storms and sunsets
I don’t understand how he’s doing it, my dad, this thing, this whole thing, right now, down there. I don’t understand, my mind can’t stretch itself around, its arms reach out, fall short, grab air, grab nothing.
It’s not that he isn’t strong, he is. He is strong and good and brave, I know these things. He is generous, too, always. For years, all my years, I’ve watched him give, I’ve watched him never tell, I’ve done it myself, I’ve tried to be just like him. He models it, character, doing the right thing, all the time, even when – especially when – you think no one is watching. He is quiet and he is dignified and he never, ever lies. He is a survivor.
But he’s also a hermit, a crab, inside a shell, inside himself. He goes from his home to his office and scuttles quickly back home again, home, where everything is familiar, worn and smooth. Where each creak of every floorboard whispers only the oldest songs. He has his habits, slips them on like dressing gowns, returns them to the barest of closets, where only three or four of them hang in all, still, and stoic.
So how is he doing this now? How is he doing this, 2,000 miles from home, 2,000 miles beyond the borders of his comfort zone, all alone, by himself? How is he learning to lie, whispering the necessary evils into his own father’s soft, sick ear, breathing the words that will keep his heart rate below the danger zone, the lies that will keep him alive? How is he sitting there, with that back pain of his, the pain that makes sitting nearly impossible, how is he sitting there at that bedside minute upon minute upon hour upon hour upon day upon day upon day? “I’m afraid to leave the room,” he says. “He doesn’t like it when I go,” he says. How is he suffering every beep, every tube that slices my grandpa’s insides, a bread knife upon the newest, pinkest flesh, in and out and please god not back in again.
“This is no fucking way to live,” my grandpa’s raspy whisper, yesterday, the first he’s spoken in days.
How is my dad doing it?
I want to be there, I want to fly, run if I have to, walk, crawl, knees bloody.
My dad says no. Neither of them want me there. This is their time. Something necessary. Something beyond my comprehension again, in the old way, the way of children, children who accept what their parents say and don’t even try to understand.
This is their time.
And here, homes are breaking in two. Dams have broken, an entire lake has disappeared. Flash floods and freak funnel clouds, tornadoes touching, skipping, dancing. Here, floods and famine and yet I can’t bring myself to care about any of it, can’t focus, can’t muster up the give-a-shit’s. All I can think about, every minute, is this thing, this place, down there, and these two men, and how how how on god’s flooded earth are they doing it, now, down there. And here, the water is rushing, wiping out solid banks, flooding basements, flooding hearts, flooding my mind, drowning them, drowning me, in guilt, in regret, in why’s.
And here, deadlines are looming and children need entertaining and dishes need washing and it’s all slipping by me, slippery, fish through my fingers, wandering these stacks, fingering these books, sucking in this heavy air, wishing and hoping and praying and worrying and wondering.
Wondering.
How is it, tell me, how is it that the deadliest storms bear in their wake the most gut-scraping beauty of all?
Miss Britt says:
Maggie, I literally shake in awe when you write like this.
And also?
I can’t imagine HOW IN THE HELL he’s doing it. But thank God he is.
June 10th, 2008 at 10:17 am
Maria says:
There is something in you Maggie, something innate, that cannot be taught in schools, or learned from parents, or I don’t even think given from Gods. Something that I lust after and envy deeply, but am almost glad I don’t possess since potential here is never really realized.
You are quite possibly the most powerful, prolific, wonderful writer that I have ever read in my life. No one touches me as you do.
Remember me, please, when the rest of the world realizes what I have.
June 10th, 2008 at 10:26 am
Maria says:
Yeah – don’t you ever tell anyone I ever got that fucking sappy. Ever. Can I curse here? Hmm….
June 10th, 2008 at 10:26 am
liv says:
you–you all are amazing people.
June 10th, 2008 at 10:48 am
Katie says:
Call me if you need to talk.
xoxo
June 10th, 2008 at 10:56 am
Lara says:
I don’t know how he does it. But I have no doubt that you would have the strength to do it too, if you had to. You might doubt that at times, but I don’t.
June 10th, 2008 at 10:58 am
sizzle says:
He does it because it’s what needs to be done. Because when it’s our time to go, we hope we have someone steadfast at our bedside, right? I do.
This was beautifully written. It reminds me of the poetry of Sharon Olds.
June 10th, 2008 at 10:58 am
Amanda says:
With you.
