Swimmingly

Fabulous word, isn't it? Everything's going just swimmingly. I mean, not really. Not at all. But I like the idea, don't you?

I always think of you when I think of swimming. Every time you've ever come home while I'm swimming in the pool at your house, you have walked out onto the deck and asked:

"How's the water, Megs?"

Second question: "What's the temperature?"

And if I didn't know, you'd walk over to the ladder and check yourself. It was very important to know the temperature for some reason. 

I know you loved swimming, too. Nothing more refreshing than coming home from golf on a hot summer day and jumping into the pool to cool down. 

Well, I had a really good idea a couple of weeks ago. Work has been tough, the weather sucks, and being stuck in the dead of winter while losing you has been a challenging mental situation. I was thinking and thinking, trying to come up with something nice to do for myself - as in, what kind of joy could I inject into my daily life right now. And I came up with swimming, which may seem obvious but really seemed like the answer to my prayers. 

So I'm joining the local Y in Glen Cove. 

I like to think you may have gone there as a child - mom knows where it is, and said it's been there forever. I hope so. I've been trying it out on a two-week pass, and I love it so much already.  

I think of you while I'm swimming laps. I think of swimming for health, and mental well-being (or just maintaining being neutral as discussed), and the sheer joy of plunging into the water. And I wish you could be there with me, swimming right along. 

Megan x

"Don't worry, nothing's wrong..."

You were never a phone person. No judgement at all is implied by that statement. You were never, ever not there if I needed you. You just didn't really like to talk on the phone, although you tended towards chattiness in long drives (see: story of your life) and sometimes used to call when you were driving somewhere far away.

But for some reason, when I lived in California, there was a period of time when you started calling regularly. I mean, I spoke with you a lot anyway, when I called the house, but this is when you started calling my mobile at least once or twice a week, for a period of maybe 6 or 8 months. 

Apparently, you started calling Amy at this time as well, because we talked about it as in - "why do you think Dad's calling all the time?" Not a complaint, just curious. We never did discover why. 

Anyway, because we didn't hear from you via phone all that often, we both thought that something was wrong every single time you called. Wait...that's my dad, that's unusual...hi dad, what's wrong? etc. 

So you started saying, whether I picked up or the voicemail did, "Hi Megs. It's Dad. Nothing's wrong. Just calling to say hello, I'm in the car on the way to court (or whatever) and I'll be in the car for 45 minutes. Give me a call." It became a habit, or rather, a long-running joke because you maintained that habit for years. 

Oddly enough, the night you went into the hospital, Mom called me (not unusual at all, although she has a habit of leaving stern-sounding voicemails) and when I answered, she told me: "there's nothing to be worried about, but Dad had to check into the hospital because his bloodwork came back and he has a high white blood cell count."

If only, right? If only that hadn't been something to worry about. It's pretty funny in retrospect that she used pretty much the exact same words you used to use. 

And along the same lines, Marc has started calling occasionally and leaving terse messages. The first messages I've had from him in years and years. So I get off the subway and hear: "Megan. It's Marc. Call me back right away." So I panic, call back, and he's all, oh, I'm in the Verizon store and had a question about your account. No rush, call me later."

Um, Marc, you need the memo about the right verbiage for non-urgent messages. 

Love, M

The story of your life

Idriss and I just finished watching a wonderful movie, kind of a documentary but not exactly, called "Stories we Tell," which is about the subjectiveness of our memories and how we use those memories to reinforce a narrative about our lives or ourselves.

The film opened with a quote from a Margaret Atwood book that really resonated with me as I've been thinking about stories a lot lately. It is:

“When you are in the middle of a story it isn't a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you are telling it, to yourself or to someone else.” 

In fact, I recently read in the Times an article about how writing our own life narratives can actually make us happier, depending on how we craft them and the perspective we use. It absolutely makes sense to me, because writing has helped me get through some rough times, and it has been my habit to turn to writing when I need to make sense of something complex or confusing or terrible.

I have always regretted that I have not been able to make writing a daily habit rather than something I turn to mostly in desperation, but perhaps if I shape a narrative about myself as an occasional writer who would like to write more, I will become a writer just like that.

When thinking about narratives, and the story of your life, I just remembered something. A story you told me that I loved, that I hadn't heard before.

