It's messy...

Yesterday, I finally caught up with a close friend, a woman I love, respect, admire, and always wish I could spend more time with.  We try to see each other for a monthly dinner, but time's gotten away from the two of us.  Life always seems to get in the way of our plans.

There are very few people I like to talk with on the phone, but she's one of the few.  This friend is someone I can talk shop with for hours, because she knows her stuff about teaching, and her excitement and willingness to brainstorm ideas is never-ending.  Her voice is so animated over the phone that I can hear the speed with which she's wildly gesturing on the other end.   She'll stand in front of her bookshelf and yell out titles of books I MUST read - the woman's a treasure trove.  I am so lucky to count her in my circle.

After a solid hour of unit planning, text sharing, and getting generally fired up about the work we do,  I asked about the rest of her life... and the air left the conversation.  Her answer was stilted and obviously uncomfortable for her.

I knew her mother had been battling sickness for a while, but my friend confessed that it's come to the end.

"The end."  The time when lawyers and doctors enter the picture, when plans are put on hold, when vacation time is reviewed, when calendars are cleared for the imminent.  The eminent.

To say the relationship between my beautiful friend and her mother has been complicated is an understatement. It seems the brilliant, generous, accomplished woman I know has never been enough for her mother, and her mother has always been sure to tell her ungrateful daughter how disappointed she's been with her.  That selfish girl moved away and never calls or visits or supports enough.  After all her mother did for her... gave her strict discipline... a good beating when necessary. It must have been necessary.

The hard truth is that some relationships can't be mended or resolved.  Sometimes we have to resolve those relationships on our own, no matter how much we'd like them to be a joint effort.  My friend has been trying to do just that for years.  But "the end" complicates an already complicated situation.

My heart hurts for my friend. I know that the death of her mother won't be the end of the pain, it will be a new chapter of it.  It will entail not only dealing with her own complex grief, but helping others with their own, of trying to reconcile who her mother may have been to others while not being a loving mother to her at all. It will be the beginning of sifting through what is left and trying to rise above.

I don't know how a person does that.  I know that she will, because my friend is exceptional, but it humbles me to know that even with support around her, she will still experience part of this mourning alone... there are personal dragons that must be slain by one.

...

Today I came home from work to find a large manilla envelope for me in the mail pile.  I picked it up and immediately recognized my dad's handwriting.  Opening it, I found my copy of a cover letter addressed to my brother and me, signed by both of our parents.

The letter outlined their most recent estate plan and newly executed End Care documents. I sat down and read through the documents with my hand unconsciously over my heart.  What could be a more loving and heartfelt gift from our parents than to try and make their departure from this world as easy as possible for us, their children?  They've made sure that every situation has been laid out and considered.  They've cleaned up every possible extra mess.  Oh, don't mistake me, my mourning the loss of my parents will be very, very messy.  It is inconceivable to me as I write this.  But it won't be messy because of anything they've overlooked or forgotten or refused to deal with.  They are handling all of their business.  They will simply leave us, and that is as unbearable as I think I can manage.

Our parents have offered us something that is utterly invaluable.  My brother and I have been adults for many years now, and our parents have treated us as such, but ultimately we all know we are still their children.  They are still taking care of us.  There is a logic to what they have done.

How I wish my friend was blessed with a parent who can lead, who can be the strong figure who takes care of her child the way my parents still thoughtfully care for my brother and me.

I am so humbled by their gift.

Joe

When we were small, my brother and I had adjacent bedrooms at the end of the hall, and there was one spot in the hallway that could be seen by both of our beds.  On special evenings, after Jay and I tucked in, Dad would settle himself there in a chair with his guitar, and he'd begin to play.  He'd start with something we all knew, like "I've Got A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts" or "Hey, Look Me Over" and the three of us - Jay and I from our beds and Dad from his chair - would sing together, our voices finding each other's in the dim light.  Dad would break into a rousing version of "Won't You Come Home, Bill Bailey" and I'd be smiling, tapping the rhythm out with every part of me, practically dancing under the sheets. We'd sing tag-lines like "right through a taxi"  and the cheeky "without her knickers" and Jay and I would giggle.  It was a musical slumber party.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, Dad would move to the slower songs, the ones that Jay and I didn't know as well, like "Five Hundred Miles" and "If You Were The Only Girl In the World."  He'd croon the love songs from his college days and the ones I'd listen to him sing in 4-part harmony at get togethers with family friends.  Dad's voice would curl like a single ribbon of sound into our rooms. The dark never seemed so warm.  Gently, Jay and I would fall off to sleep, music weaving through our dreams.

...