June 10th, 2008 at 11:03 am
Xbox4NappyRash says:
Aside from the personal nature of this, which in itself is beyond my comprehension, that is simple wonderfully written.
Truly.
June 10th, 2008 at 11:05 am
flutter says:
that incredible spirit, clearly runs in the family
June 10th, 2008 at 11:08 am
kristen says:
your words are breath-taking and so are your photos. i think knowing this is their last time, brings out a fierceness, so that it’s burned in their memories.
June 10th, 2008 at 11:43 am
bandick says:
You wonder…as someday your daughter will wonder, and her daughter after her. The swallowing of lakes is a reminder that everything, even the earth itself, returns to the earth.
My thoughts are with you miss maggie, in this time of transition. Much love.
June 10th, 2008 at 11:46 am
kittyconcerto says:
how is it that the deadliest storms bear in their wake the most gut-scraping beauty of all?—gut wrenching, beautiful, heartfelt.
June 10th, 2008 at 11:49 am
mamatulip says:
This is beautiful and sad all at once and it hits me square in my heart because I understand and I’ve done similar things and I know.
June 10th, 2008 at 12:24 pm
Chanda says:
Bandick said it perfectly. What your dad is doing down there with his dad is a horrible right of passage we all have to make at some point. And none of us feel we have the strenght to do it until we have to do it.
Maybe this is not the right thing to say, or the right time to say it; but within the horrible I have to believe that there is also hidden a gift. The gift of being able to care for someone who cared for you, the gift of old pains being put to rest, and the gift of being able sit quietly and say all the things you want to say of being loved.
Im thinking of you, and Im so sorry you have to deal with this. Hug your family close, let them wick away some of your pain. And girl, keep writing! This was just beautiful, though I know it comes from a painful place, The tension between poetry and prose is breathtaking.
June 10th, 2008 at 12:35 pm
Candance says:
Oh, Maggie. I’ve been thinking of you a lot when I’ve seen the flooding on the news and wondering if you guys were okay.
And, I’ve been trying to find the right words to say to you about your grandfather. I can’t come up with anything that seems good enough, though.
My thoughts are with you and your family.
June 10th, 2008 at 12:35 pm
QT says:
That photo is marvelous. The words are too. Remember, there will be a sunrise, too.
June 10th, 2008 at 12:44 pm
Captain Steve says:
I think he does it because he can’t do anything else. He can’t make it go away, so he does what he can to make it hurt less, to let his dad know that he’s there.
And now I’m all teary again. Well, add it to the floods.
June 10th, 2008 at 12:53 pm
Pamela says:
You’re a fabulous writer. Prayers for your family.
June 10th, 2008 at 12:59 pm
tysdaddy says:
I thought of you when I saw the news about the dams breaking. I wished you well . . . I still do.
This isn’t just a blog . . .
June 10th, 2008 at 1:03 pm
Aunt Jenn says:
It just seems so necessary.
So important. For your Dad, for his healing, for his history, for his story.
It’s profound enough for those of us that know the characters, you’ve made it meaningful for everyone. That’s a true gift.
I love you, and I’m here (despite being a little preoccupied at the present time).
June 10th, 2008 at 1:16 pm
Gypsy says:
Wow. Such powerful words. Such powerful nature, too, both mother and father.
June 10th, 2008 at 1:29 pm
Crystal D says:
Isn’t strength even more awesome when you can’t imagine having any? Prayers for your dad and his.
June 10th, 2008 at 1:31 pm
noble pig says:
Oh man, this has me so sad and so wrapped up in how precious and short our lives are.
Peace to all of you during this heart-aching process, I am so sorry.
June 10th, 2008 at 1:46 pm
Ryan says:
Holy hell…beautifully said.
June 10th, 2008 at 2:35 pm
w1kkp says:
I would go to your father and grandad. Everything about your words says it is what you want to do. If you can, you’ll never be sorry, that I know for sure. And, they won’t be either.
And, jesus, you write like a dream, a friggin’ dream.
June 10th, 2008 at 2:48 pm
Karen MEG (Pomtini) says:
This post was beyond exquisite, Maggie. It just tore me up.
My thoughts are with you and your family. And especially for you, your father and your Grandpa.
June 10th, 2008 at 3:56 pm
Coast Rat says:
Beautiful, sensitive writing, Maggie. The evening image is awesome. Andy said you guys were getting hammered by rain; good thing you live on a hill…
My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family as you move through this family experience.
June 10th, 2008 at 4:41 pm
soupisnotafingerfood says:
God love you all. I watched my grandmother die of cancer and felt so bad that, with my infant and two school-age sons I couldn’t be there more. My aunts were quick to absolve me of any guilt but I feel it still. I think of her daily and it’s been almost 3 years. GAH. The best thing, if there is such a thing as “best” in these situations, is that she truly modeled for the rest of us, “how to die.” Of course, how to die of old age, because when you get cancer at age 89, is it really cancer that kills you, or merely old age? Unlike my father, who had to show us all how to die of cancer at age 42. Which completely sucked, and which I am still not ready to blog about. And really, is there a “right way” to die of cancer at age 42? I sure as shit hope my answer to that is based solely on observation, and not from some personal experience on which I embark in the next, oh, 2 years.
I’ve been thinking about you and Wisconsin and that lake – Google-mapped it – are you close to there? Holy crap!!
June 10th, 2008 at 5:07 pm
Maria says:
Of course it’s difficult. But those precious moments are what you have left. I think he does it because he physically has to, because if he didn’t, he’d lose those moments with him. It’s better to have that time than to not have it.
June 10th, 2008 at 5:12 pm
daddymolson says:
I have been fortunate in my life to be able to work in a role to help care for people undergoing chemotherapy. Every single one of them touched me in some way. I watched them literally fight for their lives on a daily basis. Taking in the medication, even though it made them feel like dying, and fighting with every breath they took. I can not fathom the inner strength it took to do that.
I mention this because I watched their family members come in with them. They would hold hands, sing, tell jokes, reminisce, cry, laugh, and watch their loved ones slowly die. I talked to more than one of these family members about what it’s like coming in, watching the disease and drugs eat away their own flesh and blood. I asked how they found the strength to do it? The answer was invariably the same: “I want to be here. I want to help. I’m doing this because it’s the only thing I CAN do. I feel so helpless and useless, and this makes me feel like I’m doing something.”
The same people would ask me how I could come to work everyday, work with people with cancer that will almost surely die, and not break down crying at the end of the day? To which I said, “I just think I’m helping people. If I can make someone with a terminal disease understand their treatment better, followed by a stupid joke to make them laugh, haven’t I done something to be proud of?”
The point? People are basically good, and want to make a difference. They want to help when someone needs it. And they can almost always find the strength to do it when they have to. That’s what your Dad is doing now.
June 10th, 2008 at 5:21 pm
Leah says:
Even if you can’t understand it, I am certain you are doing everything you possibly can. I can tell through your words.
June 10th, 2008 at 5:52 pm
Maggie says:
here. just here. thinking of you.
June 10th, 2008 at 7:32 pm
missburrows says:
Everyone used up all the things I had planned to say. Your commenters are so sweet.
How about I just give you a big hug! and a bat, I bet you want to smash some stuff right about now.
June 10th, 2008 at 8:37 pm
Lara says:
I am so sorry for your heart ache. My grandfather passed away on Friday, and believe me when I tell you that it is SUCH a blessing that your father and grandfather are having “their time”. My own father was allowed to see his father once (once!) in the year before he died. (My grandfather had Alzheimer’s.) My family is entangled in a bitter, unnecessary battle. One word: Greed. My father wasn’t allowed to carry his father’s casket, his own mother turned away from him, wouldn’t speak to him. Greed and lies and law suits. Be thankful you don’t have this to deal with on top of the already painful journey of death. Be thankful that your father will be able to look back and know that he was able to look after and love his father during the time he needs it most. I know that’s something for which my father’s heart will never recover – “their time”.
June 10th, 2008 at 9:03 pm
Meg Casey says:
breathtaking Maggie. Just breathtaking. Thank you for turning your heart inside out so we could see the beauty that dwells there.
June 10th, 2008 at 9:45 pm
Heather says:
DaddyMolson is right. I have taken my turn with loved ones and loss. There is meaning in the act, maybe the only meaning. I will not turn my back on you, I see you, I witness this time and place…
June 10th, 2008 at 10:22 pm
Nora Bee says:
Oh my. You are one hell of a witness, and your dad too. Cancer sucks. Flooding sucks. Family, if we are lucky (as you are) does not.
June 10th, 2008 at 10:28 pm
bethany harrington says:
i’ve been reading your blog for a few days (weeks?) now, and i love it. i just want you to know that i’m sending my good thoughts your way for you and your loved ones. try to remember to take care of yourself a little, too, when you can. ‘they’ would want you to, i’m sure.
June 10th, 2008 at 11:08 pm
karey m. says:
my fingers are ready to write something…anything…in response to this one.
but all my words are fairly unintelligable right now.
this is my third time back to read this. for the sixth time.
and all i can think of is this dedication i once read from a toni morrison book…”it is sheer good fortune to miss someone long before they ever leave you.”
i think this is what it’s all about.
June 10th, 2008 at 11:42 pm
Jill says:
I never got to say goodbye to my grandmother. She got sick so fast. I lived 9000 miles away. She had a tube in her throat and couldn’t speak, so I couldn’t talk with her. She died within 2 weeks. My mother knew it was coming and stayed by her side every minute for those 2 weeks.
I named my 2nd daughter after her. It was the only way I could honor her in death as it has haunted me that I could not say goodbye in life.
I wish you only good thoughts during this emotionally draining time. May your father’s visit with your grandfather offer the hope and the love needed to take him to a better place.
June 11th, 2008 at 12:23 am
Chris in Happy Valley says:
Poignantly written, Maggie. You’re family’s in my thoughts.
June 11th, 2008 at 5:17 am
distracted spunk says:
Stop blowing me away every time you write, woman.
It makes me want to be a better writer.
June 11th, 2008 at 8:34 am
magpie says:
He does it because he must.
And you take my breath away.
June 11th, 2008 at 9:30 am
Betsey says:
I have no words for you, Maggie… You’ve already expertly strung together all the words I could think up.
I would just put them into some sort of different order that couldn’t touch the elegance you’ve already sorted them with.
I do offer virtual hugs, because I’m better at that kind of stuff… Oh and stupid cupcake paintings that a child could do.
June 11th, 2008 at 9:59 am
washwords says:
wow you’re good. I wanna be maggie when i grow up. how’s he doing it? how are they doing it? it can’t hurt that they have a daughter/grandaughter as expressive and sensitive and loving and strong as you. 1) that has to come from somewhere, my guess is at least partly these two men. 2) you are out there loving them. they feel it. I’m sure.
hugs, washwords
June 11th, 2008 at 11:29 am
becky says:
I’m sitting here in tears, reminded me of when gram was dying and mom went to be with her. I wasn’t included either. It was their time. I respected their wishes. I guess I understand it now, but it sure hurt back then. (oh who am I kidding it still does) I’m sending you love and a big hug. If you want to talk, you know how to find me. xo-beck
June 11th, 2008 at 12:01 pm
we_be_toys says:
Ah babe, I feel for you. I remember this hell, I remember the frustration of not being able to do anything, of not being able to be there.
We watched my paternal grandfather waste away in less than 5 years, and in the end, only my father went to the funeral. I’ve never really forgiven him for that – that lack of closure and comfort we could have derived from being with the rest of the family.
The last meal my maternal grandfather ate, was by my hand, before he slipped into a diabetic coma, from years of alcohol abuse. It was horrifying to see him go down, but at least I got to see him, and say goodbye. The throat cancer that killed my grandmother, his wife, was so swift, there was no time.
I know that your dad is where he has to be. In spite of personal discomfort, I feel sure he wouldn’t trade this time with anyone. I hate this for all of you – hospitals aren’t any fucking way to live.
Hold the fort babe, and hug those sweet little pieces of immortality for your grandpa. You’re in my thoughts and prayers, for what its worth.
June 11th, 2008 at 12:28 pm
zak says:
I would go. Pronto. You might regret it if you don’t.
My dad passed from cancer (dirty, nasty bitch cancer) almost three years ago. He hung on for four days in hospice. I told my Mom that he wouldn’t go with her in the room. She decided to go upstairs to the cafeteria and I stayed behind with him. Just the two of us. I told him not to worry and he was a great dad. And he died. Right then.
I’m very sorry for your family.
F U cancer.
June 11th, 2008 at 1:34 pm
that girl says:
Really, really wonderfully articulated.. beautiful things and words and sentiments DO come from deadly, destructive storms.
Really enjoying your blog – your father and grandfather will be in my prayers.
June 11th, 2008 at 3:54 pm
haleyangel says:
Oh Maggie….Sweetheart, you’re Dad is doing the same thing you will be able to do when the time comes. You have his same strength and love in that big wonderful heart of yours which you so wonderfully shared with us.
The photo shows hope in the midst of despair…a God whisper. Why? I have no idea, but He does. He’s working through our dear Maggie right now….you’ve touched the hearts of 50 before me and will continue to do so.
You all will be in my prayers…
June 11th, 2008 at 4:38 pm
Batspit says:
How is it, tell me, how is it that the best writing, the most the most gut-scraping beauty seems to comes from pain so terrible you wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy? Or even yourself?
I feel like writing you more, but i don’t really care to leave it in the comments.
June 11th, 2008 at 9:43 pm
Arkie Mama says:
I wondered the same thing about my dad and grandmother.
That sky is absolutely gorgeous.
June 11th, 2008 at 9:47 pm
Batspit says:
ok, you know what, screw it. I’m sorry about your gramps, and about your dad, and that you are all so close to the the big D and the nasty C that you feel so painfully, achingly alive.
But I think you should listen to your dad and stay home. Hug your babies, but don’t do the dishes. My two and a half cents- since someone above me told you the opposite.
I hurt for your dad, because I know those lies. I told lies. At first I said, It’s ok, it’s ok, it’s going to be ok. Then later I said, It’s ok, you can go now, I’ll be fine with out you.
June 11th, 2008 at 9:53 pm
arizaphale says:
It’s amazing what we will, and can, do for someone we love. That is some serious rain you’re having there and in the amazing way of things, some glorious beauty as well. This is all part of life. Hell, this is exactly what life is.
June 12th, 2008 at 9:16 am
dana says:
dear one…. you and all of yours are in my heart and prayers. bigdlove.
i’ll leave you, as i so often do… with a quote
It’s not so much that we’re afraid of change
or so in love with the old ways,
but it’s that place in between that we fear…
It’s like being between trapezes.
It’s Linus when his blanket is in the dryer.
There is nothing to hold onto.
- Marilyn Ferguson
June 12th, 2008 at 9:23 am
nutmeg says:
You’re in my prayers, Friend.
June 12th, 2008 at 10:21 am
Mr. Chuck says:
Maggie,
Such a wonderful way you have of making everyone know your feelings by writing them down. THis simple act will be the begining of the recovery. Let your Dad and his Dad have their time. I know my Uncle just wanted to be with my Dad when he dies because he wanted people to remember who he was as a vibrant and happy man, not the pissed off cancer ridden shell he became. Remember the good, forgive the bad, and feel the Love you have. Hope all is well I miss you guys out here in the sticks see you in a week or two.
Mr. C.
May God Grant you the serenity to accept the things you cannot change
the Courage to change the things you cannot accept,
And the Wisdom and Paitence to know the difference.
June 12th, 2008 at 7:03 pm
Maggie, dammit says:
I wanted to let you all know that things are fine, things are holding steady.
This is a tough one, because my anger/regret is more about the surgery itself than the cancer. I saw a healthy man walk into a hospital and then I saw him broken. I have both real and imagined reasons for feeling as I do, but I won’t go into details here.
I don’t know how many of you will see this comment but I wanted to acknowledge the comments and the emails, the concern. It was touch and go for a while but he is holding steady now and may even be moved from ICU in a handful of days. He won’t be going home, though. If all goes well he’ll move into a rehab center and nobody wants to tell him that. Nobody wants to tell him that.
Right now it’s all about keeping calm, and keeping hopeful. For him, for my dad, and for all of us.
I love what Tysdaddy said, that this is more than just a blog. I feel that way too, so strongly. You all are amazing. Thanks.
June 12th, 2008 at 7:19 pm
jen says:
damn, do you ever stop us in our tracks.
June 12th, 2008 at 10:03 pm
Musing says:
I am at your side. I dropped my daughter off yesterday to visit with ex. He is ravaged by the cancer and the treatments for it. I wanted so much to be there, too. To spend some time with him before it’s too late… But, I’m on the outside, now. Caring from a distance.
June 13th, 2008 at 6:12 am
magneto bold too says:
Your writing always renders me speechless. I need to take a minute to catch my breath before commenting. And my comments always seem so unworthy.
You are all in my thoughts. You are amazing.
June 14th, 2008 at 3:15 am
Whitney @ Baby Tunnel Exodus says:
…WOW. I’m just stammering for something intelligent to say. I’m speechless. Awed, humbled, grateful, for your words today. The only thing I can say over something like this are God’s words, “Be Still And Know That I Am God.” Be Blessed, Whitney
Whitney @ Baby Tunnel Exodus’s last blog post..Honey, Get Off The Roof
September 8th, 2008 at 9:21 am