Monday Mourning: The Death of a Father

I like to break things and put them back together in a random, yet tasteful, order. I am the author of the nonfiction book

Let Me Eat Cake: A Celebration of Flour, Sugar, Butter, Eggs, Vanilla, Baking Powder, and a Pinch of Salt

(Simon & Schuster, April 2009). I wrote a book of poetry, too—

BOYGIRLBOYGIRL

(Finishing Line Press, June 2012). I make mosaics and do photography—nature, portraits, etc.—too.

My blog is here:

lesliefmiller.blogspot.com

. My website is

www.lesliefmiller.com

. I've been using social media since most people were born, so I'm all over it.

DW:  Who was the person that died?

LFM:  I lost my dad, Harvey Miles Miller, on July 5, 2012. It was a loss in the most poignant sense. Like losing a part of your body. Physical.

DW:  How old were you at the time?

LFM:  I was 49, about to turn 50 in three months.

DW:  How old was your Dad?

LFM:  My dad was 75, and that's far too young these days. Fathers should live until their daughters can do without them, which means forever.

DW:  Was it a sudden death or did you know it was going to happen?

LFM:  Dad and I were diagnosed with lymphoma about two weeks apart. Mine was the slow-growing kind, and his was fast. He needed chemo right away. He probably started it in August or September of 2011, and October 31st, Halloween, was his first serious repercussion from the chemo. It might have been a couple weeks after his third treatment, and I was scheduled to leave early to turn my daughter into a zombie. I was pretty excited—and lucky to have a boss who would let me leave early to paint my daughter's face. But I got the call as I was leaving work that my dad might not make it, so I went straight from work in Owings Mills to the hospital downtown.

My dad lived. And he lived the bunch of times after that, too. When he was stuck in the rehab facility for Hanukkah, Christmas, and New Year's, he had a really tough time emotionally. Dad didn't have a single hobby except watching the Orioles and the Ravens and working. He was bored out of his mind. I saw him cry for the first time since his own father died, which was the only other time I ever saw him cry. I believe in crying, and I have no problem with men crying. But for some reason, it is far more painful to watch your father cry than it is to see just about anything else.

Ultimately, the cancer was cured after the fifth treatment, but the condition he had before the chemo, aortic stenosis, had gotten worse.

Dad collapsed at home at the end of June, and my mom found him lying on the floor, where he'd probably been for awhile. She called the ambulance, and the doctors determined that he'd had an unusual heart attack, one caused not by stress but by low blood pressure from the aortic stenosis.

We became a little hopeful because we learned while he was in there that they'd recently developed a new kind of surgery for it that didn't require an open chest. He wasn't a candidate for that because of his many years of smoking three packs of Kool's a day. But he could do this. Or at least I thought so. He just needed a heart catheter, a CT scan, and an exam by two surgeons willing to say he was not a candidate for the traditional surgery.

The problem is that the hospital couldn't think to do the tests out of order. If Dad wasn't feeling well enough or didn't pass a test, they postponed the cath. And he just sat in the hospital bed all day. Why didn't they get the surgeons' opinions that day? Or the 30-minute CT? Both? They had plenty of time.

People who go to hospitals die waiting.

DW:  Did you and your Dad talk about death?

LFM:  My dad said he was done and wanted to die. I took it personally. I felt like he should want to live because his daughters loved him so much. I was being selfish maybe. Or was he? No, I was.

On the fourth of July, 2012, my daughter played with School of Rock's Show Team at the Catonsville Fireworks. My mom came with us, and we dropped her off well after 11:00 p.m. We got home and unpacked and were in bed probably around midnight.

The phone rang at 4:00 a.m. It was time. My sister came to pick me up. When we got there, my dad was saying, "OK, they're here. Hurry up. Let's get it over with." He said, "I'm going to die." He was having trouble breathing because his blood pressure was so low, and the meds couldn't keep it elevated anymore, so they were going to start the morphine. He kept saying, "Ugh. C'mon. Hurry up." I told my father I loved him, and he said, "I know." And that was about it.

We watched for about an hour and a half until he took his last breath sometime around 7:00 a.m. It was like someone let the air out of your tire at 4:00, and it was finally empty, three hours later, and you just couldn't go anywhere. You were flat.

DW:  Had you experienced any other deaths in your personal life before he died?

LFM: I lost both of my grandparents, my father-in-law, close personal friends, close family friends. Death is old hat. Too bad you never get used to it.

