April 1st

April Fool's Day may be my least favorite day of the year.  I despise pranks.  The idea of people playing a joke on me fills me with the same dread and nervousness that I get when people sing Happy Birthday.  It's a fear of embarrassment at the core, really.

I remember many years ago when I was tasked by my father to help make breakfast.  I must've been 9 or 10.  Scrambling the eggs was my duty, and I set to cracking.  The first egg cracked without issue.  The second one didn't crack on the first tap.  Second tap.  I hit it harder, yet the shell didn't budge.  I was frustrated.  What in the world is going on?  It wasn't boiled.  It didn't make sense.  I hit it on the edge of the counter again and a small fragment chipped off, revealing a bit of dark brown beneath.  What is that?  I began picking the shell away from the hard interior to find a solid chocolate egg; a shell had been reconstructed around it.  Mom and Dad had watched the whole thing from a distance and found it hilarious.  I did not; I was furious.  It wasn't until many years later that I was able to look back on that and laugh, if only because my parents found it funny.  Truly, that's not something that just happens; I don't recall where the egg came from but it wasn't a corner store type of product.

At some point in the last few years, 4/1 became synonymous with internet companies pitching products and posting news that were ridiculous in nature; not so much pranks as humorous falsehoods.  Every year I'm amazed at how involved these releases are (Google tends to go all out) and also how many people are taken in by it.  It's a day I simultaneously want to avoid the internet altogether, yet admire the creativity some folks display.  There's the dark side of this trend, too; people on Facebook posting about false pregnancies and the tendency of some folks to take a joke too far and bring offense into the mix.  Like any kind of joke, it's all in good fun until someone loses an eye.  Or pride, I suppose.

It's less than a week 'til my birthday.  Last year was a success with many of my friends descending on my house for Nintendo-fueled enjoyment.  It was my first birthday without Dad, which cast a bit of a shadow, but in my memory it wasn't as bad as it could've been considering he'd been gone less than three months.  Man, time sure flies.  Every time I see my Mom, I can see the slight hint of disbelief that her boy is in his thirties now.  Hard to believe, to be sure.

Too Much Birthday

Early to Rise

I don't get up terrifically early.  That shouldn't be a surprise for those that are familiar with my 2-11 work schedule.  I don't sleep 'til noon anymore (usually) but I'm looking at a 9:30 or 10 awakening.  It's rare that I actually exhibit what my brother and I referred to as narcawakey:  waking up early and being instantly totally awake.  Today is one of those days.

Dad would wake up and BE up.  If we happened to be trying to wake up or something, he'd usually be sitting in his chair, hair all a'tussle, scheming some kind of harassment event to exhibit just how awake he was.  Perhaps throwing a pillow.  Maybe dancing in our direction and imploring us not to hit ourselves.  We would complain and implore the man to show mercy.  He rarely did.

Early mornings such as this bring two memories to mind.  One being our vacation times at Disney.  In order to get to the parks at opening, we had to rise and shine pretty dadgum early.  I love the feeling of being awake before the rest of the world starts spinning; I feel like I have the jump on everyone.  The other memory is the Saturday mornings I would accompany Dad to the office.  The coffee would have already brewed, and as Dad started getting ready for his day I would make his coffee.  Milk, sweetener added.  Most mornings he'd also have a large glass of Diet Coke along with it.  I'd take it upstairs and usually put it on the bathroom counter for him.

Morning time is also breakfast time.  As everyone knows, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  It's also the best meal to have any time of day.  Breakfast on Sundays was a family affair.  The four of us would work in conjunction to put the meal together.  Waking up to the smell of bacon already cooking is just about the best start to the day that can be.

I had a brief moment yesterday.  I was on my way to St. Francis Hospital to visit my friend Billy, who had just come out of brain surgery.  I sat at the stoplight in front of the hospital and was flooded with a wave of memories.  Not just of St. Francis, but of other hospitals too.  I remembered those who had passed in the sterile confines.  The last handshake I had with my Grandpa Hardy.  The downshifting cough of my Grandpa Dick.  And I wished I'd had the chance to say goodbye to my father.  The light turned green, so I composed myself and moved forward.

[no title]

How am I doing?

