Wishing You an 88

Oh, Dad. It's been over a year since you've passed, and I'm pretty sure I've been through all the stages of grief in the appropriate amount of time and landed in a decent place; I've stopped thinking I can call you or wondering what I should make you for dinner. Or at least I had landed, and then the virus descended on us.

I can't tell you how often Judi and Rosie and Susan and I say to each other "thank goodness Dad wasn't alive for this, because he probably wouldn't have lived through it and would have died alone." As much as we would have wanted you with us longer, we'd never wish that on you.

So, Dad, now that you're gone...I want to thank you again for all that you did to make things easier for me after you left. The contents of that battered metal box and the yellow legal pad you kept drilling me with were the perfect executor tools. You told me, week after week, "I'm worried you're going to have too much to do" because I was the caretaker kid, and you knew that I would be doing most of the work to empty and sell the house and close out your accounts and disburse funds among us girls.

You made that as easy as you could, Dad - in fact, of all the loving things you did, that may have been the most love-filled, because over and over again I saw in your preparations how well you'd thought everything out.

Even the week you decided to stop dialysis and we knew your days were numbered, you handed me a calendar with June 20 circled on it, and it said "If the house is not sold by now, you need to pay <XX>." I still have that calendar somewhere. I couldn't throw it away - it was so YOU.

Still, there are some things I wish I'd asked you during all those evenings I'd sit working while you watched TV. Why didn't I find out more about you as a young man? Why didn't I ask more about Grandma and Grandpa, and more about how you and Mom were as a young couple, other than that you walked up to her in her fur coat after the photography class you both took with a cheesy pickup line: "Is your chauffeur picking you up?" Oh, I also know that you gave her an ironing board for her first birthday with you, which seems an odd gift, but Mom said you told her that's when you knew you wanted to marry her, and you got the ironing board because it was something you'd need when you set up house together. Always thinking, Dad! And always frugal.

I wish I'd gotten to know you well before you got cancer. That was a turning point for you and I, because our relationship was a bit contentious before that. But when you got sick, and we were told it was life-threatening, you chose the hardest but most probable path to a longer life - removing an organ, which changed everything for you, and I remember standing outside the bathroom asking if I could help you while you sobbed in frustration behind that door until you learned how to manage your ostomy. Gosh, you were made of such strong stuff. And then later, when you had kicked cancer's ass but got kidney disease, and changed your life again so you could live... you humbled me with your determination and stoicism. You weren't perfect, but you were perfect for us, and my sisters and I are proud to take your spirit, your kindness, your intelligence (and your quirks) forward in our own lives.

And on this Father's Day, I want to thank you for continuing to show up. You know what I mean: how you used to look for 88 on license plates with me because I told you it was my lucky number, and now I swear I see 88 everywhere, and when I do I say "hi Dad" out loud if I'm alone, and I just think it if I'm not.

Sending you a big 88, Dad. Right out loud.

© 2020 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

"I'm Not Going Back"

I didn't realize February would be the month that claimed both of my parents - my mother on Valentine's Day 11 years ago, and my father just a year ago, from February 19 to the end of the month. He actually passed in the wee hours as March 1 was dawning - on one of my sister's birthdays, to her great dismay - but he did all the hard work of dying before then.

I'm still coming to terms with a few things, so I guess if you're reading this you're going to work through them with me.

You see, my father chose to die. Sure, he was 93. Yes, he had a number of health issues, any one of which might have flared up and ended his life in due course. And while I saw a steadily declining man, I also saw someone in full control of his mental faculties, who read the paper cover to cover every day, who still loved a great joke, who got excited about going to McDonald's and getting a free senior coffee, who couldn't wait for his mail to come and paid his own bills.

He even maddeningly offered me navigation ("get in the left lane - now!") every time I drove him to dialysis three times a week.

Dialysis. In the end, that was the method of choice to end his life. Or rather, the denial of it. He had it Monday-Wednesday-Friday for more than a decade, for four hours at a time. And last year, on February 19 - a Tuesday - he said, "I'm not going back."

"You know what this means, Dad? You want to die?" I didn't want him to know I was about to cry. And I was surprised he was setting this in motion. My father was completely terrified of dying. I always hoped he'd be one of those lucky people who drifted off in his sleep.  