A Fathers Day post has incredible pressure.  I've been fretting for the past several weeks about how I best honor my dad, Joe Douglas.

I will simply say this.

No one is more like Joe Douglas than his daughter.  No one. And I'd be willing to bet that there was no one before me in the family lineage that was as much like my father as I am.

I say this with a great amount of pride, although my father may cringe a bit.  We've laughed about it together quite a bit over the last few years. He and I both know that the qualities we value in ourselves aren't necessarily what others value.  In fact, some people think we're pains in the asses.

My father learned to live with that, and you know what?  So have I.  It's incredibly liberating.

See, Joe Douglas and I are complicated beings.  We strive to be better than we are, and we're mad at ourselves when we're not.  We're surrounded by people (wives and husbands and siblings and children) who are worlds kinder and more patient and generally way easier to love than we are, and honestly, it can blow to be compared to them.  I am Jan's daughter, Jay's sister and Mike's wife - I listen to the constant stream of professions of love and admiration for those three. People are downright disappointed if I show up to an event without one of them in tow.  I get it, and I agree, but it can get tiring.  Dad and I are never going to compare in certain arenas.  Sometimes we try; other times we say to hell with it.  We want to be patient and kind - we'd like a few rounder edges sometimes, but mostly you have to love us for being stubborn, outspoken, sticklers for structure, gruffly committed to justice... things that aren't sexy but are true. We hope you forgive us for our shortcomings, but if you don't, well, we both think... "Piss off."

I can love my dad in a way that no one in the world ever has or ever will.  As his only daughter, so much like him, my love is unique and complicated and... perfect.  It is one of the only times in my life I can say that something I do is perfect.  I don't profess to know him best, but I know Joe Douglas like no one else and I honor him for everything he is.  He is... beautiful.  He is... exceptional.  He is... ever-evolving, ever struggling, and I think that is the most honorable place to be.  He is my hero, not just for who he is, but for who he hopes to be every single day.

And that has to be enough.  It is for me, his very proud daughter.

Happy Fathers Day, Joe Douglas.

Jay

When I was a kid, I wrote extensively in my journals (which sounded much more mature than "diaries") about how much I wished for an older sister, an older brother, and a younger sister.

I had a younger brother.

God's punishment to a 10-year-old girl, apparently.

I was not a nice older sister.  I played pranks on my brother, I said horrible things, I tortured that kid.  And I don't remember his deflecting my cruelty very well.  I remember a lot of yelling for Mom, crying and running away.

That all ended the day I was 13 and he was 11 when I pushed him to the breaking point and he punched me in the face.  (I'll pause so you can cheer.)

Something shifted for us.  Or more, something shifted for me.  I can't say my brother changed because he'd always been a sweet kid.  I guess I finally started appreciating what other people already did. Maybe the punch knocked some sense into me.

(Disclaimer: Do not try this strategy at home.)

In high school, Jay was involved in community theater and took classes at a local performing arts studio.  His encouragement got me involved too, and pretty soon, he and I had a common group of friends.  We hung out together.  We actually had fun together.  My brother became my friend.

I went off to college - to Syracuse - to major in theater.  When it was his turn to look at colleges, I lobbied for him to join me.  My brother decided instead to go to Florida State where all theater majors were tan, in-shape and happy.  (Not only was my brother kind, he was smart.)  Since this was pre-Internet, we wrote letters, sent cards, called... He was a grounding force.

My first professional theater job after graduating from college was in Roanoke, Virginia, and wouldn't you know, I got to work with my brother.  It was pure summer camp! Man, we had a blast.  In the fall, I moved to NYC to live the dream and Jay went back to college.  Surprise, surprise - The theater world wasn't as psyched to see me as I thought it would be, and when I visited Jay at school, I conjured up this hair-brained idea that I'd move down to Tallahassee to write while he finished school.  I told him how cool it would be if we got an apartment together.

(Doesn't that sound like fun?  Have your sister invite herself to join you for your college experience?)

But my brother is kind and smart and compassionate.  He let me down easy and said I was just scared of the transition.  Hang in there, he said.  I did and it ended up working out pretty well, I think.

Fast forward 20-some years and a lot more life transitions and huge events.

So here we are now.  Jay lives three subway stops away with his great family (wife and 3 kids).  Last night I went to his sons' school's fundraiser, which Jay had not only helped to organize but performed in.  I watched him onstage with such... awe.  I was suddenly so overwhelmed by the rich lives we have lived and our shared experiences in them.  Who would I be without him?  I am amazed and humbled by the person he is... I guess at the person he has always been.

I am SO glad that God didn't read my diary.  I may not deserve him, but I like having the brother I got.