That's a difficult question to answer.  I have felt like I've fluctuated all over the board lately.  It's like there are two completely different people inhabiting my body.  There's Normal, Adjusted Rhys.  The one that smiles, that does his job, that hangs out with friends.  It's the public face.  And it's not fake.  It comes from the heart.  My smile is genuine.  My enjoyment is pure.  Those are the times I try to hold on to.  There's also Sullen, Lonely Rhys.  That's the one that creeps across Twitter or Tumblr at odd hours of the night.  It's the one that questions all of the decisions and keeps looking at the clock.

I have felt an increasing urgency around time.  I feel like I'm running out.  My logical brain tells me that's because of the sudden nature of my father's death and the very real knowledge that nobody knows the hour when their time will be up.  I don't feel that it's impacting my decisions, but it is starting to weigh on my mind.  One of the last pieces of advice that my father gave me revolved around my marriage.  My wife and I had just separated.  He told me that if there was anything I could do to keep things together, to do it.  This advice came from a man utterly broken by divorce; he'd lost everything and everyone.  This isn't the fault of my mother; Dad just simply couldn't restart.  And when my marriage ended, I knew it was for good reason.  That knowledge isn't as helpful in the cold dark of night when I hear his voice.

Thinking about it now, though, it's harder to hear his voice.  I actually broke down today, completely unexpectedly.  I was feeling a little down, but I chalked that up to the dreary, cloudy weather.  It was at work; I was heading back to my desk after getting some water.  I was walking through a room, totally by myself, and it just hit me.  I had to hold myself up using a table.  It was a sudden realization on how LONG it's been since Dad died.  It's been over a year.  From those I've talked to that have experienced this loss, it's normal for these geysers of grief to show up from time to time.  It passed about as quickly as it emerged.  But it recalled, again, that dread in my gut about my own time.

I've been thinking lately about seeing a professional.  It's been almost a year since I talked to anyone about all this, and perhaps there's a root cause behind all this.  Perhaps it's still normal.  I can't help but feel like it's abnormal and I'm broken somehow.  I keep pushing people away.

Weight

I eat out.  A lot.  I eat out every day for lunch, and once in awhile I'll eat out before work or after.  I have been feeling it lately, and not just in the way my clothes fit me; I've been getting increasingly sick of fast food.  It's the same thing, over and over again.  I've tried halving my portions.  I've tried cutting out sides entirely.  Nothing sticks; it's an addiction.

I went though my closet today and tried on all my t-shirts.  I folded and stored seven of about 15 because they fit me too snugly around the middle.  I don't want to look like a pear on legs.  But that doesn't fix anything.  Eating better and getting some for-real exercise will.  My neighbor, Amanda, has been pestering me (in a good way) to start running again.  Laziness is my biggest enemy, on all fronts.

I fixed a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner.  It's the first time I've fixed one in YEARS.  I simply didn't want to be bothered.  A good friend suggested using Pam cooking spray on the griddle side (THANK YOU!) and it was fantastic.  Easy, tasty, and loads better than dropping by Braum's or Whataburger.  Add in a side of chips (put on a plate, not out of the bag) and it was a suitable meal.  Not just me mindlessly eating because it's there in front of me.  The next goal is figuring out a steady way to eat during the work week.  Then comes... vegetables.  And actually healthy meals.  Just because dinner tonight was better than what I've been eating doesn't mean it will continue to be counted as a success.

I want to be able to wear those clothes again.  I see pictures of myself before I left the country and know I'm halfway there from my returning weight.  I can't do that.  Not again.

One Year Later

I started writing this on 10 November.  Tonight I did what I do just about every Thursday, which is watch a few episodes of The West Wing with my neighbor, Amanda.  One of the episodes tonight revolved around a main character’s father battling Alzheimer’s and the feeling of loss that accompanies such a devastating illness.  When these thoughts are finally posted to the world, it will have been one year since my father passed on.  Twelve months.  Goodness.  That’s hard to believe.  The reason I started writing tonight is because tonight I realized that media (be it books, movies, what have you) that deals with father issues has a greater impact on me emotionally.  I sit there and pretend it doesn’t affect me as much as it used to.  I still haven’t watched Big Fish again.  I know it will destroy me.  Field of Dreams is a no-go for a while too, while we’re at it.