"Yes, I know. Call the girls." I called my three sisters, rallying the troops from California and Arizona and right here in Maryland. Then I called hospice to get someone to come in and teach us how to help him pass on.

The next two weeks were mostly a blur.  At first, he was Dad - able to joke and talk and eat a little, and sit at the dining room table like he always did. Then the constant itching set in - part of the dying process when his body wasn't being cleaned - and he could only sit in his recliner, and in eight days he was bedridden, mostly unresponsive, struggling to breathe, and still trying to scratch. My sisters and I took turns scratching him when his hands feebly wandered over the itchy parts, his arms, his legs, his stomach. We measured his deathbed meds and tried to put oxygen on him and did whatever we could to open the door wide to the next world so he could walk through it and leave us behind.

We were told his skin might smell like ammonia as the toxins grew in his body - it never did. We were also told by his doctors, long before he chose this, that stopping dialysis was a peaceful way to go, that he would just drift away, but that was a lie, a lie that my father clung to when he pulled the dialysis plug. The hospice nurses said that not many people get those tranquil deaths when they stop dialysis. Every morning near the end, my father would wake up and realize he was still here, and with his eyes still shut, call out to himself "Why can't you just die?" It was hard to be him, and hard to be us. All those times I could help him before, and I could do nothing now but sit and tell him he'd been a good father and beg God silently to give him what he wanted. A way out.

I wasn't sure earlier why I started writing this, but now I am. Two things. First, I am worried I didn't do enough for my father while he was alive. Please - don't rush to reassure me. I was a good daughter. A great daughter, even. I know I did my very best. But now that I am rested and not harried from working and his care, now that I have the gift of time I didn't have before, I think about so many things I could have done to make him happier. So I say to you, dear reader, if you are still so fortunate to have one or both parents, do it all. Throw your fatigue out the window, and think of everything you can to love them better and better.

Second, I am awed at my father's courage. Because I knew how very much he feared death, to have beckoned it to come and get him was an act of phenomenal bravery. I hope I have some of that Joseph Brienza heroism in me.

And how funny - I just realized as I was writing the thoughts above that I chose the word "courage" to live by this year. I even have it engraved on a silver bracelet I wear next to my watch. Maybe he steered me toward that word. He never failed to tell me to get in that left lane when I was taking him to dialysis. It would be just like my father to tell me what direction to take now, too.

© 2020 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Robert Edwards

I had a doctor's appointment this morning. It was in a building just 20 minutes from my home; four floors up from the lobby by elevator. I was the first patient, and they took me immediately. I was in and out in 30 minutes. 

I left my house at 7:45; I would have been home by 9:15 even if I stopped to refuel. But I took a little detour.

When I rode the elevator back down to the lobby, as the doors opened, I saw a man grappling with his wheelchair. He was quite literally inching toward me, his feet useless to help him push forward, and his arms only able to make small movements. "Don't worry, I'll hold it," I said, and when he got close I stepped out, one hand over the electric eye so the door wouldn't shut, and one hand lifting chair and man just enough to make it over the threshold. He couldn't have weighed more than 90 pounds. "What floor?  I'll take you up and get you out," I said.

"Two," he said. "Thank you. So much."

"Oh, sure," I said. This was an easy gift for me to give. I could cover the ground in minutes. Based on what I'd witnessed before, it would have taken ages to travel 20 feet on his own.

I noticed his hair and clothes were dirty, but his sneakers - white ones - were spotless. Of course. He doesn't walk in them. Perhaps he just has someone put them on when he has to leave the house. We reached the second floor, and he said, "My doctor is down the hall."

So I pushed him forward, staring down at the way his hair separated in waves because it was a little greasy, and wondering if he had someone to help him get ready for this appointment; if he took a Metro Access service bus to get here, like the one I investigated for my father but decided was too impersonal for him. I'm no stranger to wheelchairs - my mother was in one for years before she passed - and when we reached the door, I knew it would be easiest to take him in backwards. I leaned down so he could hear me and said, "What's your name? I'll sign you in."