The worst death happened right after my daughter was born. My dog had been suffering with kidney disease for a long time. I knew it was time for him to go at the ripe age of nine. It wasn't fair, really, because death is rarely fair. But I told Beowulf that he had to wait until Serena was born because I couldn't risk her health. So he did. And so after about two weeks, we called the vet to come euthanize him because we had decided, long before, that the day he was too sick to bark at the mailman—which he could ALWAYS do—that was the day. And he didn't bark at the mailman.

The vet came, and the dog was in Marty's (my husband's) lap, and friends were gathered around. And right before the needle went in, he let out a howl that still haunts me to this day. Was he saying, "Thank you! I love you!" or was he saying, "No! Stop! I'm not ready yet!" I wish I knew. I would feel better with the "I love you" version. He did not go gentle into any good night.

DW:  Were people supportive of your grief or did they shy away when you were grieving?

LFM:  No, and thank heavens for Facebook. I found more friends in my grief than I'd ever found in my joy. Does misery love company? They should get married.

DW:  Is there anything you wish you'd done differently with your Dad?

LFM:  No. I loved my dad so much, and he always showed that he loved me—my family, my friends, everyone. He was genuinely affectionate and hilarious and giving. He was loud and boisterous and shockingly rude sometimes, but there was always a payoff. The waiter he'd insulted would get a gigantic tip. I think we'd had two serious fights in my entire life. One was over politics; the other, Diet Coke.

DW:  Was he buried or cremated?

LFM:  Dad was buried. His stone unveiling was in July. It's a beautiful stone. He would've appreciated it because he loved my mother's and my taste. The font was Folkwang. My mom wants me to remember that for when it's her turn, but I keep having to look it up on my texts. Now I have this interview.

Folkwang

. Remember.

DW:  Did you learn anything about the grieving process that you'd like to share?

LFM:  I think I cried every day for a year. I had to drive past the funeral home every weekday except Wednesday on my way to work. I might have cried less on Wednesdays because I work from home that day.

Give yourself way more time than you think you need. Indulge every whim. When someone you love is gone forever, you need comfort. Take it in beer, food, exercise, indulgences. My dad used to say to me and my sis, "You want it? I'll buy it." We did some estate thing with my mom one morning, and we were at this place for lunch and went into the mall where I saw a $200 bedspread. I heard my dad say, "You want it? I'll buy it." I did want it. I felt that he bought it for me that day, even though I had to pay for it.

But don't indulge forever. Give yourself a year, and then get your shit together. You can't dwell in misery, but you need to languish there for a little while. You have to! I mean, this was your dad/mom/grandmother/wife/husband/lover/child/friend. Child? Forget it, man. Take two years.

I gained 15 pounds from beer in the year my dad died. Once the year was up, I started Atkins. I've lost 14 pounds.

DW:  Were any songs played at the memorial that were important to your Dad?

LFM:  We didn't play songs at the memorial, but the last movie we watched when my father died was that documentary,

Young at Heart

, about the old people singing rock songs. Consequently, I can't get through a moment of "Fix You," by Coldplay, without bawling. I hear Chris Martin wrote that for Gwyneth Paltrow after her father died. There's another song by Kathleen Edwards—"Scared at Night." Can't get through that one, either. That one is about watching someone you love die. 

I've done that now with two dogs, a grandmother, and a dad. It's harder than giving birth.

Death: It's on the Menu

Yesterday, I fretted over setting a nice table and creating a dinner that would provide a certain level of comfort to the six people who would be coming to my house.  I knew at some point during the meal that someone was going to cry, and not about the burnt garlic bread or my poor selection of wine.  They were going to cry about someone they loved who had died. I set out a fresh box of Kleenex near the dining table in case anyone needed to wipe their tears or blow their nose.  Sounds like the fixings for a fun evening, huh?  Actually, it was.

August 24 was the inaugural event for

Death Over Dinner

, which encourages people to gather around a table, eat and talk about death. Since I've been talking to people about death for four years now, the topic of conversation didn't freak me out in the least, but having several people that I really didn't know over to my house and feeding them food that I'd made, did. 

You see, I've got some social anxiety issues.  But one of the things I learned in therapy is to ride out the discomfort and to run towards things that bring on a fear response.  Dinner parties, or really gatherings in general, tend to do that to me.