You were driving me to college in Philadelphia, the day after Sharone's sister's wedding, so I was 19. We drove by some army base in northern New Jersey, and you said something about it. I can't remember if it's where you had to go when you enlisted, or what, but it sparked a memory.

I asked you about the army, and you kind of turned to me and said:
"Hey, you don't know the story of my life, do you?"

And you were so right. Of course I didn't know it. Bits and bobs, of course, and all the parts in which I was present  But it made me realize how little I knew about your history, your childhood, things that I never even really thought about you having, since I was still a kid myself.

So, as we headed down the New Jersey Turnpike, with a couple of hours ahead of us, you told me your life story. Your narrative until that point, in your own words. If only I, like Sarah Polley, had thought to tape your words. You told me about growing up in Ohio and moving to Glen Cove, about your odd jobs and the various mischief you got into in high school, and about how you drove across the country with a close friend and stayed with your relatives in California (Santa Barbara? No. Where did they live before that - maybe in Petaluma?. You stopped in Yosemite, and when you came home from that trip and were enlisted in the army, you were sent to somewhere in the US for training.

But first you married mom, whom you knew a little bit from school and whom you asked out when you saw her in a bar when she was home from college!

Then a really huge miracle happened, one of the luckiest strokes of your life, which is when virtually all of your fellow trainees were shipped to Vietnam, and you and mom were sent to Germany. You had something to do with tanks...again, I wish I could remember more, and you were in officer training school, and you rose in the ranks up to Lieutenant. Orders came to close the camp, and the head of the camp chose you to stay with him and help with final tasks. At that point, your tour of duty was nearing an end abroad, and you and mom wound up back in Kansas, on a military base in Manhattan (ironic!), with a VW bug you shipped from Germany, and a Shepherd Sheepdog named Sean.

After all that, you and mom moved back to Long Island, where you used GI bills to finish college and you worked your way as a plumber through law school.

I asked how you got your job at Heatherwood, where you worked at this point and had for many years, and you told me that you send a letter to the management office of well-managed rental apartments, basically kissing ass and requesting a job. You wound up getting one.

There must be so much more to tell, but that's where we got to that day.

In reading this over, I am afraid I am telling your life story in rather a perfunctory way. I was trying to get down all the facts I could remember, which are not as many as I would like. Perhaps one of the purposes of this blog is to go over and over these stories, embellishing them with my perceptions and augmenting them with new memories and thoughts related to the originals.

What I know is that you had some good luck and bad luck in your life, but your narrative, if you were writing it, would have focused on the good.

Love, M

Soda Jerk

You had a wide variety of unusual jobs as a kid, and a student, to help put yourself through school.

The most creative was that you and your buddy, whose name I can't recall, used to take his little boat out and go fishing (but frustratingly,  I can't remember what you were actually looking for - lobsters? clams? mussels? flounder?); you would go all night, and you would sell your catch to some local restaurants for quite a lot of money at the time. Then you would sleepily head off to high school, or your next gig.

You had so many jobs I can't keep them all straight, but some of the other ones I remember most are:

- Caddy at Glen Head Country Club: you were such a skinny kid you could hardly lift a bag of clubs...

- Vet assistant at what is now The Animal Inn in Glen Cove. I am pretty sure you cleaned piss and shit all day.

- A plumber, at many of the fancy estates in the area. I wish you had had an iPhone and an instagram account!

- And my personal favorite, a soda jerk. Someone who waited on cars at a fast food restaurant where you parked, and someone (a soda jerk) waited on you. Some name! We loved to hear about that as kids, and for a long time I was convinced you were wearing roller skates, too, but I think that's just a desired embellishment.

When you and Mom came to dinner in Sea Cliff in November, for your anniversary and her birthday, we took a ride around the area and you pointed out many of these places to me - including the former location of the establishment where you were a soda jerk, which has been knocked down.

You always worked so hard - as an adult, too - and I often think of you when I hear radio articles about trying to teach "grit" and "perseverance" in school. You had those qualities in spades, more than anyone I know.

It makes me happy that in my new life in Sea Cliff, I am passing by practically daily places where you had a history. Your old town, where you met Mom, the vet office, the country club, and so on. Not to mention, I drive by your old high school to get to the gym, and I drive by St. Patrick's, where you and mom got married, frequently. It is a beautiful church, and sometime soon I will stop in so I can see it.

