winter shoes, which I love.  Melanie and my niece, Elizabeth call these little boots my “California Snow” shoes.  David brought me organic goodies from Jimbo’s, found me flights, rental car and hotel for all of us, he gave me the number for my Dad’s pastor (how do you do it?) and picked up a new headset. 

Mel’s daughters are all here too, Sagan, Elisha, Breeanna and Elizabeth.  And mom and Keln are here too.

I’m so grateful to have you all in my life right now.  I feel sad, tired, scared, and irreversibly altered.  But I know you’ll help me through it.

Last week I pulled out the refrigerator and there were probably twenty under there.  I guess that’s where they end up!  Click the pic for more photos on Flickr.

I can shoot the bands across the room and she’ll chase after them.  Occasionally she’ll actually bring one back to me.  More often than not, she attacks them, stretches them, lays on them and generally pretends that they are mice. 

Right now she’s glaring at me, for some reason she’s afraid of my camera.  Every time I get it out she hides and glares at me around the corner.

I noticed it right away.  He looks like my brother, Corban.  But the funny thing is, he doesn’t look like Corban’s identical twin, Trevor.  But Trevor and Corban look so much alike that people who don’t know both of them mistake one for the other.  And Nathan is kind, like Corban.  In an almost vulnerable way.  Not that Trevor isn’t, it’s just different.

The photo on the left is Corban.  Center photo is Nathan, taken by Leah Peah yesterday.  Trevor on the right.
 OK, I don’t have ideal photos to demonstrate my observation.  Hopefully you can at least see what I mean.  Corban and Nathan have the same eyes and a similar smile.

 It is also interesting to note that much of Nathan writing and art has to do with cultural identity.

I was at a job interview or a client meeting.  I was led into a room where two other people were waiting to meet with me.  The room was an enclosed loft, with windows overlooking a courtyard.  We heard a vile screaming of profanities, like Linda Blair in the Exorcist (I was going to put a link here, but the site scared me so much I don’t want to propagate that energy).  My associates looked out the window and we could tell that the screaming beast was circling the room and coming up the stairs.  I was so frightened, I tried to hide, but the door was a half door and I could not hide behind it.  And that’s when I decided that I did not need to be afraid, because love would protect me.  I sat back and decided to radiate love to this man child.  He was the size of a child, but looked aged.  He had long curly, light-brown hair.  As soon as I decided to love him, he became calm and the terror subsided.

Possible interpretations:  The man/child is my masculine side and represents an anger that lives inside me.  Of course, there’s the whole love thing, and I really feel like that was an example of lucid dreaming.  Consciousness and actual thinking happened while I was dreaming.

The bridge dream is more of a snapshot.  I am on a vast metal bridge.  It is very strong.  A man appears with his two tiny dogs.  Both dogs are emaciated and bloody.  I am so sad for the dogs and ask about how the dogs got that way.  And then one of the dogs falls off the bridge.

Interpretation:  I have lots of water dreams: sailing, surfing, all kinds of fantastic aquatic feats.  But I can only recall one other bridge dream.  But after a little research, I can see that a bridge is a very powerful dream symbol.  My dream book, says that bridge is “a frequent symbol in dreams and mythology, the bridge spans an abyss.  It is often a place of danger and of falling; you are crossing a boundary.  Uniting, re-establishing relationships; contradictions are bridged.  If the dreamer has self-confidence, the fear of the abyss may be going away, but although the bridge becomes wider and is safe, it is still a place of danger.  The condition of the bridge is important.  How are you feeling on the bridge?  When you have crossed the bridge, you have done a lot of inner work.  Changes have taken place (you have reached the other shore).  In the Koran, the bridge over hell is as thin as a thread and can only be crossed by the righteous.  In Celtic lore, there exists a bridge of horror that is also as narrow as a thread.  The bridge always spans an abyss in which spirits, the devil, or God resides.  Often in the dream one must bring a sacrifice in order to cross the bridge.  For that reason we often see chapels on the bridge where the sacrifice has to be offered.  Jung related the symbol of the bridge to the unconscious.  He saw the unconscious as different islands in the sea.  For him, the bridge connected these islands and is therefore a symbol of working toward a strong consciousness.”

I was not crossing the bridge, and in fact, I was stationery; not concerned with reaching one side or the other.  It was as if the bridge was simply a backdrop.  But I was very aware that it was a bridge.  Of course, the dogs are a whole other set of symbols:  dogs, wound, blood  . . .

On October 7, 2006, Jack Straw, Britain’s ex-foreign secretary said that women who wear veils over their face can make community relations harder.  Tony Blair later backed him up when he said that Muslim veils are “a mark of separation.”

