Letting Go Without Losing Touch

Letting Go Without Losing Touch


My dad died July 16, 2008. Congestive Heart Failure. Over the last 5 years of his life he would comment that IT was "a slippery slope."



I was grieving before he died and I'm still grieving, which might or might not be 'normal' by someone else's standards, but for me it is what it is. I'm dealing with it.



It creeps up on me several times a day. Today I was struggling to screw a hook into a sinker in a brick wall, to hold a bracket for a lamp, a "hickey" (dad word,) and in my frustration at the prospect of having yet one more thing to get done around here, I heard in my brain," I'll fik it", (dad term said in light-hearted determination when faced with a broken or 'not-right thing'.)



This is my grieving, and when it happens it makes me want to exhale, (vomit) my sadness. But I suck it up and keep on keeping on. Just like I've been taught to do. No time to sit and cry and feel bad. The "whim-whams" have to be overcome. Just go forward. Survive this recession. Go get business!



Dad was the one who had a "Never Give Up" poster on his office wall, years past, when life had become very tough for he and my mom. She credits herself with getting him out of bed many mornings, which I believe. That poster was just a backup.



With his illness, it annoyed him, to put it lightly, to feel himself becoming weak. He would exclaim "Well, Hell, there's nothing wrong with me!" when I'd stupidly insinuated he should put his feet up or ask if there was something I could do for him. Eventually, he came to terms with it.

What choice did he have...



My clients, many of them seniors, are suffering through the loss of a spouse or other VIP, and have been through what I am going through many times in the past, no doubt.

I can appreciate this more now. Death is harsh.



When I work with them to downsize their personal belongings and move them forward to their next home. I ask them to "let go" of their stuff, the things that are outdated, not useful any longer, worn out, and sometimes they leave behind the good things, which I take to charity or sell for them.



Letting go of belongings is also letting go of the emotional attachment to it. I have sat through stories and tears with more than one client. I cajole and do my best to keep them on track. Sometimes they rear up in resistance, get angry, blame me for their situation, but eventually we move on.



The death of my father is the precursor to my mother's downsizing. She decided for several reasons, including health, to move in with my sister and brother in law and my 13 year old nephew. There she can have her own suite and as close to a normal family life as is possible. She's in the midst of the downsizing and packing process, and seems to be managing it well, and has not asked me for my assistance, since, after all- she trained me...



I just came back from my parent's house, with, among several inherited treasures, my dad's special mid-century chair. He and mom purchased it in 1956 right after they married, with other special, very " hip" furnishings which they brought to their tiny town in central PA. Dad also purchased the first Chevrolet Corvette ever to grace the roads of that beautiful valley, in 1954.



(He was interested in innovation and progress, not willing to settle for Victorian" fluff"; the stuff of his mother and her sisters.)



This chair is an icon of that era and a symbol that I relate directly to him and my childhood. As a little kid, I would lie on my back on the ottoman and twirl around observing the geography of the ceiling, deep in thought, wondering what it would be like to walk on the ceiling and wondering why I couldn't.



That chair seems strange and foreign here in my home. I walk into the room and subconsciously ignore it, in denial that it is empty of him, I guess. An adjustment I'm going through, like squinting to see in the dark. Last night I sat in it, closed my eyes and observed being there. Quietly, for once.



Staying in touch with my history, my memories, while being present to my present is a challenge.