It was a month on Friday, Dad, the 23rd, which used to be my lucky number. Not sure about that now, although maybe there is some type of coded message that I have yet to identify in that. I listened to Tchaikovsky's piano concerto, and I wept too.

But I guess when I want to feel closer to you I can stop by the Animal Inn? Poor Buster doesn't know what's coming.

All my love to you Dad. I miss you so much.
Megan

On being good-natured

Dad, at your memorial service I stood up in front of everyone you know and love, or knew and loved, and made a promise to be kinder, more courteous.

It has been rough going during such a miserable time, but I want you to know that I am trying. I'm not saying I was mean beforehand, but what I'm not, and never have been, is resolutely good-natured, like you.

Amy and I were thinking about this - trying to figure out who else in our family, or even our lives, are so good-natured. Naturally pleasant, real people-people. You know what I mean?

And I guess I'm wondering if you were really born that way, or if it's something you worked at. You never really complained, and stopped us if we complained too much about anything. Your moods seemed so steadfast - I've never wondered why until now. Perhaps it wasn't that easy. Perhaps you made your own pledge to never complain, to be kind, to not rush people. Either way, I wish it came as naturally to me.

But like I said, I'm trying. I've been meditating on the train to and from work, to try to get to a more emotionally neutral place overall. Positive might be a bit too much of a strain right now. I'm trying to find an extra ounce of compassion when people push my limits at work and just remain...neutral.

I also started swimming, as a small way of finding some joy in my everyday life right now. It helps, it's very therapeutic for me. It helps me be more present, somehow.

You know who is the other being in my life who is resolutely good-natured? Bartleby. Yes, my cat. I only realized this in the last year or so, but I have always wondered why I love him SO MUCH and why he's so easy to love. It's because he is this chubby, happy cat - like a little beacon of calm and contentment. Always purring, always snuggling. Just like a little buddha cat.

Bartleby still wants to go outside in the winter, and when he comes in from the backyard, he makes a beeline for my pillow in the bedroom. He never wants to hang out just after coming in, and I wonder if he has deep thoughts to consider, inspired by the outdoors. Maybe that is his meditation time.

love,
m

Attorney-At-Law

Marc, Amy, Mom, and I cleaned out your office a few days ago; that wasn't an easy task. Each of us wound up in tears at some point.

I had never been to this particular office. It has no windows and is in a nondescript, tallish building on Long Island. Nevertheless, I remember that you were really excited about this move - you told me it was the first time you'd take an elevator to your floor and that the tallness of the building made it feel kind of chic / city-like to you.

The sign outside said "Joseph Dempsey - Attorney-At-Law" and so did your business cards. You worked so hard to put yourself through law school - and you were rightfully, quietly proud about being an attorney.

You had some beautiful things in your office. You almost started a quarrel amongst all the kids - but we settled out of court, peacefully, with no shouting :-)

I received your Art Deco Bulgari letter opener, which is just so beautiful and old-fashioned. I'm completely obsessing over it - you know I love stationery. You also had some little Iitala glass figurines, which are now in my living room, and a series of miniature brass animals on your bookshelf. Marc took the owls, Amy took the cats, and I took the elephants. They are lovely.

But the best thing we found was a personal folder, full of clippings, cards, and newspapers about us - your kids. I am not sure why you kept this folder at work, maybe you thought it would be lost in the shuffle at home. Regardless, we were so, so happy to find all these treasures. You had my old Penn report cards, with my GPA highlighted! You had Marc's old school newspaper articles, and Amy's National Honor Society newsletter. You also had so many cards and letters we had sent or given to you over the years, along with some funny / strange post-it notes and other items that you obviously valued, although we couldn't always say exactly why. I will write some of them up to post here later on.

We even found some very old notes that you had written to your parents - you must have gotten them from Grandpa's house when he passed away.

So many of the cards to you were animal-themed, or even "from" one of our pets like Buster or Eliot. I found a note in which I mentioned going soon, after I had surgery, to get a kitten: that kitten turned out to be Buster, who is almost 16 now.

One of the funniest documents you had was a "petition" I wrote when I was in grade school, with "my colleague Mary Shea." In it, we talked about how we should be free on Thursday afternoons instead of going to religion class (which was incredibly, painfully boring). The petition was for "freedom of time" and we managed to get 26 signatures! Amy was a part of it, too.

I am glad there were some hilarious documents mixed in, because it lightened what was a really hard thing to do. It's hard to believe you aren't going back to work, Dad.

After going through your things, I realized I have so many questions for you. I'm just going to list them out, it makes me feel better to have written them down.

1. Who gave you a Bulgari letter opener? How long have you had it, and did you use it regularly?

2. Who is the Iitala fan? Did you have a colleague who was Finnish? Or just work with someone who was really into design? Never, in a millions years, would I have predicted getting Iitala goodies from your office...

3. What is the story of your brass animal collection? Marc thinks that they may have been your parent's. If so, maybe Aunt Terry will know...

4. This is more of a statement than a question...but your business cards, with the scales of justice on them, are really fabulous. Since I have always worked in design and marketing, I wish we could talk about your decision to put the scales on your cards. It's pretty quirky, and I love the cards. Who designed your business cards for you? I wish I knew.

I guess I will stop there. Maybe answers will come to me over time, Dad.

Much love,
Megs

p.s. I forgot the funniest document until now. It was a birthday-party planning document for Tootsie's birthday (one of our cats). It had things to do at the party listed, like "watch Tootsie eat bugs" and then we almost singed her whiskers when we sang happy birthday to her.

Mitchell

I like to think that you were really happy when Idriss and I moved to Sea Cliff. Not only were we close to you, but you no longer had to go into the city to visit us. Major break for you! It was easy to pop down after a game of golf rather than setting aside the whole day for a trip into the city.

The first time you came over to our new house, we had been here just a few days, definitely less than a week. It was a total mess, with the painters things still around and half of our furniture in the basement, to allow the painters to work.

Even so, you inspected the whole place - attic, doors, back deck structure, the basement, heating systems, etc. And you asked about the neighbors, and then you told Idriss and me:

"I've already met Mitchell."
"Um, who?"
"Mitchell. You know, the kid playing basketball down the street a bit."
"Actually, I didn't know, but I have seen him around."
"Nice kid. Very friendly and polite, shook my hand and introduced himself."

Dad, I don't even know how you got to know the neighbors names before we did, but it doesn't surprise me. You took the time to get to know everyone.

Growing up, we used to grown and poke fun, but you always asked a waiter or waitress for their name, and once you had it you proceeded to address them by name throughout the meal. We used to think you were such a dork! But I see now that what I thought was dorky was really just plain old kindness and consideration.

In the hospital, you knew every single nurse by name, and if you couldn't remember, you asked. When you were moved into intensive care, a number of nurses who'd cared for you actually came to visit you. Sometimes you were asleep and didn't get to speak to them, but I had more than one nurse tell me that they had gone home and prayed for you - that you were one of the kindest and most grateful patients they'd ever had. You were sick, miserable, in pain, but you still took the time to get to know your nurses.

The last night you were in the hospital, the night before you passed away, when the "chemo nurse" came to administer your treatment, you were trying really hard to ask her something and we couldn't understand what you wanted to say, because of that horrible oxygen mask you had on. Finally I realized what you wanted to know: the chemo nurse's name.

I am terrible at remembering names, but I can say to you honestly that I will try harder in that regard. I miss you, Dad.
xx

Lights on

You were the only morning person of the family. You always managed to wake up at 5 or 6 for golf or tennis or biking and be so alert and cheerful; you really were a natural. I always thought, when I'm older, I'll be a morning person too. 

Um, that's not working out, exactly. 

When we were teenagers, you took gleeful pleasure in waking us up for school. You would walk in my room and relentlessly flip the lights on and off until I got up in extreme exasperation, yelling "DAD STOP IT" all the time. 

Amy was another story altogether. All the alarm clocks and light flipping in the world couldn't really drag her out of bed. You had to go back to her room repeatedly and attempt to get her up, especially when mom got fed up and made you try. 

