that hour we spent talking to dish network

Jack and I just spent the last hour on the phone with Dish Network.

Waste of time?  I don't know.

What are you supposed to do when your local NBC affiliate suddenly goes off the air because it can't reach an agreement with your tv provider so you realize you aren't going to get to watch the last week of football before the playoffs.  And if it goes anything like the last time this happened when Fox 13 couldn't come to terms with Dish and went off the air for weeks and only just resolved it all barely in time for the start of the football season--well, it seems likely we won't see the playoffs (playoffs!) or the super bowl and, well, it was concerning.

And since Jack had surgery on his thumb this afternoon and was a little medicated, it seemed like as good a time as any to tell Dish we either wanted our local NBC affiliate back or we wanted out of our contract.  And of course, they insisted they were working on the affiliate issue 24/7--seriously? 24/7?--and there wasn't any way they could waive the early termination fee, which, wait, there's nobody at Dish who can waive the fee and let us out of the contract?  Well then we need to talk to your supervisor.  So that was the story, one supervisor after another until we were talking to the secretary to the president of Dish.  Seriously?  And they all had the same script.  Which is, I'm just gonna say, really frustrating.

Pretty early on in the call, Jack realized Dish wasn't going to let him out and he didn't really want to change providers because we like those Dish hoppers. 

After an hour it was time for another pain pill for Jack.  And by then, the secretary to the president had set us up for half price HBO and Showtime and a $20 discount for some number of months that added up to more than the early termination fee. 

So we're still with Dish.  Paying $35 less per month for some amount of time.  And according to Jack's surgeon, in three months he'll be so glad he had the surgery.

the time when piano music returned

A few weeks ago, I told Jack I missed having a piano in the house.

When Stuart was in fifth grade, we went to the music store one night to rent a trumpet for him to learn to play in the grade school band.  We left a few hours later with a rental trumpet and a few days later a lovely piano was delivered to our house.  I was so excited to have a piano in our home remembering the joy I'd felt as a kid after hours of practicing and developing a love for sonatinas.

That night was a turning point for our family.  We changed from being a family who listened to music to being a family who played music.  Created music.  Loved music even more.

The kids all took piano lessons in addition to learning to play various instruments.  I remember hearing mothers complain that their kids wouldn't practice their piano lessons.  That was not a problem we had.  Our kids loved to play and if anything, there were quarrels over whose turn it was to play the piano. 

There was always piano music in the background of our lives.  It was a sweet gift.  A blessing to see and hear my children creating and enjoying something so beautiful.

When Stuart graduated from college, we gave him our piano as a graduation gift.  It seemed fitting to have the music continue in his home.  I was pleased when Jessie and Cory bought a piano for their home and when Herschel and Whitney inherited a piano from her grandmother. 

But there was no piano music in our home. 

Until last week.  Last week one night, on the way home from work, Jack made a turn from our normal commute and drove to the piano store.  The same company who had sold us our first piano.   We went inside, me unable to stop smiling.  We discussed the pros and cons of upright bersus baby grand, looked around and found a used upright piano that had just come into the store the night before.  The previous owner had signed the bill of sale and left as we walked in. 

It was, obviously, meant to be ours.  And now it is.

It was delivered on December 22.  Stu and his girls came over to check it out.  As I finished wrapping the last of the Christmas gifts in my bedroom, I heard the familiar sound of him playing some of his favorite memorized pieces.  I will easily admit to finding tears in my eyes in that moment.  And again when Stu brought me a copy of my favorite book of sonatinas--the book from my teenage years that I had played over and over again.

And now the piano music is back in our home again.

this christmas memory i want to remember

I want to remember this afternoon.

I had this idea that maybe if I bought four tickets for the matinee performance of The Nutcracker at Ballet West on the day after Christmas, and had Jack give one to my mom for Christmas, along with an invitation to lunch at Siegfried's, the German deli right next door to the theater, then maybe she would agree to join us--Jack, Jr, and me. 

Since my dad died, she hasn't wanted to go out much, other than to church on Sundays and frequently, Sunday dinner at my house.  I hoped she might come with us, and for a couple of hours, be able to simply enjoy herself.

So Jack gave her the ticket yesterday along with a hand-printed note, inviting her to lunch at Siegfried's at noon.  She agreed to go.

We picked her up at noon in Jr's car.  He drove us to the door of Siegfried's and she and I went in to get in the line while Jr and Jack parked the car.  She immediately asked if I wanted to share a reuben sandwich, which, hello, of course.  Siegfried's also has amazing fried potatoes and mom added a piece of apple streudel that we all shared.

