I lived

in my room at MGH. Sore!!!

So much for the gears

It's the afternoon before my surgery.
I want our place to be decent enough for friends to visit.
Last week Blake heled me lower the bed down from the first window ledge into its frame, having given up the idea of mounting the bed 2 feet in the air on the gears. We decided be a little rough to get in to bed climbing on those wobbly stairs after my surgery.
The very best thing about having it on the bedframe is that now I can stash all The Stuff that has not yet found a home under the bed. So much for my clutter free, just clear space, vision.
One example of my inability to realize that vision is I cannot throw away 2 non-working, robotic vacuum cleaners that we own. Maybe they can be fixed. Maybe someone else can use them. 2
I'm on the last leg of neatening up, but over-dosing on tranquilizers isn't helping my cause. They could make me not care how the place looks.

I am about 22 stops past limp biscuit now

In fact, I feel a bit terrified.
I guess Dad's death took a lot out of me.
I've been saying the serenity prayer over and over again, which is my standard prayer: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.
I also took two lorazepam at 9:15 or so and I just calculated that it been five hours since then so I took another two. Wrong, only 2 hours. Anna says I should be napping shortly.
I felt no fear zip lining or rappelling down 200' last year with George. I felt no fear snorkeling two days after I'd been stung by the second-worst jellyfish in the world. I do feel afraid on the slopes the fist few times down the mountain, but I was never afraid when I broke my leg skiing.
For some reason I am choosing to feel terrified. I don't know why I want to be terrified or why I am choosing it, but I am. Admitting that it is my choice, is giving me a little bit of relief from it. I am taking ownership of the terror, which I guess gives me a little bit of power over it. I can't just tell it to go away. But I don't have to fight it either. By acknowledging that I am choosing the fear, I take responsibility for it, allowing it to leave.
I've tried to share this thinking with many friends over the years, but seem unable to explain it correctly.
I made up this technique over 30 years ago. In NYC, I played paddleball, a street game. Whoever won the game kept the court and took on the next challenger(s). At fairly regular intervals I would argue with my opponents. Screaming in your face, against garbagmen, ex-cons, whomever. Not a healthy way to keep my teeth. So instead of arguing with them I started talking to myself saying: for some reason I want to kill him; I am so fucking angry and don't know why I want to be; for some reason I just want to wring his neck; etc. til the rage passed. I got 99.9% or so of my rage out of me.
I couldn't talk myself into choosing another emotion. I had to accept responsibility for it and let it out.
The terror has subsided, for now. I can feel a little calm poking its nose out.

Dexter pulls another fast one

Blake, Anna, George and Katie rented a van to go to Dad's funeral and they graciously included Andy and Dexter. I flew out a few days early and back a few days late so that I could have that time with my sisters. They made record time getting back to Boston, pulled up behind Andy's car and started unloading. In the meantime Dexter locked the van which was fortunately still running. Calls for help lead to the promise of someone arriving in the next hour and a half or so. In the meantime Anna coaxed Dexter over to the switches and got him to step in the right place to open the doors. I happened to be on the telephone with Andy when that happened and I could hear Anna's screams of joy. Life is never dull with Dexter. He's going to stay with Anna and Blake and Addie and Molly after my surgery so he won't be jumping on my chest, which would be agonizing I'm sure.

Limp Biscuit

That pretty much describes how I feel right now. I have gone through a million emotions in the last week.

It's hard for me to believe that my dad is really gone. 

He was my Touchstone. 

If I can find it, maybe I'll print what I said at his service. We all learned a lot from the other speakers at the service. One teenage boy, who travelled from out of town over Christmas to see Dad, was sobbing after the service. He touched so many lives in amazing positive ways. 

I really sobbed when I said goodbye to his fiancée Jane, wondering how she will fill the very huge, new hole in her life. 

I fear that my relationship with my sisters may falter without Dad as the magnet that draws us together. Blake thinks things will go on as usual. 

My double mastectomy is on Monday. The operation seems overwhelming and scary. 

Becky has offered to take care of me at her house, with Andy staying in the guest garage. 

Jane may come later and take care of me for a little while I'm recuperating. 

Ginger has also offered to turn her home into a rehab facility for me. I might laugh too hard and hurt myself though. 

Tomorrow, 3 of George's friends are taking me out to lunch, just to wish me all the best before the slicing and dicing begins. 

Gay traded days to be with Andy in the waiting room at MGH. Anna is taking a day off work to be with me. 

How blessed can any one person be? I am so grateful to my friends and family. 

There is one last message on my phone from Dad, telling me how sorry he is for what I'm going through. It is wonderful to have the key to unlock the floodgates, to hear his concern and love. 

Dad's Death is Still Not Real

My last entry was on his birthday. I still believe I can pick up the phone and reach him. I have dozens of questions that I want to ask him.
My sisters and I have have been communicating a little bit about what we will each say at his service, one week from today. I guess the big concern is that we not duplicate anything. One of the most glaring differences I've noticed was in Bobbi's notes. She claims that Dad referred us to the encyclopedia whenever we had a big question. I already mentioned that I called him Mr. Google long before the internet was ever thought of .
I've been searching through some photos of Dad for the cover of the funeral program. His various expressions bring back actuals stories, some specific characteristics. I think we will use this one, severely cropped:

It was taken in Churchill, Manitoba, where he took me for my 60th birthday to see the Polar Bears. This plane crashed years before we got there, but embodies the thrill of the adventure. It is the only trip I have taken alone with him. What a joy. Dad planned the trip, eschewing group tours. Mom usually scheduled all travel with little left unscheduled. Dad wanted a little looser experiences, so without first night reservations, we spent the night with the "Mayor" of Churchill. Very charming and accommodating couple, who steered us to the all the most important points of interest and the exciting tour across the tundra in a dune buggy to see the bears in situ. That night we went to the "scientific research center" where the Elder Hostel group was cooking and staying. We did eat with them and helped a little with clean up. Dad was very affected by the presentation of a an Eskimo Cree woman, who told her story of being ripped from her parents arms, thrown into dormitories and never allowed to speak her own language again. Her experience shifted his thinking of all the wrongs human beings have committed in this world, hence the photos of the Eskimo children outside his apartment door. After dinner, we went outside to watch the Northern Lights, guarded by men with high powered rifles. For some reason, the plane and the armed guards reminded me of what it must have been like in New Guinea for him during WWII.

We did return to Town for the night, played a game of Scrabble, which I won!!!!! I did beat Dad, one of my proudest moments in my life. I never played with my mother for fear of losing. 

Its hard for me to believe that all those synapses in his brilliant brain have stopped communicating with each other. He did know his body was giving out, but couldn't imagine not asking new questions, not designing new solutions for common, silly problems. He had not finished rising what needed fixing.

One of the advantages of being the oldest daughter, is that I am only one that benefitted from the many traditions instituted for us all. Many were not realized for the other 3 girls.  One Christmas, we each got a DVD of us as kids. Becky asked if they were all different. The parents laughed and said , "NO." They are all of Berry.

Another wonderful tradition we began was celebrating the big birthdays for each daughter. My 50th, I think, was in Charleston, well planned by Carly Detwiller and enjoyed by many of my friends and relatives. The next big event combined Bambi and Bobbi's 50th birthdays, in Sante Fe. We had a blast. Something big needs to happen for Becky, maybe for her 70th.