nags of a similar ilk

I hate to think of my parents as old. Aside from the fact that such a thought means I'm old, too, it also brings thoughts of loss too close to the surface. Jessica commented on some picture of Mom not too long ago, saying, hey, she sure looked old. I think I refrained from saying, "You're no spring chicken yourself, sweetie," but I can't be sure. The sentiment certainly applies to both of us, too.

If you're lucky, you manage to capture some of your parents' essence, the part that makes you smile. You know, like those pictures of the jolly old man sitting in a chair, usually with some kid on his lap? And he has that look of contentment on his face? The picture that fills you with warm fuzzies?

No kid, but I did manage one of my dad that makes me smile. Fits right in with the not-so-subtle orneriness of that man.

Still strong on my hot chocolate kick, our walk outside in the freezing (below freezing?) weather meant we could indulge in hot chocolate guilt free.

Not that I ever feel guilty drinking hot chocolate made from dark chocolate and milk. Practically a health drink!

So, Dad and Linda now have two doggen instead of just one. Willy passed away a bit ago (fewer than four months ago, since that was when I was out last). I'm more upset that they didn't tell me about his passing than I am about his passing, I think.

I suggested we take the two doggen for a walk today. Dad looked at me like I was insane. "Horizonal. Snow. Winds?" was all he could manage before shrugging his shoulders and agreeing that, hey, walking two itty bitty zooming dogs in sub zero with the wind chill factor was JUST the thing for a father daughter bonding moment.

George was excited. Gracie was a blur.

For the record, I've had better ideas than this one.

It was unbelievably cold coming back. It was so cold even Dad ran to keep warm when we walked back from the corner of Lincolin Hills Drive (yeah, you read that right, we spell Lincoln with TWO i's in Indiana). I don't recall seeing Dad run in my adult life. I shall cherish this memory.

Just as soon as my nose thaws.

Today begins my two week journey to parts old, new and old again. Since Southwest doesn't have any convenient non-stop flights to Chicago from AEFM (airport easy for me, read: flights after 9:00 am), I decided to start my day with a flight through Phoenix and fly "home" with Mom, eke out those last three hours in her Visit.

We successfully managed to suck at taking a self potrait of ourselves.

Mom and I hopped off the plane and wandered over to the gate of my next flight. We squeezed in another 15 minutes of girl-time together before my flight boarded. Since I'll be taking five flights over the next two weeks, with a total of 23 hours in the air, I brought along about 6" of magazines, three books (two of which Kris hasn't read so that he, too, can read them when I'm done with them), and two books on my iPod, including the Brothers Karamazov.

I hope to be all set for entertainment. We'll see.

Dad picked me up from the airport. To my surprise, and I think his, we beat our previous record of "arrival to complete annoyance" time, and set a spectacular new record: 15 minutes. We were arguing about banning smoking, with his logic making no sense (I later figured out he was using the guilt by association logic error), and I grew more and more and more frustrated, until I just lost it.

I threw a complete hissy fit and offered to just fly back home, since this trip was going to be full of arguments and I wanted to be with him, not spend the whole visit annoyed and pissed off at him.

I hadn't realized that I hadn't lost my hissy-fit touch. It's been so long since I threw one. Usually I just simmer. This one? Oh, this one was amazing. It was a fit of glory. It was so bad that people 40-50 meters away were shying away from my screaming onslaught. Dad seemed to curl in to himself.

When I was done, I have to say, my embarrassment ranked up in the top 10 worst moments of my life. I didn't need to lay into my dad that way. I spent the drive home apologizing.

We stayed away from politics for the ride home.

George and the newest addition to the family, Gracie, greeted us at the door. Nothing like the joy of two little dogs to put some happiness back into an arrival.

I talked to Dad today. If nothing else, I have to say that buying that house in Indiana was worth the expense in the increased amount of time I've spent with Dad. I can't imagine any other reason I would have for heading back to Indiana every other month or so. That sounds bad. I like visiting him, I like when he visits me, but neither of us seem to find the time. The house has motivated me to visit frequently, which makes the house the bonus part of seeing Dad.

During our conversation, Dad commented on some event that happened a long while ago, then referenced it a watershed moment in his life: when his father died. He mentioned it casually, but it broke the flow of the conversation for me.

I've been having dreams of loss frequently as of late. In the first one I had, Dad had died. I had cried the inconsolable, sobbing wracks of loss in my dream, with whole body shakes. I recall Kris trying to console me, and being completely unable to do so. I woke up crying. Only a call to Dad later that day alleviated my sorrow.

The next up to die in my dreams was Kris. That one resulted in a waking cry fest so bad that even Kris, fully alive, warm and next to me in bed, had troubles calming me.

I've had other dreams of loss since, but none as bad as those first two. Sure, the dogs died one at a time, but that's a mixed blessing sometimes.

So, when Dad mentioned his dad dying, an event had happened fifteen years ago, the memories of loss from these dreams overwhelmed me. I changed the subject quickly and asked just how he made it through the death of his dad, because I'm fairly sure his death is going to crush me, as would Mom's death or Chris' or BJ's or Kris'. Sure, Dad's had time to recover/heal from his dad's death, but making it past the point where one can start to heal, I'm not sure I can make it that far.

Dad told me that, you know what, he's had a good life. That he'd rather I celebrated his life when he was gone, rather than mourn its loss. That he'd rather I remember him happy instead of remembering him through the pain of loss.

I promised to do my best, but that, yeah, it's still going to hurt like hell.