Lunch was tasty.

We finished in plenty of time to walk the short distance to the theater.  We rode the elevator to the mezzanine and found our seats.  As we settled in, mom leaned over and said to me, "You done good, kid."  And then we were transported to the beauty and strength and grace that is ballet.

It could not have been a better afternoon.

swings and more

writing and healing

Two things.

First, I've realized in the past few weeks that writing is healing for me.  Painful perhaps for any readers, but so helpful for me.

Second, while I'm wondering how people walking by me can miss the hole in my heart, I also wonder whether or not they've been through the same loss of a parent.  Are we both members of that same club?  Because I can't see it on their faces, which makes me think that either they haven't joined the club yet, or they are in the club and there is hope for the future.  So there.  Hope for healing.


Also, I may be feeling better this morning because we're getting a new swingset in our back yard today.  It's supposed to be for the grandkids, but I'm thinking it will be a great form of exercise for me too, right?

pictures coming later...

more time please

I've learned a new thing in the past almost three weeks.

I thought I was pretty good at keeping my feelings hidden.  Apparently I am not.

I've also learned another new thing.

People, especially those who care about you, want you to feel better.  Soon.  Please.  Because it's uncomfortable to not be able to make someone feel better. 

I've read about these two things before, written by people who have experienced great loss.  Some have experienced hugely tragic losses--the loss of a child or the unexpected loss of a family member.  Losing my 91-year-old dad who had lived with dementia for over five years was nothing like that, I'm sure.  But it is hard in its own way. 

So when people who may or may not know about his passing ask me, casually, how am I doing, in my mind, I'm surprised that they are asking how I am instead of them being able to see the huge hole in my heart and instead asking me whatever has happened and how can I cope and go on with that gaping wound and shouldn't someone tend to that injury?

Perhaps I am too dramatic in my head. 

It probably doesn't help that my kid's health has been up and down over the past six weeks too.  I'm not a fan of saying stuff isn't fair--thanks to my high school teacher who printed in pastel-colored chalk across one whole wall of chalkboard, "LIFE ISN'T FAIR" because he was weary of students saying stuff wasn't fair--so I rarely say stuff isn't fair, but seriously.  It isn't fair for a kid to know more about health insurance and liver enzymes and blocked liver ducts than anybody else I know. 

So there's that.

I know people care about me so much and want so much to help or make it better or somehow ease the pain. And the hugs and pats and support are so very appreciated.  And even after this short amount of time, there are moments, minutes, even an hour, when I can get buried in a project that requires me to think and focus and for that brief bit of time, I'm not thinking about my dad and my kid.  Or my mom, which is a whole other concern. 

But the thing is, these feelings are always there, just below the surface, so if someone asks me earnestly how I'm doing, I'll likely say I'm okay but apparently my face gives me away.  I thought I was doing a really good job of keeping it all inside, but in the past two days I've realized that apparently I can keep it under check for about five seconds but if you look at me for longer than that, you'll likely see the pain seeping through.  And you'll want to help and I'll start to cry and it will be a mess.  Sorry about the mess.

The truth is, I'm doing the best I can right now.  I miss my dad.  Missing him feels sad.  I'm worried about my kid.  And that feels sad.  And worrisome.  Because I'm me, the worrier.

I've heard that time helps with the pain of loss.  I'm hanging on tight to that, hoping sometime I'll feel not so sad.  I don't expect I'll ever feel the way I felt before my dad died, because life isn't the same with him gone. 

But today was a better day for my kid so that feels good.  And I'll keep hoping for more of that. 

more sunshine

For years now, Jack has wanted to take out a couple of big trees in our yard.  One is a pine tree on the front corner of our lot, right next to the sidewalk, that used to grow in the company of another pine and a blue spruce in the neighbor's yard.  But a couple of years ago, the neighbor had his two trees cut down, leaving our pine the sole tree, with its south half barren because it was previously protected by the now missing spruce and pine on the other side of the fence.  To be honest, our pine did its best to fill in that bare space on its south side, but it also always did its best to fill up the flower beds, lawn, and rain gutters on the house with fallen pine needles and cones.  Lawn mowers hated that pine, especially its cones that would shoot out like missiles whenever one of them was discovered by the blades of the mower and would explode and fly across the yard at any unsuspecting victim who happened to be wandering nearby.