A few days later, I was looking for a book and stumbled upon Snow by Orhan Pamuk.  The novel is based in Turkey and looks at issues which create feelings of political, cultural and religious separation.  The central conflict is a group of young women who have committed suicide.  Some believe it is because they are being forced to remove their head scarves – they’re not able to go to school and their family businesses are threatened.  Of course, in the opinion of some of the characters, the girls would never commit suicide because of religious reasons. 

I know that Mr. Blair and Mr. Straw are doing their best.  However, I have a difficult time understanding how they can believe they know what is best for Muslim women.  Why can’t they see that the scarves are in fact, a symbol of the strength these women have in their beliefs, a symbol of their discipline?  Why can’t we all just focus on what makes us the same, and not what makes us different?  What truly causes separation is a belief in right and wrong.  The next time you think someone else is wrong; their opinion or their action, I propose that you focus instead on what you have in common.  And remember what His Holiness the Dali Lama says about forgiveness.

After reading Snow I have a little more insight into the possibilities of what could be happening in the minds of women who are criticized for wearing a head scarf or “veil.”  I recall back in the early days of the US conflict with the Taliban after 9-11, the head scarf was a key symbol uniting Americans with the oppressed people of Afghanistan.  But where were the media interviews with women who wanted to wear head scarves and in fact, believed with every stitch of their being that covering their hair was central to the reverence they show to their G-d?  I feel betrayed by the media.  I was not given both sides of the story.  I feel sad that these women, these pious, modest and compassionate women have been so misunderstood by over 300 million people. 

I recommend Snow by Orhan Pamuk.  About a week after I purchased it, Orhan Pamuk received the Nobel Prize for Literature.  It is a complicated read but developing an understanding of the culture that Turks truly experience is one way that we will move closer to not feeling separate from Turks specifically and Muslims in general.  And one step in that direction is what gives us the ability to wish for their safekeeping and success in their quest for endless joy.  The same quest as our own.

Incidentally (or not), lots of interesting stuff happening between France and Turkey right now.

When walking on my beach in “keep it funky” Leucadia aka Qualeudia, I am often taken by the lovely sand textures.  I say my beach, but it’s not really mine.  It’s just where I walk. 

I  have taken many photos of the natural sand and stone sculptures.  Obviously I could use some photography improvements.  I’m working on it.  I am not yet a professional photographer.  And they aren’t Photoshop enhanced either.

I particularly like this one, it looks like a person, albeit an armless person, but a person nonetheless, doesn’t it?  Or maybe it’s an alien.  Whatever, or whomever she is, she looks peaceful, sweet and contemplative, no?

There is something about her that makes me want to keep looking at her.  And the sand almost looks like it could be outer space.

I was so impressed by Maria Shriver!  She put together an amazing line-up:  Arnold (protestors too), Martha Stewart, Anna Quindlen, Tyra Banks, Fergy (I never liked her before, but she was amazing!), Phyllis George, Karen Hughes, Elle MacPherson, Suze Orman, Tim Russert (wow, I had no idea, I really want to read his book now), plus a whole bunch of powerful corporate women too. 

Maria Shriver was a fantastic speaker.  Which is a lot more than I can say about Martha Stewart!  Martha showed us a PowerPoint of her houses and all their special decorations.  Whoopee.  Anna Quindlen needs Toastmasters.  She read her whole speech.  You can’t see me right now, but my eyes are crossing. 

Maria was personable, authentic, funny and inspirational.  Her mother, Eunice Kennedy Shriver, sister of JFK, was there.  They had an obvious bond.  She joked about her mother staying “on her”.   

It is such a breath of fresh air in this atmosphere of religion in government to have an open-minded perspective.  Maria personally went to India to talk HH into coming to California.

His Holiness, as one can expect, was very inspiring.  But who knew he would be hilarious?  Maria introduced him by saying his values:  compassion, happiness, joy and love.  Which explains his stand-up routine.  He was silly!  Halfway through the talk he produced a red visor from out of nowhere and put it on.  Maria joked with him about it and he said that it helped him because the lights were so hot.  The Dalai Lama in a visor!

But he is the Dalai Lama, after all and he did have some wisdom to impart.

He told us that to forgive, we must learn to separate the action from the person.  Reject the act itself, but show the person love.  The action is unacceptable but the person is lovable.  We must show warmheartedness to all individuals.

His Holiness told us that women can become powerful leaders.  But first we must learn that we cannot be leaders in the way that men are leaders.  We’ve been trying incorrectly to follow the model initiated by men.  Women have to learn how to balance our thinking selves and our hearts. 

His Holiness ended his talk with the suggestion that our system of education is missing one component.  We must learn to impart warmheartedness.  He suggested secular moral teachings.  We must accept all religious beliefs and even people without.

HH rocks.