"Robert Edwards." He seemed so small, so solitary. It's been almost a year since my father died, and I know this helplessness. I watched my father bend under the enormity of it, day after day. And he was one of the lucky ones; he had a family member as caretaker and companion. It's hard to be alone and old and weak and sick. Or any one of those things.

I put on my best cheerful voice and said to the two women behind the glass, "Look! I found one of your patients in the elevator! Mr. Robert Edwards is in the house!" They looked up and barely glanced at him, and didn't crack a smile for me, either. No smile! After I was so jocular! I'm not used to being resisted like that. And I hated leaving Robert to the mercy of these joyless women, but I pushed down the guilt because, as I often say to others, we can't save everyone.

"You okay now, Robert?" I asked. He nodded, and I said, ridiculously, "Okay - have a nice day."

A nice day.

I think it's been a very long time since Robert had a nice day. But I sure hope he had a kind doctor, and someone to bring him back down the hall and into the elevator and back to the lobby. He deserves that.

© 2020 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Gone But Not Forgotten

It's been a long time since I posted on this blog. I'm doing my "big writing" elsewhere these days, and I sometimes forget about this space where I shared so many thoughts for a few years.

Today, this is the perfect place to write. 

I'm working on my 45th high school reunion. We're having it mid-September, and last night our committee met to decide such things as what will go on the tables, what our playlist might be, what awards we will give. We talked a little bit about what we will wear, and found our younger selves in the class picture. And at some point, we reviewed the posters of our "Gone But Not Forgotten" classmates. We had one poster for our deceased classmates at our 40th. Now we have two. Another 25 people have passed in the last five years. It's mind-boggling.

I know we are in an age bracket where that happens. The next reunion we will likely graduate to three posters. And as I looked at those hopeful teenage faces, some of whom barely made it to their twenties, others who died in accidents or from cancer or another health issue, I thought about those I knew. Sweet Grady, so tall and thin and quiet and kind. Beautiful Ruth, who lived up the street and would walk to the bus stop with her blond hair wafting behind her. Brilliant, talented Herb, who once made a drawing of me in our art class without me knowing and presented it to me afterward. Paul, who was an awkward, amusing kid, and Linda and Reeves and Carlos and so many others who, when I saw their pictures all together, created a montage of memories... a saucy grin, a gracious word, a shared joke, a busy hallway between classes.

It's a wonderful thing, to live in the hearts and minds of the people who knew us for scores of different, flash-by moments. To be gone but not forgotten. To be remembered with love.

© 2019 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

A Good Place

Since my father died and we registered his will, every week I get two or three letters in the mail from people I don’t know, encased in cheery pink and yellow envelopes or white business ones – and they all start out with some version of “Condolences on your loss" and then wind up for the pitch, "Hey - I’d like to buy your house, all cash, as-is condition, close in 30 days or less!”  It’s the sorriest version of a marketing message I’ve ever seen. It makes me mad, and every time I open one I say “Vulture!”

Emptying out the house after your final parent is gone pulls on every heartstring you have.  My family members have each played a role in clearing the collections of my parents’ lifetimes. We've tagged the things we want to keep and have taken multiple trips to Value Village to drop off giveaways: black trash bags stuffed with towels and bedding and throw pillows, boxes full of ancient kitchen tools and dishes and office supplies. My local sister will take the TV and caned chairs and the bed in the guest room. One friend took the Scan dining room set with the retractable leaves, the beige microfiber sleeper sofa purchased two years ago that’s hardly been used, and the one good navy leather recliner that Mom used to sit in. The matching recliner – worn at the top and arms from Dad’s head and hands and patched lovingly by me with adhesive-backed faux leather – was the one my father practically lived in. He refused multiple offers of a new one, stubbornly clinging to the one he'd broken in. It was so "him" I couldn’t bear the sight of it, so I begged my friend and contractor B. to take it away right after Dad died. He sent me a picture of it on the back of his truck before he hauled it off, his shadow visible on the tailgate, with the note “Got it.” It was like seeing my father’s body taken away a second time.