During the last microburst rainstorm a few months ago, our newly remodeled basement was flooded with two inches of water when the rain gutters on the house couldn't effectively move water away from the roof line because of the winter-long collection of pine needles clogging them.  Two inches of water in a basement doesn't sound like much, but really, it is a lot when it's soaking through papers and books and dog beds and furniture and also newly laid carpet (but so glad we went with commercial grade, no pad required carpet squares last year).

The other tree Jack has wanted to remove is a silver maple.  It too must have been at least 30 years old and sat at the back corner of our yard.  It was huge.  Massive.  Many branches, a trunk so big I couldn't wrap my arms around it.  And while I loved that it tracked the seasons amazingly well (it always knew spring was coming and would begin to green up before I sensed the end of winter, also knew when fall was around the corner even though it felt like bright, hot summer still to me), it gave me a feeling that no matter what was going on in the world, the world was still right because the tree knew.  Spring follows winter every year, summer is next, then fall, and then dark winter.  But then fresh bright green spring again.  The tree knew and the world was constant and safe and right.

That tree also took very seriously its commandment to multiply and replenish the earth.  Every year, it sent forth millions--I don't think that's an exaggeration--but literally millions of its seeds to sprout in every bit of bare soil in my gardens.  Every year it tried to reproduce a forest of its seedlings in my gardens.  Honestly, I loved that tree for all of its gifts, but I really didn't want hundreds of it growing in my yard.  Or even tens.  Or more than just that one.  So every year, I spent a fair amount of time, pulling up countless tiny little two-inch seedlings, and every year, I pulled up more than a few six or twelve-inch tall sprouts that I'd missed during previous weedings, and every now and then, I dug up a young treeling that was certain it was going to establish a home in a bed in my gardens.

During one of the recent wind storms--which sounds so uneventful, but really was very eventful, tipping over trees everywhere, knocking down power lines, blowing away shed roofs and trampolines--anyway, apparently that wind storm got a little bossy with our maple.  A few days after the storm, we found one of the huge branches split nearly off the tree, laying across the roof of our shed.  Luckily, it hadn't crushed the shed, but probably only because half of it was still attached to the tree.  But poor tree.  A major limb hanging on but nearly torn off.  Seems to me that must have been painful.  And then we noticed the split down the back side of the tree.  Insects? Disease?  Lightning strike?  We don't know.  But we knew the tree was in peril of splitting and falling on our house, or shed, or block wall, or maybe even the neighbors' houses.  It was a huge tree.

Like I said, Jack had wanted to cut down those trees for years and I had argued against it because who can cut down a beautiful living thing without good reason?  But then I realized, we had good reason.  Both of the trees were doing damage to our home.  And it wasn't the trees' fault, they just grew where they were planted.  But they had been planted, wrong tree, wrong place.  Both of them are park trees.  Or forest trees.  But not neighborhood, small-lot trees.

So for Jack's birthday, I told him I was agreeing we could have the trees removed.  As long as we agreed to buy and plant new trees that would be the right trees in the right places in our gardens.

Jack knew this was a hard thing for me to come to, but he knew I'd come to it in my own time and on my own terms.  He said it was the best gift I'd ever given to him.

After shedding a few tears, I looked around and found a company that could remove these trees safely, who would make sure they didn't come back in suckers all around the yard, and who would take them to their yard to be made into mulch to be sold to add back to the earth.  I found that company and their guy came out and gave us a bid and we made arrangements for them to bring a crane and a crew with lots of equipment to remove the trees.  But they couldn't come for six weeks.

They showed up bright and early yesterday morning with the crane and the bucket truck and the backhoe and the dumpster and a bunch of smart, capable guys who did a remarkable job working together and removing the trees.  Maybe it was all of the cool equipment they brought, or maybe it was how efficiently they worked, or maybe the events of the past few weeks put it all into perspective, but somehow, yesterday wasn't a sad day.  The grandkids all came over to watch the crane and we played together and laughed and some stayed for lunch and in the end, it was all okay.  Sometimes your perspective changes and things you thought would be really sad, end up being okay after you've endured truly hard things.  The trees being gone is okay.  We'll find some new great trees.  And time will heal the pain of losing my dad.  And Stu is back home from the hospital again, looking much better.

Sometimes you just need a little perspective.   What seems like it will be so very hard, ends up being not so hard at all.

And with the trees gone, there is more sunshine then ever in my gardens. And who can't use a little extra sunshine in today's world?