Archive for November, 2005

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examining the pieces

November 30, 2005

What I’m feeling, I cannot write about.  I cannot write about it because I cannot even let my brain form words for it.  It’s beyond language.

 
A Million Little Pieces by James Frey puts words to the unspeakable reality of addiction.
 
The addict in my life has been sober for 14 months.  It’s time to examine the pieces that fell around us during the 5 years before that.
 
I feel shattered all over again.  And I welcome it.
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5 year old has love affair with playdoh, June wedding planned

November 30, 2005

“I will love him and hug him and squeeze him and name him George”

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3 year old boy grows mammoth moustache

November 30, 2005

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Blizzard!!!

November 29, 2005


I don’t know, enough to make a snow fort? What do you think? Posted by Picasa

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Thanks – and good news!

November 29, 2005

Thank you, everyone, for your words of concern and compassion yesterday.  The post about my grandfather was something that I needed to write for myself – it just happened that I wrote it here and you all read it.  I appreciate your comments and thanks so much for reaching out to me both here on this blog as well as through personal email.

 
I heard from my father last night and, to my surprise and joy, apparently no one is expecting my grandfather to go anywhere soon.  In fact, they are only half joking when they are making comments about him finding another girlfriend and living for another 20 years.  I guess hearing about his plans for death as well as the unexpected nature of the disease led me to believe that things were getting much worse much faster than they actually are.
 
I hope to visit him soon.  I hope to find him willing to talk.  Maybe I can bribe him with some pie.
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Vernon

November 28, 2005

My grandfather is 80 years old.  He’s over 6 feet tall, has a love affair with coveralls, and has a laugh that you could identify from miles away.  Grandpa can still get my father’s attention with a simple whistle – and my Dad, who’s heard the whistle for 60 years, knows that it’s his father, and no one else, whistling.  My grandfather tells jokes and drinks coffee and can turn a pile of wood into art.  He likes pie.  He likes music.   He likes Westerns.  My grandfather’s name is Vernon.  He is dying.

 
Grandpa and I live in the same state, just a couple of hours apart from each other, but I can think of maybe 3 instances in the last 10 years when I’ve seen him.  He called me once a couple of years ago and we talked about gambling and food and my kids.  We exchange holiday cards every year.  That’s about it, though.  I’ve not made a huge effort to keep in contact with him, but neither has he.  That’s kind of the way this family works.  Somehow knowing is enough – there needs to be no big show of it all.
 
A couple of months ago, he was diagnosed with Non Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, which is the most common type of blood cancer, and which feeds off of stress and a compromised immune system.  My grandfather is chronically depressed, in poor physical health.  What can be a very curable disease is taking him -and taking him fast.  His time is limited, we believe, although you never know.  He’s completed his first round of Chemo and has recently moved out of state to be closer to his daughter and son who can care for him.  Today I learned that he wants to be cremated.  It sounds so final.  So soon.
 
I remember being a little girl and holding my grandfather’s hand as we walked through World’s of Fun.  I remember traveling to visit family and seeing the truck stop just off the interstate that let us know that we were going to see Grandpa.  He drove a truck for years and then worked on them for years more.  Because of him, I love mashed potatoes.  Because of him, I learned that a frizzy haired woman in her 60’s with too much make up and Aquanet can serve the best piece of apple pie around (sincerely, try a truck stop for dessert – you’ll not regret it.)
 
I love my grandfather.  I wish I knew more.  I wonder if I’ll have time.  Every day, my heart breaks a little bit more.  Every day, I cry a few more tears.
 
My grandfather’s name is Vernon.  He is dying.
 
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Okay, Okay, here it is!

November 26, 2005

See, here I’m looking like a 40 year old. Posted by Picasa

And here’s me laughing in relief that I am not.