I’ve learned a lot of things since my father’s death, and in my role as executor of the estate. It’s a lot of work. And a lot of paper – including the aforesaid “let me buy your father's house” letters.  I didn’t foresee the number of threads that would need to be tied off after a death, or the pain that comes with otherwise simple administrative tasks. I make call after call to insurance companies and banks and lawyers and have to say over and over, “My father died in March, and….”  Everything has a little sting of finality: cancelling the home phone number, finding out when the property taxes must be paid, buying three-packs of 10x13” manila envelopes to package up requests to close out accounts, with letters of administration to prove I am the personal representative and my father’s death certificate. I am weary of seeing “Decedent’s name” and “Date of death” at the top.

Grief is a constant, but not the throw-yourself-on-the-bed-and-cry kind. It shows up in different ways and in the most inopportune places, like the grocery store, when I think for a second, “I’ll get Dad some steamed shrimp” or when I see a small elderly man bent over a walker like he used to, or find an old birthday card where he’s written, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”  Not having him to care for gives me back a big chunk of time, and for weeks, the idleness has made me restless and edgy…but little by little I’m getting on board with this new phase. I’m the bounce-back girl, after all. 

And yesterday – ah, yesterday something beautiful happened. My father’s house will settle in a week, and I invited the buyers to walk through and see if they want any remaining furniture before I do a final purge. I’d only met them in passing before, leaving the house as the husband and wife and two daughters – one of them an autistic 10-year-old – came to see it for the first time.

Just the husband showed up this time – Y, a round-cheeked, cheerful black-haired and bearded fellow with a short, sturdy body in a polo shirt and shorts and running shoes, with his sister E, almost a body-double, minus the beard. The first thing he did was tell me how sorry he was about my father. His sister, who doesn’t speak much English, held both hands to her heart and then out to me to tell me the same thing.  He said, “The second I walked into this house it felt like a good place, a happy place.”

I walked them around, pointing out the art deco bureaus that were my parents’ (and that my sisters and I hated to just give away, because they are now antiques) and he said, “I love these! I’ll refinish them!” E nodded and smiled, only understanding that this was good, her brother was happy, and sensing that I was pleased with whatever he was saying. The same thing happened with the heavy oak furniture in the guest room that had been my sister’s, and then mine, when we were teenagers. There’s a part in the front of each piece that is carved, a lovely block of ivy emerging from the wood, and Y said, “This is beautiful. And guess what? I am a wood carver. I will make you something and bring it to the closing.”

Are you supposed to love your buyer when you sell a house? Because I was starting to, and I know my father would have loved him, too.

When we went downstairs, he said he wanted to show E the back yard – which is massive for such a small house – and said to me, “This is so good for my autistic daughter. She hates to be out in public, and she can run and play here without other people around.” He spoke to E in Spanish, who grinned and shrugged, and Y turned to me to translate, “My sister has a business in El Salvador, but our parents are gone and it is just the two of us left.  I told her I want her to sell the business and come live with us permanently. I’m going to break through the wall here and make E a nice bedroom.”

Back upstairs, he told me his whole family is living on the top floor of a house right now, and the space they will have in Dad’s house is going to be magical to them. He told me what he’ll do with the house: pull up the carpets and redo the floors, paint, texture the ceilings to cover the imperfections, strip all the cabinets in the kitchen and paint them a dark color, and replace the countertops. I was charmed by his excitement, by the way his speech quickened and his eyes lit up. He couldn’t stop smiling. This was a man living a dream, and giving his family their first real home.

And then he said, “I want to make this easy for you. Don’t worry about emptying the rest of the house. Just move what you need and leave all the rest – I’ll take care of it.” I nearly cried with relief – I wouldn’t have to do that crazy, desperate, hysterical dance that happens when you’re moving out of a house and suddenly it’s midnight before your closing date and every last scrap of paper must go.

Before he and E left, he gave me his cell and told me he’d like me to come see it when he’s worked on it. As I drove home, I thought about what my father had said to me many, many times over several years: “I’m worried that you’re going to have to empty this house out mostly on your own.” Father love is powerful, and I think he must have had a hand in connecting Y with us to solve two problems: a daughter who needed some help, and a family who needed a home.

This I know: it will be a good place, a happy place.  