So what did I do?  I hand picked everyone in attendance, not for how well I knew them, but for how little.  Three of the people I invited were from my writer's group.  Sure, we say hello and we've heard each other read, but it's not like we're bacon and eggs hanging out at the Ihop.  The fourth was a woman I'd met at a local writing conference.  Her dad was a mortician and she'd written a memoir about that, so I thought she'd have some interesting insight. Rounding out the table was my sister-in-law, who brought a lovely appetizer and a good bottle of wine.  My husband was also there and it was wonderful to hear what he had to say.  I made lasagna, angel hair pasta with pesto (for the vegetarians), salad and the best freaking garlic bread ever.  My sister gave me this

recipe

and I swear, it's got magical butter and Parmesan powers.

And there we are.  I took the pic, so I'm not in the shot, but there's my chair and my half eaten plate of food.  Because I am technologically challenged and I hadn't used my fancy dancy recorder in a couple of years, I failed to tape our conversation.  I had to take notes. Not an easy task when the conversation is flowing as fast as the mid-level Pinot Noir in my glass.  

As recommended by the DOD folks, I started out the dinner with a toast to acknowledge someone who had died.  Then we all went around the dinner table and said what we admired about that person.  I thought for sure that my sister-in-law or my husband would mention their mother who died last November, but they didn't.  After everyone had gone home, Erik and I discussed this fact while we washed dishes.  He said it was too early in the evening to break down and openly weep in front of strangers, so he felt that he and his sister both made "safe" choices. I ended up talking about Lovina.  I was the last to speak and usually this totally freaks me out, but I was so engaged listening to everyone else that I didn't sweat it.

After breaking the ice, and yes one person got teary eyed, I posed the first question.  Have you talked about your end of life wishes with anyone?  With the exception of the mortician's daughter, who already has a power point presentation in the works, very few of us had. Sure, there was a will composed by one attendee when she was twelve, but we all agreed we needed to get those wishes in writing, even when we're talking about who gets our My Little Pony collection.  Since we reside in Texas, here's the link for

that

. You can also search the site for your own state. For a regular old will about who gets all your stuff when you're gone, you can consult an attorney or buy software. We also talked about burial and cremation and viewings.  One woman, a hairdresser by day/writer by night, mentioned that she fulfilled her grandmother's wishes by styling her hair at the funeral home. She revealed that it didn't bother her to do this until she placed her hand over her grandmother's eyes to shield her from the hairspray and realized it was an unnecessary gesture.  Her grandmother was dead.

Then I asked the question, why do you think most people fear death?  For some, it was the fear of the after life or the lack thereof.  For one woman it was the actual act of dying and the anger she expected to feel at those who would go on living after she'd gone.  For her husband, he equated his feelings to that of a child that doesn't want to go to bed because he's afraid that he'll miss out on something.  The mortician's daughter felt that her father's view of people's mistakes surrounding their death created a perfectionism in her.  And the hairdresser, revealed that she didn't fear death because she'd been there and already done that.  When I sent out my invite, I asked people if they had any dietary restrictions.  She responded poppy seeds.  It turns out she flat lined before a surgery because of the morphine drip. I'm not going to tell you what happened because I think she needs to write about the experience, if she hasn't already. 

Then we talked about grief, specifically what people can do when we are grieving.  I think what we all agreed upon is that being in the presence of people is good.  Being able to tell stories about the person that died is helpful. People who listen are awesome.  Phrases like, "She's in a better place," or "He had a long life," or "At least they're not suffering anymore" are not particularly helpful  Presence is.  Food is even better. Someone who asks, "How can I help you?" or "Do you need anything?" and they're dropping off a Pyrex dish of food is spectacular.  My husband mentioned that its helpful to have people who will still listen months after a loss.  Initially we are inundated with friends and family who want to help, but grief goes on, long after the flowers have wilted and the sympathy cards have been put away.

Finally we talked about death and social media.  The hairdresser learned about the death of her brother from a Facebook post waiting for a Diet Coke at a Sonic Drive-In.  Not exactly the best way to be told someone you love has died. We all agreed that there needs to be some sort of etiquette involved in the digital age. We all thought it would be a great idea if a death wasn't announced on the internet until immediate family members and friends have been notified with a call or even better, in person.

I had such a wonderful time and I think my guests did too.  Heck, they wanted to do it again at their houses. I think that this death over dinner movement might just spread and be way bigger and more heavily attended next year.  I know I will do it again, probably in the next month or two.  My husband was particularly impressed by the event.  Even though we've talked a lot about death, it was the first time he'd spoken about it with other people that he'd never met.  And he liked it.  Sometimes the most difficult conversations can create the greatest intimacy among strangers.  And like Martha Stewart, the queen of entertaining, would say, "that's a good thing."