Now it’s 2 December.  After hemming and hawing, I decided to buy a six foot Christmas tree.  I’ll be hosting a few gatherings here for the holidays, and a Christmas party without a tree would be sad.  We always had fake trees growing up; I didn’t have a real tree until Indi and I started dating.  When she learned I’d never had a real tree, she went nuts and insisted.  It was nice the once, but too much of a mess to do on a regular basis for my taste.  I set the tree up last night and decided today would be good to ornament it.  I thought I had Grandma Gail’s old ornaments, but it turns out I had Dad’s.  I filled with bittersweet memories as I looked through the box and the small packages of intense memory.  Decorating the tree was always a Rhys ‘n Tyler job at Christmas, and every piece of glass and grocery-related Season’s Greetings carried dense memory.  I really miss Dad today, even though he wasn’t a big fan of Christmas.  He wasn't a big holiday guy at all, in fact.  When I stayed with him during Grandma’s funeral, he sat at home watching old home movies of Christmas Past when us boys were young.  I got the impression that happened very frequently.

18 December.  Took a road trip yesterday with a friend.  There’s an abandoned mining town in northeastern Oklahoma and I wanted to take my new camera out for a spin.  We worked in a bit of a road trip and found ourselves near Pawhuska.  I decided to stop and see Dad’s marker for the first time in person.  Kneeling there on the hillside of the cemetery, I looked at his name etched into the stone laid in front of me.  There’s something so final about that.  Something that doesn’t really hit you with a picture.  I miss him so much.  That won’t ever get better, I think.  I just grow more used to his absence.  His contact is still in my cell phone.  I’m starting to entertain thoughts of removing it.  Every time I scroll past it, I want to stop.  A drop of water on my forehead.

27 December.  Put away the Christmas decorations today.  It was a good Christmas.  Spent a day with friends, a day with family.  Nobody mentioned Dad, but we all felt his absence.  The tree was decorated with sparse ornamentation; one of his old Campbell’s Soup ornaments crashed and shattered on the floor as I was putting it away.  I saw it go.  It slowly rolled out of my grip and descended to the wood slats below.  I was powerless.  I heard it shatter and my hand flew up to my mouth.  I just stared at it, hand still covering my mouth, for a good minute.  I held my breath.  It was done.  I apologized aloud to Dad as I went to the kitchen, got a broom, and cleaned it up.  It was a resigned feeling.  I know more things will go with time.  Nothing lasts forever.  Even my memories will fade and, eventually, break in some fashion.  That’s a hard reality to face.

16 January.  Two days.  They weren't sure when Dad actually passed away and said it could have been as early as Sunday.  I'm doing the same thing this year that I did last year on this day, which is march in the Martin Luther King Jr. Parade here in Tulsa.  I have some pictures from the event.  It was cold, but I enjoyed being a part of the festivities.  It's strange to look back and think that my world was about to completely change; HAD changed already, I just didn't know it.  I wish I could reach back and warn myself.  Hey, why hasn't Dad called you back?  Maybe you should have your aunt or uncle check on him.  He always returns your calls and it's been about a day since you tried calling him.  That nagging thought in your head should really be attended to; it's more important than you can ever imagine.  

17 January.  The calendar says tomorrow (as the 18th is one year) but I got the call the Tuesday after MLK Jr Day...so today feels more real.  Wherever you are, Tony, know that your son is proud to have you as a father.  As I've said before, I know how lucky I am that we were so close and we had a lot of good times together.  Still, I fight anger and bitterness that many people get twice as much time with their Dad as I did.  It's so damned unfair...but as you told me on multiple occasions there are only two kinds of fair:  state and county.  Every time I think of you, I try to smile and not dwell in sorrow.  Every time I see my brother, I try to encourage him and help give him guidance, for he had even less time with you than I did.  Every time I encounter a challenge at work, I ask myself how you would do it.  Every time I hug Mom, I hug her for both of us.  

I try to live up to the values that you instilled in me.  I work to make you proud.  I love you and miss you more than any word could express.

Support

It's difficult for me to accept help.