© 2019 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Another Chance To Get It Right

Remember how it felt at the start of every school year? Pencils sharpened and that fresh new expanse of lined paper stretching out with great promise, books at the ready, outfit picked out for the first day? There was always the possibility that this year you'd leave more time to study, work just a little harder on a project, make great new friends, ace math tests, maybe even participate in a history discussion with certainty.

That's what we do at the threshold of a calendar change like this one. As Oprah Winfrey said, "Cheers to a new year and another chance for us to get it right." It's like amnesty for our lives: turn in your mistakes, your social gaffes, your family squabbles, your jealousy; offer up the moments you chose disrespect over honor or went for the easy, embarrassing humor at someone's expense; surrender all those times you could have loved someone more but didn't. You can be better now!

I don't have a lot of regrets as a human being - I think I do a fairly good job of it - but I am imperfect as we all are. I am so arrogant about my usually facile writing skills that I don't always map out the right amount of time to complete a project or piece. I have a small lime-green wooden plaque on the wall in my kitchen that says, "Let me drop everything and work on your problem," given to me by a longtime pal who recognizes that I am more apt to put my own life on hold and my own commitments at risk to solve something for another. (Yes, I know that's a good thing...but to those on the other side of my commitments, not so much.) I wish I could weather the storm of my father's speedy decline this past year and at present without any resentment toward my sisters because I'm the one usually on deck, or the irritation I feel when my father snaps at me: my funny, sweet dad who is changing before my eyes. I'd like to be a better friend; more available and more impulsive about meeting up. I'd also like to take exceptional care of myself, but alas - that "drop everything" tendency affects this, too, so I'm kind of a mess! Yeah, I want to be better at all of this.

Like most people, I don't make resolutions anymore. But I like the idea that several friends have adopted, of choosing one word for the new year. (By the way, that is a terrible thing to ask a writer, because we turn over each one like we're tasting it and trying to figure out all of the ingredients. When you only get one word, it had better be a freaking good one.)

Because I tend to beat myself up so much over nearly everything, I chose this one: progress. My mother often used this Italian phrase when we were stuck on homework: "a poco a poco tutto viene fatto." Little by little, all gets done. I use it often in my adult life. If I choose progress, I'm always moving forward, always accomplishing something toward the goal, I'm practicing self-care, I'm free to help others without giving up too much of what I need, I can improve in my family and friend relationships without having to be a saint (it is SO draining to be a saint, don't you think?)...it covers all bases with just the right amount of pressure and encouragement!

So that's settled. I'm moving into this shiny new year with another chance to get it right. Want to come with?

© 2019 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Cheers to a new year and another chance for us to get it right. Oprah Winfrey
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/oprah_winfrey_676234?src=t_new_year%27s

Cheers to a new year and another chance for us to get it right. Oprah Winfrey
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/oprah_winfrey_676234?src=t_new_year%27s

Cheers to a new year and another chance for us to get it right. Oprah Winfrey
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/oprah_winfrey_676234?src=t_new_year%27s

Take a Powder (Room)

I redid my powder room last fall. If it's possible to be in love with a bathroom, I am. Everything in it—the walls, the tile, the framed print, the mirror, the cabinet and sink/counter; even the guest towel holder and trashcan and toilet-brush-disguised-as-floor-art were carefully selected. And every time I go in there, even if it's just to put something under the counter or sweep the floor, I feel like saying "namaste." It's soothing, with a palette of beiges and a pale not-quite-seafoam blue. It makes me happy. And I'm not the only one who feels this way about my sweet little bathroom. It's a crowd-pleaser! Whoever uses it - male and female - always has something nice to say about it.

It's crazy to love this spot so much, but it's not really just a bathroom. It's my "control room." In the last 12 months, I've dealt with surgery and a difficult recovery, a nonagenarian father who is declining by the day, a stressful political environment and choppy personal and professional waters; so many things that were beyond my influence. This bathroom, this little gem, this island of calm, is a place that's always steady and pretty and quiet, even if my life isn't. It's something exceptional I made (though my contractor will likely think he deserves the credit); clear evidence—even on days I don't feel very talented—that I can plan and execute and create.

I feel about my bathroom the way I do when I have written something especially well: I can't make it any better. And just as I often go back to read something special that I've composed, I pop into this room whenever I get the chance. It's simply pee-utiful.

©2018 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie