the Fremont canal

The past few days have been perfect in Seattle, weather-wise. The sun has been shining and the temperature has been in the mid-60s with the colored leaves falling all around.

I decided to take a walk in my neighborhood, Fremont, down to the canal. I stopped at a bench, sat, and reflected on things.

I had started turning to my father for wisdom in decisions this year, something I hadn't done for a long time. He kept surprising me with his discernment. I should've given him those chances years earlier. Now that I am on this path, this Failure Road, I wish I could call him and ask him what to do. He would probably surprise me with just the right answer.

The last time I saw him healthy was when I came to Corpus for his retirement. When I had my random move-for-a-month to Denton in May, I decided Corpus was too far to drive for a visit and I didn't make it to Corpus during that time before moving back to Seattle. An opportunity missed.

I hope it is still awhile before I begin to forget...his voice, what his hands looked like. Right now I can remember so clearly that it makes his death seem not real. Like I could just pick up the phone and he'd say, "Hel-LO?" in the way only he did. Instead, I picked up the phone and was informed by an operator that his number is no longer in service. Indeed.

But for now, I remember.

"Blessed are the pessimistic...

for they hath made backups."

This is on the marquee of a church I've passed nearly everyday this week. People have always told me that I'm on the pessimistic or negative side. And I've always had a plan B (and usually a C, D, and Z). So I guess the marquee could be called true, at least in my case.

I've been asking myself this week what has happened to me.

I was a responsible, stable, diligent, persistent person. Up until February of this year, I had an impeccable resume. All of my supervisors thought I was a fabulous employee, and I was making every logical step towards my career goals. I was involved in a church where I was a small group leader and people thought I was a fabulous Christian girl. I had a dog who I loved, and I believe loved me. I had a steady income with a perfectly comfortable one bedroom apartment that I had decorated in a very cute 20-something way. I had a daddy and a grandma. I had some place to go for Christmas. No, not just some place to go. Some place I was EXPECTED to be at. They didn't invite me to Christmas; I was already there.

I moved to Seattle, and at first I think I was still me. I was still normal and reliable and not disappointing. I was in a reputable doctoral program and had an assistantship with wonderful people giving me wonderful experience. I was involved in a church and starting to make friends.

Then I dated a boy (no, not a man...a boy) from that church. He did something that, by everyone's account including his own, was just plain selfish and stupid, and I let it unravel me. I quit my doctoral program. I also ditched the Christian faith I had grown up on, and had become frustrated with and disillusioned by for the past few years. My grandmother, was also my best friend, sold her house she'd lived in most of my life, and moved to live with relatives as it was decided she couldn't live on her own anymore. I was looking for jobs and had a panic attack when I didn't find a job within the first two months (because I had no plan B when I left school, as I always had in the past) so I took one that I didn't really want in Texas.

Then I met another...this time, a man. He, however, was in Washington. I was in Texas, unhappy at the job I'd taken that I didn't want. The man and the doctoral program I should never have left were both in Washington. So I came back.

The job hunting resumed and I finally was offered a position at a for-profit institution. They approached education in a very different way than I was accustomed to, and it was not a good fit. The business model and "sales position" left me feeling empty.

To boot, my father died suddenly just three weeks into this new position.

I came back after the funeral and other arrangements were taken care of and functioned for a couple of weeks. Then, overwhelmed by life, I stayed in bed, cried, was physically ill and probably other things for the last couple of weeks.

I wonder if I hadn't dated the boy that I could tell was going to do just what he did if I would be sane now. Or if I'd stayed in school back in February and kept my assistantship and that would have kept me sane. Or not ditched Christianity, even though I already had inside even if I hadn't announced it yet. Or stayed in Texas in May and lived life in Denton, back to church at the Village and back to advising at UNT. Or if I'd not said yes to the for-profit "sales position" that I should have known was not going to suit me, and been willing to keep going with the job hunt. Or if I had not lost my father suddenly.

But I suspect that the problem isn't my location. It's that I am lost. Every decision I make leads me further down Failure Road. I am now facing the possibility of a barely more than minimum wage job while I try to finish my class and figure out what to do. How to care about anything.

I find myself now unraveled, hanging on at the end of the fraying rope.

happy birthday to you.

Happy birthday to you,
happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday, dear Daddy,
happy birthday to you.

Today I left the Art Institute. I am not sure what I will do next.

I slept a lot today. I also went to the Humane Society to cheer myself up because I love dogs. That was not a smart idea. It was not cheery. It was very sad. So many sweet dogs (and cats, gerbils, and rabbits) without homes or families. I felt a kinship.

The leaves are changing in Seattle. A lot of reds, oranges, and yellows.
A new season.

May I have one graduation with a side of ice cream, please?

Daddy came to graduation when I completed my masters degree in August 2006. My father, who rarely took a day off and had not flown on an airplane since the 80s (seriously), flew up to Dallas of his own accord and attended the graduation. He stayed the weekend, and we had more fun than we had in ages.

He had never been to (or heard of) Braum's, where the most amazing ice cream treats are made, so I took him while he was in town. We were eating ice cream when I looked up and saw that he had half a scoop hanging off the front of his cowboy hat. And he had no clue.

Let me explain the relationship between my father and his cowboy hat. They were always together. He protected the hat from rain with a shower cap-like thing. The hat was prized above all else. And there it was, being stained by a half scoop of ice cream. Who knows how that ice cream got there, but it sent both of us reeling with laughter (raucous, tears-flowing laughter) for a good ten minutes.

August 2006 Family Photo

Me, Wilbert, Daddy

Life without Daddy

Daddy's 61st birthday would have been this Friday, October 24th.

His sudden death has left me with a tightness in my chest that after about 6 weeks, I'm thinking could be permanent. I wake up from nightmares most nights...images that reflect the fear I have about continuing in life now that I have lost both parents by the age of 30.

Saturday, August 30th was the last day life was normal. Jesse and I went to my favorite cafe in Seattle, Alki Bakery, and enjoyed cinnamon rolls and a walk on Alki Beach. 7 hours later my uncle Royce called to tell me that my father's surgery (to see why he wasn't healing from his original routine surgery) did not go well and he had been given a prognosis of imminent death with hours to live.

Thursday, September 4th, 2:13 am. Amy and I arrive at the hospital. My father's BP and heart rate are extremely low. His eyes are open but glazed over. His last breath was 2:15 am. We waited for an hour until the coroner came. He was already cold.

Saturday, September 6th 10:00 am. The funeral service.

Wednesday, September 10th. I left Texas and flew back to Seattle. I had gone to Texas with one small suitcase. I returned with 4 pieces of luggage, including my father's belt buckles, bowling pin, and cowboy hat. Also, several photo albums.

I have nightmares most nights. Strange images of burying both parents. My mother's death has become resurrected in this situation.

I am alone. There are people who care about me, but I am alone in this life. If I screw up, there's no home to go to. This is scary. A part of me, a rather big part, wants to go to Brownwood or Kerrville and hole up in my family's homes, not getting out of bed for the next year (or so).

The other day, I thought, "It's been awhile. I need to call Daddy." He is still in my cell phone, although the number was disconnected on September 30th.

My parents' anniversary was October 11th. My parents married each other twice, separated by a 5 year divorce.

Jesse met my father. He came with me to Texas. My father's eyes followed Jesse where ever he went around the ICU room. I think he was definitely checking him out. He rolled his eyes at Royce and told him, "I guess HE's one of us now."

Who is my family now?