When Dad died, I had an outpouring of sympathy and offers for assistance, but I don't recall taking anyone up on it.  I remember a few phone calls, people asking how I was doing.  Fine. I'm always fine.  In the quiet moments of the night, when I let that wall down, I was inconsolable.  The depths of my sorrow were so severe I didn't know how I would ever get past them.  But who do you call at 3:00 in the morning?  All I had was an empty house to hear me, so I figured writing this blog would be a good outlet; and it was.  As the one year anniversary approaches, I can feel my emotions seeking that same stone wall I built last year.  I don't want to be around anyone.  I just want to go home and not think about it.

I don't want anybody to see me hurting.

But it's also what I want most.

It's a strange, crazy dichotomy.  I feel like it's selfish to reach out when all that I want is a shoulder to cry on or someone to hear my sorrows.  Even now, as I'm not doing as fine as I have been, when people ask I don't tell them.  Because then they'll ask more, and then I'll have to TELL more, and the problem just gets worse.  So I put on a happy face.  The reclusive beast stays in the shadows.  After all, it's been a year.  I'm sure all of my friends have read my blogs or heard me talk about these emotions; why would they want to sit through them again?  That's when I turn into a pest, 'that guy' that brings everyone down.  At least, that's what the beast tells me.

I'm very much a talker.  I prefer conversation in a coffee house than a night out at a bar, dancing or what-have-you.  I like to communicate and share with others.  It's damned unfair that I had become recently single when everything fell apart; I wanted someone I did feel like I could share with, unselfishly, and just look to for support.  For some reason, I didn't look to my friends for that.  I just did without.  People still asked, and I still told them I was okay.  I even made a list of names of the friends that expressly asked me to reach out to them if/when I wanted to talk.  I never utilized that list.  My desire for connection was trumped by my desire to burrow and share through electronic means.

I don't feel like I am 'crying out for help' or that I desperately need someone to talk to.  I recognize I'm conflicted.  In ten days, I have a monumental anniversary to get through and I don't know if I want to be surrounded by friends or isolated.  I have strong feelings both ways.  I just don't know.

Heroes

Like many kids, I grew up thinking my parents knew it all.  Any question I had could be answered.  Any problem I had could be solved.  No matter what was going on, I knew I could turn to them for support and assistance.  And like many kids, I remember the moment when that curtain fell.

I was living in Topeka, so this would've been in 2000.  It was wintertime, the roads covered in snow.  Dad had taken my brother to school in the Explorer and had run over something in the road that shredded his tired.  Mom got a call from my exasperated father, asking for help changing the tire.  So Mom and I got into my car and drove the few miles out to the Walgreen's parking lot Dad had pulled into.  There he was, in his long black winter coat, frustratingly fumbling about.  The truck had already been jacked up and the front right tired was almost off.  I helped take of the rest of the bolts and took the tire off the hub.

Something snapped.  Evidently, Dad had placed the ridiculously-small jack under a plastic piece of the side board instead of the proper setting and the brittle molding broke away.  The truck lurched downward on top of the tire, which was still standing next to the axle.  Unfortunately, my hand was on top of the tire when this happened and my right hand was now pinned between the shredded tire and the wheel well.  It was at that instant that my father morphed from the all-knowing strong man of the universe to a mortal being, a guy trying to do the best he could in a world he increasingly didn't understand.  Here he was, angry and upset that he was late to work because of car trouble, and suddenly his oldest son may have just lost his hand.  He panicked and tried to pull my hand free, but the truck had already settled.  I calmly told my parents to just find the jack (it shot out from underneath the truck), get it lifted somewhere stable, and free me so I could get to an urgent care facility.  After about five minutes, this was achieved and Mom drove me while Dad waited on a tow truck.  Thankfully, I had no nerve damage and I regained full use of my hand after a few months.

The real damage (if you can call it that) was that after that I saw my folks as regular people, just trying to make their way.  It's a natural thing, and my relationship with both of my parents grew stronger after that.  Even though my understanding changed, I still found myself reaching out to them when I had questions.  Sure, they didn't know everything, but they still had all the answers.  I always took that for granted.  So many of the figures I've looked up to in my life are tarnished or gone entirely.  It's part of growing up.  But no matter how human I see my parents to be, they are still Mom and Dad.  And they always understand.