Happy Lizard for Sad IG

Having gone to the post office in my hometown while in Texas to have my father’s mail forwarded to my house in New Jersey, I received the first piece of his mail on Monday, American Motorcyclist magazine. Alongside it was the change-of-address confirmation from the US Post Office that included coupons for Lowe’s, Ace Hardware and Best Buy. I’d like to suggest that the USPS needs a better procedure for helping families manage the mail of deceased loved ones. Coupons are nice and all, but they’re flimsy consolation, and frankly, totally inappropriate. I sunk into the sofa and cried. As if his body that only slightly resembled him in the casket hadn’t been official enough, now it was really official. I called the American Motorcycle Association of which my father was apparently a member since he receives their magazine, and cancelled his membership and subscription.

I’ve ridden on motorcycles twice in my life. Once when I was maybe 28 years old with a guy I was seeing at the time. The first time I was on a motorcycle was when I was maybe 7 years old, with my daddy.

Nothing more came in the mail for him until yesterday. I opened the mailbox, and the first thing I saw was Bass Master. My father loved to fish, and I’d been fishing with him many times when I was a child. I sighed, scooped all the mail from the mailbox, and went inside. Flipping past the table of contents, I found the number for member services, picked up the phone, and called to cancel the subscription.

The soft-spoken man on the other end of the line somehow knew why I was cancelling. Maybe he sensed the sadness in my voice. “He was… is a lifetime member?” “Probably,” I said, recognizing that it is only since his death that I am getting a clearer understanding of who he was. “He died,” I informed him. He told me he hadn’t wanted to intrude and ask if that were the case. He told me because of the way the mailing system is set up, I might receive one or two more magazines, and he very sincerely apologized for that. He expressed his sorrow for my loss before he said, “He’s fishing in the sky.” I barely managed to tell him thank you before I burst into tears as I hung up the phone. Whether it’s true or not, I don’t know, but it was certainly a sad, yet comforting sentiment, and I can only hope that it’s what my father believed was awaiting him after he pulled the trigger.

My front doorstep has also brought comfort too though. I’ve received several beautiful cards which I’ve greatly appreciated, and intend to save. There was the flower arrangement that awaited us when we arrived home from Texas two weeks ago, a gorgeous collection of lilies, asters, irises, roses and other flowers that is still sitting in our window. It’s lost some luster, but looks surprisingly nice considering how long we’ve had them. A gift card for Whole Foods from family who live too far away to take us out for dinner so we don’t have to worry about cooking, and oh, how I love the prepared foods section of Whole Foods. The basket of fruit, cheese, crackers and nuts, some of my favorite comfort foods, delivered from Jason’s boss and co-workers. And a couple of days ago, a surprise lizard, nestled in a box from our friends whose wedding we attended back in October, friends who know me better as Iguana Girl, friends who know how to put a smile on my face.

I have to say, I’ve received countless emails, Facebook messages and posts, tweets, and of course, comments here, all of which have meant so much to me. Please know they’ve made such a difference, and while I’ve been a little overwhelmed to respond to each one, please know that all of you have helped me. The messages, thoughts and prayers I’ve received will continue to help me as I have to deal with some difficult tasks ahead, like cleaning out my father’s house, sorting out his finances which are the source of my new nightly headache, and then the most daunting task of all, trying to find some peace despite having lost the opportunity to repair a badly damaged relationship. When so many thing feel upside down and inside out, it’s good to know that y’all are there, so thank you.

Ask and thou shall receive.

I asked for people to send their diabetes trash, and the packages started to arrive, boxes wrapped with packing tape and big fat envelopes. Inside were the paper backs of all things adhesive, test strip bottles and boxes, tubing, cartridges, inserters, even several bottles of expired unused test strips, which delighted me so since I love to use my own test strips for art-making, but couldn’t offer anything that might be considered medically hazardous to others. My plan had been to sort through and get the materials organized the weekend of the 16th, but because of my family issues, my entire presentation was all but forgotten until last Friday, when I set aside my father’s papers, and tried to focus on putting something together.

Because most of the workshop would be spent making art, I didn’t have to worry too much about the actual presentation, other than to pick and choose the bare essentials of what I thought needed to be conveyed for the sake of putting the art task and the materials into context. I did want to give them something to take home to read in the event they wanted more information, so I spent most of my time getting that organized before Jason and I made a midnight visit to Fed-Ex Office, which I will probably forever call Kinko’s simply because that’s a catchier name. We made packets, returned home, and I went to bed at 2AM despite the fact that I had a 14-hour day ahead of me on Saturday. Naturally, I couldn’t sleep either just because sleeping is very hit or miss for me lately.

