A Snowglobe in Autumn

It is SO, so hard to write. It's not so much writer's block- I am a virtual fountain inside- a raging river, even... but I feel more akin to a snowglobe after meeting a toddler, neatly contained in my own flurry. That being said... for those of you who don't know, my father passed away September 2nd after an 8 month battle with Melanoma. I still can't wrap my mind around it. His entire family was there; my mom, her sister and my two sisters along with his parents and sister. I guess if you have to go, those are the people you want there. There were two beautiful articles in The Press Democrat, but you have to pay to keep them active, so they are disabled.


He had a bad day vomiting and keeping down food on 8/31 until he ended up heading to the hospital to be admitted for hydration. It had happened before, but the nurse -thankfully, a family friend- told us that this was it. I showed up with Annika, trying to maintain strength in my heart, strength in my knees, strength in my mind. I'm not sure how it happens for the rest of you, but my joints seemed to have cleared themselves of their functions as easily as my mind did when I heard the news. How do you carry yourself into a room where your very heart lies, after listening to someone hand it a number of hours? What do you say? What do you do? I still don't know.


I tried to make it normal. I thankfully remembered in my bumbling numbness to say "I love you", though obviously, he knew so. We were holding hands and he was looking out the window and I let slip an, "Oh, Daddy...". Our eyes met and locked for what would be the last time I recognized the father that I knew. I am awful, terrible, the worst at concealing how I feel, but I tried, for whatever reason. I was trying to play the role of hopeful, in control mother. I knew he saw through to the terrified, heartbroken daughter when he said, "Hey, kid. It ain't over yet." Still trying to give me (and probably himself) a ray of hope, even as death was closing its grip, finger by finger.


Those were the last words he gave me. I got him to say he would try some watermelon juice. He nodded when I sat by his bed during his last couple of days at home, assuring him that I would show my mom how to use the remotes, her iPhone and all of the things on the computer that will overwhelm and frustrate the crap out of her. He nodded again when we promised that he would always have a place in the life of Eva, my youngest sister's baby who is due any day now. He wanted to see her so, so badly. The unfairness of the situation is unbearable. I forgot to say thank you. I forgot to say I'm sorry. I forgot to even really mention the thousands of things that have crossed my mind since. I guess I really am lucky that I try to get my "thank you"s, my "I am sorry"s and "I love you"s in where they belong. I know that he knew those things, too.


I am numb. That's all I can say. I haven't cried since before the memorial service, and only twice since his death: once while I was still holding his hand after he passed and another time that snuck up on me as I was laying in bed the night before the memorial. The time at night felt like a possession- I had deep pains in my chest and abdomen, so much that I could hardly breathe. I felt my hands and feet and then body start tingling and losing feeling and knew that I had to take slow, deep breaths. I couldn't breathe and couldn't stand the pain, either.


After a few minutes, I woke Shlomi saying, "Babe! I think something is wrong..." and I explained to him what was happening. He said, "What is it? Do you think it's the funeral?" and I broke. It was if I could feel myself bursting open. Just like a genie coming out of a lamp.. maybe more like a banshee out of Pandora's box or someone in Alien, a completely uncharacteristic primal wail ripped its way out of me. Though I have never made the sound before or since, I remember thinking it sounded like the women I've seen in the middle east in the news who wear black, rip their clothes and mourn in the streets and knowing exactly how they must feel. After a few minutes of unbridled hysteria, I fell asleep and apparently the grief did, too.


The days following his death consisted of an outpouring of LOTS of calls and visits expressing love, sympathy and generosity in the form of cards, flowers and deli platters. People came and went, called and checked in, made dinner and gave great hugs. But after it all- the food, the friends and the flowers dissipated, while the pieces of everything we've ever known continue to whirl around us, the grief process is left for us each to decide for ourselves. I suppose this is part of mine.


Something surrounding his passing that has fascinated me are the numbers. He came home from the hospital on 9/1, his parents' 60-something-th anniversary. He was cremated and buried during a small gathering at Santa Rosa Memorial Park on 9/5, his mother's 80th birthday. I don't even have words. His obituary was featured wih a picture and article on Labor Day- the day to honor the working man and finally, there was also a beautiful memorial service on 9/11, which is obviously Patriot's Day, but coincidentally was also the day of Relay For Life, an annual fundraiser for raising cancer awareness and funds as well as a memorial for those who have passed from it. It was attended by over 350 people.


To finish out the dates, on 10/1, he would have been 54- one year away from being an official senior. He was planning a trip on his newly acquired boat and was in the process of having a new dashboard custom fit when he died. I remember coming into the room at my parents house in the middle of August, surprised to see my dad sitting there at the computer, researching clinical trials and checking out details for his birthday weekend. I also remember that was the first time I heard a change in his voice, from tired, but normal to raspy and audibly weak. It is something beyond words to watch the pillar of your family life crumble. He wasn't ready to go, and I'm not sure if anything will ever quell that sharp sense of injustice for me. He held onto hope, to his faith until his last breath.


Instead, on his birthday, my brother-from-another-mother, Ryan (who has been like my dad's only son for 15 years) and Anthony (who my dad taught everything he knows to at his business, The Car Doctor) got the boat running and took my mom, sisters and I out on the lake. It was perfect weather, he would have loved it. I realized that day that I have never been on a boat without my father. I have a childhood filled with camping and fishing trips, but all of them are with him.


I am lucky that my boys got a chance to share those memories with him, too. This is the hardest time for them and our family in a number of ways because his birthday started the birthday/holiday chain: Dad's birthday: 10/1, Tobin's birthday: 10/17, Halloween: 10/31, Aiden's birthday: 11/4, which sends us right into the holidays we all know and love. I feel the stark absence of his laughter more with each one that passes. I think we are going to try and go to Disneyland for Christmas- my mother has the unfortunate double-pain of having lost her own father to cancer, but on Christmas day when she was 17- I'm not even sure the happiest place on earth can balance a heart that heavy, but we will try.


I think that's all of the braindraining I can do for now, the flurry feels a bit more like icy sludge now- freezing, unsafe to walk on and sharp as hell if you break through it. I hope that Invincible Summer is in there, somewhere. I can't believe the relevance of an offhand quote I found a year ago. Between the summer and the winter lies the autumn, I suppose. So here I am in it.




Barry Patrick Johnson 10/01/56 - 9/02/10
Forever in our hearts ♥