Monday Mourning: A Murder/Suicide

Pam Boyd lives in Dallas, TX, is in her fifties and writes, speaks, and consults. Her company, Dramatic Conclusions, helps people live drama-free lives at home and at work. She is the author of three books,

The Essential Handbook for First-Time Managers and Supervisors

,

The Two-Minute Tune-Up

, and

The Miracle I Almost Missed

. Her daily blog can be found at

www.pamboyd.wordpress.com

DW:  Who was the person that died?

PB:  My friend's parents. The father of my friend, Barbara, fatally shot her mother multiple times, then turned the gun on himself.

I hadn’t been married for very long, but my husband was a very sensitive and compassionate man who immediately offered help to Barbara and her husband. We drove down from Oklahoma with them, arriving at the rural Texas farmhouse just moments after the funeral home had removed the bodies.

I can still hear the popping of the gravel under the tires as we stopped in front of the house and the creaking under my first reluctant step onto the porch. I can still see the scrawl on the small and crumpled suicide note; “You can’t boss me around anymore.” It was a manifesto written on the back of the score sheet from the evening’s Domino game with neighbors.

Following uncomfortable pleasantries and an exchange of information with officials, the Sherriff left with a warning. He said word had already spread about the incident, including the information that Barbara’s dad had closed two bank accounts, withdrawing a substantial sum of money before the murder/suicide. We might want to watch for looters. My husband and I reluctantly volunteered to occupy the house overnight so Barbara wouldn’t have to be there.

We found ourselves alone on a nightmare set wreaking of blood and fear. Before everyone left, the men had moved a blood-soaked mattress outside and leaned it against the house away from the windows. It wouldn’t be far enough. The summer wind relentlessly carried the stench of death back into the crime scene through every open window and the latched screen door.

Because I couldn’t sleep, I eventually got up and tried to erase the evidence of the murder/suicide. I got up, filled a pan with hot, soapy water and began to clean bloody handprints and brain matter off baseboards, walls, and furniture while my husband slept. I worked until the sun came up, red gingham curtains waving ghost-like above the kitchen sink. I pored over philosophical questions and poured pan after pan of red water down the drain. I never wanted to see raw hamburger again.

DW:  How old were you at the time?

PB:  26

DW:  How old were they?

PB:  They were both in their 50's

DW:  Was it a sudden death or did you know it was going to happen?

PB:  I was totally stunned, and my friend, Barbara, understandably fell apart. On the way to her parents’ home, we stopped at a rest stop. She locked herself in the bathroom and wouldn’t come out. She wailed and wept for a long time.

DW:  Did you and the person talk about their death?

PB:  Funny thing. A year earlier, the only time I had ever talked with Barbara’s soft-spoken father-turned-murderer, he had asked me questions about forgiveness, assuming I was a religious person because I was a sort-of spiritual mentor for his daughter. He said he didn’t think God would forgive everyone. With much enthusiasm and conviction, I had naively assured him that even murderers were forgiven, using the thieves on the cross as evidence. I had no idea he was planning his own death and a murder at the time.

Lying there in the dark, I imagined him thanking God for this forgiveness as he relentlessly chased down Barbara’s terrified mother, pointed the gun, and pulled the trigger—over and over again. It had seemed like such an innocent conversation at the time.

DW:  Had you experienced any other deaths in your personal life before this?

PB:  Yes, my step-father (also a suicide), two grandparents, and my brother a few years earlier. This was a much more difficult experience because I was so close to the violence.

DW:  Were people supportive of your grief or did they shy away when you were grieving?

PB:  I was grieving the loss of an easy answer to life. It was my first encounter with abject violence and it really shook me up, but I was unable to express this adequately. It really changed me, but I didn't know I was going through a form of grieving.

DW:  Is there anything you wish you'd done differently with this person?

PB:  Yes, I wish I had been sensitive to the amount of anger and pain myfriend's father was experiencing and I wish I had known how to listen better to my friend. I was unable at the time to understand the shock she was experiencing with becoming a sudden orphan in such a tragic way.

DW:  Were they buried or cremated?

PB:  They were buried beside each other, which seemed ironic and malignant.

DW:  Did you learn anything about the grieving process that you'd like to share?

PB:  Reading books helped me a lot. The experiences of others remind us that we are not alone and sheds light on the process of recovery.

DW:  Were any songs played at the memorial that were important to the person?

PB:  My friend, Jeanie, chose the music that she thought her mother would have liked. I remember "How Great Thou Art" and "He Walks with Me" which were also played at my step-father's funeral. But, the gentle music played like a mockery in light of the circumstances of their deaths.