At one point, Amy had several alarm clocks scattered throughout her room, the idea being that she would be forced to stand up to be able to turn them off. Well, nope, it didn't work. She slept through them. And one of them was a fake rooster cock-a-doodle-doing, one of the loudest and most horrific noises I've heard. At some point, we had to take away that clock, before it took away our sanity. 

It was fitting, I thought, that you passed away early in the morning. You may not know this, but we were called to the hospital at 5am on the dot. I remember thinking, he is making us get up early for him one last time. 

We made it up there pretty quickly, and you were still with us for a couple more hours. You passed away around 7:22 or 7:23, right when high school used to start. Force of habit, maybe. 

Anyway, I tried to channel you this morning and get up at 6 to go the gym, but you probably would not be surprised to hear I went back to sleep instead. I am still hoping your morning cheer and happiness will come to me, "as an adult."

xx

Brown sugar

I have this fleeting childhood memory of you and Barney Ritchen - yes, our old across the street neighbor - making me breakfast in our kitchen. Why I'm not sure, but I absolutely trust the validity of this memory because, to be honest, I don't remember you ever making me breakfast at any other point in life. Not a complain, just a statement of fact.

You made me oatmeal, and I asked for brown sugar on it. I am not sure if the brown sugar was tough / clumpy / hard to scoop or what, but it took both of you to accomplish this, and the brown sugar you gave me was a lump about the size of a tennis ball.

I told you "that's way more sugar than mom lets me have." You and Barney were giddy and laughing - apparently making oatmeal was hilarious. I can still remember the good vibes from the morning vividly.

Now that I'm an adult with ostensibly healthier eating habits, I have honey on my oatmeal. Not as delicious, and certainly not as funny.
xx

Tchaikovsky

The day before you died, I had been planning on going to work. But Marc and Amy both texted me early in the morning, letting me know about your turn for the worse.

In despair, I threw a few things into my bag, including my computer, and drove like a demon to get to Port Jeff.

You were feeling pretty horrible, and you hadn't slept much the night before. You had so much pain in your back, and it was harder than you'll ever know to stand there and smile at you when I wanted to melt down into a puddle of my own tears.

You didn't want to read, you didn't want me to read to you, and I was desperate to inject a moment of respite somehow. I pulled out my computer and offered to play Tchaikovsky's piano concerto - a piece we both love.

I skipped to the second movement, in which the notes morph into one of the most lovely, mellifluous, and graceful passages in music. During one of the passages, despite your profound fatigue, and the horrible noisy machines all around you, you lifted your right hand, and waved it softly along to the melody for a few minutes.

Your ability to momentarily transcend your surroundings and experience a moment of art is a lesson to me, and makes me aspire to take life's degradations more lightly than I do now.
xx

The sleigh

On Christmas Eve growing up, just before bedtime you would bundle Amy and I up into our coats, layered right on top of our pajamas. You took us outside, to the front yard, and you helped us look for Santa's sleigh in the sky.

As a family of animal lovers, we were most interested in finding Rudolph's nose and thus the herd of reindeer.

The nights were so cold and I remember them - uniformly, although this seems unlikely - as bright and clear, with a healthy smattering of stars always visible.  We would search impatiently, taking turns on your shoulders, freezing all the while, and sometimes you managed to catch "a little movement right over there." Uh-huh.

Now, when I look up at the cold and clear night sky, I will think of you.
xx
M

Bubbles

You used to take me into Lincoln Center or Carnegie Hall a couple times a year as a teenager. I may not have said this out loud to you, but it made me so proud that you thought me a worthy date for those occasions.

One time, before seeing "Madame Butterfly" we spent some time chatting at the fountain in the middle of the plaza. You loved that fountain, and confessed to me that you always thought it would be cool to tell someone "I'll meet you by the fountain at Lincoln Center."

While we were there, a bunch of young boys was hovering close to the fountain and giggling, and we saw them pour something into the water.

A couple of hours later during intermission, we looked out at the fountain from the balcony in the glass atrium in the theater. Boy, were we shocked...the fountain was overflowing with bubbles! The kids had turned the water feature into a massive bubble bath. And the giddiness of the water seemed to be infectious, as people gathered to watch, laugh, and take pictures in front of the bubbles.

When the opera was over (basically an eternity later) and we came out, the fountain was turned off, and police were there. It was like a scene from a movie, but it happened to us.
xx
M