The Apology Room

One of the nice things about taking massage classes for my certificate is that we get to work on each other and then we get to be the bodies that are worked on. So four nights a week we get a massage. Usually the first night in the massage is not too good. We are still struggling with finger placement and body mechanics. The massages are painful and not fluid. There is a distinct difference between when an instructor touches us and when a student does. That’s just years of experience.

But the nightly massage is wonderful. Just being touched is such a healing feeling. That one of the mail reasons I am getting into massage. I want to help people. I want them to be able to let go of the bad and painful and start living the good and the healing. I cried last night during my massage. Not the huge bawling tears of an entire breakdown. Just the streaming tears of missing my father fully. Roger was working on my scapula and hit a tender spot and I apologized for jumping. He said “There’s no apologizing here.” Suddenly I was thrown back a year when dad and I would tell each other that the room was a “No Apology Zone” and no one needed to apologize for anything. For a while we kept apologizing for everything- him wetting himself, me not moving fast enough, him spilling something, me snapping at him, him not being able to do something, me not being able to understand what he wanted. Finally I told him we weren’t allowed to apologize to each other anymore. The situation was so awful and we were in it together, there was no need for anyone to take blame or responsibility. It worked for us, even on the days when one of us couldn’t stop crying, or felt that pain of guilt for not being able to do more. 

So last night when Roger said I didn’t have to apologize it suddenly brought back that feeling of being with dad and knowing that no matter what happened or what we said, we were safe and it was okay.

I suddenly missed him so much I almost couldn’t breathe.

I am not allowing myself to really feel his loss right now. That suppression of emotion manages to burst out at hard times. Like right now, when I am typing this sitting at work with tears streaming down my face. Hard to hide that from the people who come in since everyone here is so empathetic and kind.

Less than a month till the anniversary. It just seems so unreal and really, really not cool. I can feel myself starting to unravel. It is like a spiraling feeling where I don’t know where the end is going to be. Probably me sitting in the middle of my living room in the middle of the night rocking back and forth holding something soft. I have overbooked, over worked, over obsessed about everything all in the hopes of maybe barreling through this time without feeling anything. I don’t think I’m going to make it. The emotions have to come out one way or another. I can hold them back for only so long.

Today, however, I have to keep them in check. No crying receptionists!

I’ll go back to looking at puppies online and shopping for apartments near the beach. See, doing it again. Suppress the pain and maybe it will go away. (I know that is not how it works, but it is what the option is right now.)

The tears won't stop

Last week the tears started. I was sitting at my computer in the middle of the night, playing a game online and listening to dad breathe. Sitting up to take care of him when he needs. Relishing the time I have with him, even if he's asleep through most of it. And suddenly I started crying. Not sobbing, no hiccuping or heaving. Not the kind of crying I have done only twice since his diagnosis. Not the kind of crying where you can feel your heart breaking and can't get into a small enough ball in an effort to make the pain go away. Just these tears that started to fall cleanly from my eyes. Nothing triggered it- they just started to fall. And they wouldn't stop. Haven't stopped since. Even as I sit here typing this there are tears running down my face.

Little things tip them off. Sometimes it's a memory. Today I remembered how he used to sing to Emily when she was a baby. He would sing "So talk to me....like babies do." I thought it was the cutest thing in the world. Thought about the endless dinners where we played grossout in an effort to make someone lose their milk through their nose. Or laugh so hard my mother would choke on her corn. Yesterday I thought about the conversations we would have about taking care of myself physically. In high school when I was dancing a lot he and I would talk for hours about not starving myself and remembering that I was an athlete. Sometimes we would wake up before mom and Cristin and we would go on a run around the neighborhood before the sun came up. Then return home and split a smoothie with a bagel. The day before that I had a flash of when I had TMJ my junior year of high school. The doctor told us we had to keep it iced. I remember sitting on the floor of the living room, leaning against the couch with my head wrapped in an ace bandage like a brain patient because my dad said it would be easier than holding the ice up to my face. We laughed at me for hours. There are so many good memories to pull from. And for that I am so truly blessed.

Sometimes its thinking about the future. The things he won't be around for. This christmas. My wedding. I never wanted a wedding day where the prevailing thought was that he was up there watching and would be so proud. I want him to be there with me physically and he won't be. My babies. They'll never know him. He'll never sit with me in the hospital and tell me how proud he is of me. He'll never hold them in those strong hands. He won't be around to call when my son has questions and needs guidance. Or when my daughter is pissed at me and needs to vent to someone, only to have him be able to explain to her where I am coming from because he knows me so well. Emily's passages through life. Her graduations, college life, soccer games, her wedding, her babies, her victories and defeats.

Lately it's the little things that happen every day that I know I am going to miss more than anything. The sound of his voice calling me sweetheart. The look he gets in his eyes when he sees me. The sound of him telling me he loves me. The feel of his skin. The sound of his breathing. The way he lifts up his arms when he wants a hug. Sitting next to him and watching "24". Or "X-Men" for the fiftieth time. Holding his hand and feeling him hold it tight. Knowing that we share a connection I have never had with anyone and will not have again. Just the way he does everything. He is amazing and kind and wonderful. Last night he woke up and we had to change his clothes. In my haste to turn the light on I knocked over my glass of water. After we laid him back down he asked if I needed help with the mess. And he was serious. He worries about everyone but himself. That is amazing. And wonderful.

I love my father more than anything in the world. He is amazing. He is half of me. I am so proud of this man. And so very very sad for what is going to be lost when he goes. Because even if I had everything he had ever owned, in an effort to keep him with me, it's the things that will be forever lost that I mourn the most. One day soon the oxygen machine will be turned off. The bed will be empty. The sheets and towels and pillows will be put away. The carnation shakes will not have to be made. The plastic cups will be thrown away. The pills will be tossed. Everything will end and he will be gone. So the tears come. They've been falling the entire time I have been writing this. They come without warning. They are hard to stop. And maybe they're not supposed to stop.