The conference went well overall. There were some parts of it that got to me, like the workshop on using fabric arts in art therapy groups. That reminded me of the quilts my father has that my great-grandmother made, and the many associations I have to both of them as they are intrinsically connected in my mind. It was good to get out of the house though. Putting on a happy face doesn’t always feel natural right now, but what’s that saying? Fake it till you make it? Or something to that effect. So I did a lot of faking, and towards the end of the afternoon, I was plenty distracted by my anxiety about giving the evening presentation that a little real estate cleared in my head for something other than my father.

I wasn’t delighted with my presentation only because my public speaking skills leave a little something to be desired, but everyone there seemed to enjoy it, and the artwork had me as close to giddy as I’ve been in a while. Everyone graciously allowed me to photograph their creations, and since many of you had a hand in this, I want to share the final products with you. The participants also encouraged me to submit a proposal to the national conference and for a daytime workshop slot at next year’s local conference. I needed something good, and I was grateful to get something good.

The other night, Sunday maybe, I wanted to go to bed early, and I asked Jason to come upstairs with me so I wouldn’t be alone. He asked if I was going to sleep, and I told him that was my plan because I didn’t know what to do with myself. He picked up his laptop so he could continue playing the new Star Trek video game in bed, and suggested I write. “You should start blogging again.” He wanted me to get back to my regular routine, he wanted something about our life to feel familiar.

I don’t know how to do that though. Picking up where I left off doesn’t feel like an option. Before I got the email from my cousin that I should call my aunt because my father had died suddenly, I was on cloud nine, certificate in hand that I was officially official in the art therapist sense. That feels inconsequential now, like it was a hundred years ago, or another life.

This person who stood in front of a casket thanking people, mostly strangers to me, some who fondly recalled their last encounter with me when I was only “this big”, some I’d never even met. This person who wrote about memories of first roller-coaster rides and watching Road Runner to be read at the funeral by the pastor. This person who was grateful the sun emerged so no one would have to stand in the rain at the cemetery. This person who was afraid to be alone in her father’s bedroom in sight of the shower stall where the man she’d called daddy had taken a 38 and shot himself. This person who sits on her sofa every day, making one phone call after another, updating a spreadsheet of accounts, faxing death certificates, emailing a lawyer, explaining the circumstances when she hears, “Well your name isn’t on the account so I need to speak to Mr. Pitts to get his authorization.” This person seems as strange and unfamiliar as so many of the people who paid their respects. Except this person is me.

I write about everything here for the most part. Good or bad, I’m an open book, and I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve, but I’m not sure what to say about what’s happened. It’s a long, convoluted story. It’s complicated because what led him to do what he did on the morning of January 11th can ultimately be traced back to me in a backhanded-slap-that-I-never-saw-coming kind of way, but still, I don’t even know where to start.

Or maybe I shouldn’t write about it at all. This blog is about diabetes, and while I occasionally take a scenic detour, divulging the painful details about the relationship I had with my father and how he came to take his own life isn’t on par with karaoke performances or lizard vlogs. However, it is my father who has consumed my life over the past week and change. I try to remember to check my BG, change my infusion set and cartridge, and have glucose tabs on me, but diabetes is background noise, and what little I have to say about it seems unimportant when I look at the stacks of manila envelopes in which we brought home all my father’s papers – credit card bills, water bills, homeowner’s insurance, a mortgage, a recently renewed passport, some prescriptions he never filled, too many things to list. Instead of spending my days writing blog posts, I’m trying to make heads or tails of his affairs, and when I’m not doing that, I’m trying to figure out why this is happening, feeling sad and angry, wishing I could have a do-over, wanting my head to stop hurting, hoping the knots in my tummy will unravel, and waiting for life to recommence.

I found out my biological father took his life this morning. I’m trying to make plans to go to Texas. I don’t know how much I’ll be around.

I know I got lots of congratulatory comments here, on Twitter, and on Facebook when I posted that I received my board certification exam results in the mail on New year’s Eve. That’s not to mention all the hugs, and in-person congratulations and wahoos-aplenty I shared with Jason and my friends. I’ve been wearing giddiness like a fuchsia feather boa ever since – and if I had such a boa, you can bet I’d rock it something fierce.

Saturday morning, after the third trip to the vet in as many weeks, Dexter and I came up the front steps, his new medicine in hand, to see the envelope I had been anxiously awaiting jutting out of the mailbox. The certificate, updated membership card, and official paperwork were here! There were high-pitched squeals of delight, and I’m pretty sure a goofy dance that once upon a time served its purpose as the tinkle dance when my loftiest goal was to have the most Barbies. Now I am officially official in the art therapy sense. 2009 ended on a happy note, and 2010 is off to darn good start too

Thanks, Mr. Postman!

Can't be certified without a certificate!