Death, be not proud

with apologies to John Donne, et al.

So part of my mean reds, by no means all, but a good portion, has to be related to the fact that today marks the tenth anniversary of the death of my father. Ten years. More than a quarter of my life now, without him. It takes my breath away to even think of it. I...ach. I could blither on, but I decided months ago that I wanted to reprint an article from the paper version of Languishing (Winter 2004, Issue 1, Volume 8) today. I wrote it just a month or so after he died, and I print it here mostly unaltered.

Mighty and dreadful indeed.

Death Be Not Proud
One woman's story of losing her daddy.

Wednesday, 24 July 2002: 7:30am: Mom called this morning. Seems dad's chest pains from last night didn't go away, so I'm heading over to Hillsboro. I talked to Jess, told her not to come. I know she feels so far away in the Cities, but this is just chest pains. She'll be home this weekend, and can see him then.

8:30am: Dad looks gaunt, almost skeletal. He always looks this way, though, in his hospital gown, when he's had a ride in the ambulance. How many times have we been here? Since I was twelve, after those first 6 months of rehab after the stroke, I've seen him like this....half a dozen times? A dozen? Too many, but it's not like any of us chose this life. It just is. I smooth his hair; what I feel towards my father, what I have felt for almost 17 years, is very much typical father-daughter love. But also motherly, because he needs care. I clip his fingernails, clean out his ears when they're dirty. I cut up his steak for him. Rustle my fingers through his beard when I try to convince him to trim it. But he is always my father. He wheels his chair out with me to the parking lot, checks my tires, makes sure the headlights work, makes me use my seat belt. He is comforting, familiar, strong. He tells me everything will work out, that I can do what I am afraid to do, that he loves me.

In this little hospital room with uncomfortable chairs and a television mounted on the wall, I talk to Jess again. Should she come? I ask Dad. No, he says, shaking his head emphatically, as if to say, Don't be silly. The nurse is in the room with us, and after a few minutes, he starts coughing, waving his hand at her, raising his voice. She doesn't understand him, and I'm still on the phone with Jess. "He's going to throw up" I snap at the nurse, frustrated that she doesn't comprehend our secret code of gestures and inflection. Jess says, "I'm on my way" just before I hang up on her, because the black bile is seeping through Dad's beard onto his faded gown. The nurse apologizes, and I do, too, because she couldn't know that this time "Deelo...deelo!" meant "I need an emesis basin."

9am: The doctor comes in. Mom is really worried, but I'm not. Jesus, he survived a massive stroke, the amputation of both legs: some little heart palpitation's not going to kill him. The doctor is short, shorter than me, and other than that he reminds me of my cousin Chad, with olive skin, dark, thinning hair, and a laid-back way. His news is not good. There's been a heart attack, of significant size, it seems. Dad's asleep now, because the nurse gave him medicine to help with his nausea. We stand over him, talk around him. Mom strokes his bald head. I ask what we should do. I get frustrated, because I feel like the doctor and we are speaking two different languages. "It's up to you," he says. Yeah, we know that. What should we do?? "Well, he has a DNR order..." Yeah, we know that too. What does this mean. How bad is it? WILL HE DIE? "We don't know yet. We could find out the extent of the damage, but he'd have to go to Fargo for that." He's sleeping now. I don't think he wants to go to Fargo. I don't know. So if we don't find out the extent of the damage.... what happens? We know strokes, we know gallstones, we know prostate and cancer and bladder infections and amputations, but we don't know heart attacks. "He could recover. The next 24 hours will be important." I'm glad Jessica is on her way. I call her cell and tell her so, and tell her that Dad's comfortable now, snoring lightly. She's scared, but our Aunt Shirley, Dad's sister, is with her. I'm glad of that too. They just left the city, and it's almost 10 am.

12 noon: Brenda, our friend and the wife of our pastor in Hendrum, stops by. She's an RN, and looks at Dad carefully. I show her his vitals, which I've been recording in my journal. Blood pressure: 90/40; pulse 120; temp 99.2; oxygen 84%. She talks to Dad, although he's not really awake at all. Tells him she's here, says a prayer with us. The Lord's Prayer hurts my chest when I say it. "Our father, who art in heaven." Brenda does a healing ceremony, instead of communion, and it involves anointing with oil. It feels too much like last rites and Mom and I both cry.

Dad's kidneys aren't working much. He's been in the hospital since 7:30, and he's made no urine. This is very bad, Brenda tells us. Her seriousness scares me. She takes mom out for lunch, and I sit with Dad, tell him about work, Shaun, our dog, our house. I tell him I love him over and over and over again. I know he knows: it just helps to say it. Beverly, Dad's other sister, who lives in California, calls. She wants to know how he is, and I tell her, as he sleeps. Dad and Bev were so close as children, practically twins. As she's about to hang up, he opens his eyes, and I say, wait, here he is. I hold the phone to his ear, and though he's groggy, I tell him it's his sister Bev. He hears her voice, and responds. He knows it's her: I don't know what she says to him, but he says "yeah," a few times, tells her he's okay, I think. I take the phone and tell her he knew it was her, and she says she knows. She's looking into flights to Fargo.

2pm: The doctor stops by again. The kidney thing has him worried. Why aren't they working, we ask.  His blood pressure is so low, they're not getting enough blood. His heart has been damaged, so it's pumping where it can. Will that get better? Maybe. Let's inject him with some saline, and some medicine to make him urinate, and see if that helps. Okay. C'mon kidneys. Mom is really quiet. I don't see why everyone has to be so solemn. It's been bad before.

3pm: Jess and Shirley arrive. They stopped in Moorhead and picked up Shaun. Dad wakes up and knows Jess, certainly, and she kisses him and cries and cries. He's hardly awake at all any more, from the medication or the effort his heart is making to pump what little it can. Mom, Jess, and I talk with Dad, who won't wake up, about how we won't resuscitate. No breathing tubes, no surgeries. If the kidneys work, they work. If not, we'll have to let him go. Dad agreed to this years ago, but we tell each other again that this is what he wants, what we all know should happen, if it has to.

The doctor comes back, and as the saline and medication have not jump-started the kidneys, he recommends we bring family in. This is the first time I'm really startled. He says "If there's family thinking of coming, you should tell them to come. Now." We use Shirley's cell phone to call relatives. I call three of mom's siblings: Bev, John, and Sharon. "This might be it, the doctor says," I tell three people, and for some reason it gets harder every time. I can't call any one else after that. Jessica calls the others, and we let Shirley call Dad's side of the family. We are very, very tired.

6pm: We go eat supper in shifts. Shirley and I and Shaun go first, to the Wagon Wheel Restaurant in Hillsboro. It feels like a VFW hall, kind of, with industrial tables and chairs. I eat fried shrimp, and the three of us talk, and sort of look at each other, surprised, kind of, by what seems about to happen. i feel like my eyes are wide open, insistently watching, waiting. Shaun feels helpless, afraid for us, and doesn't know how to help. When we get back to the hospital, Uncle Harry, Dad's older brother, is there. They have been fighting with each other for about 10 years, or maybe 15. It feels like forever, but we're glad he's there. Even Dad, I think, knows how much Harry loves him this summer night.

7pm-on: Through the evening, we have lots of company; Pastor Tim comes, and Shaun's dad, and Carla and Darrell and Janice, friends of our family. Lots of people, it seems, and we are all grateful. Most everyone is gone by 11pm, when the nursing shift changes. Our night RN must've been in the military, I think. She is all business, and her gruffness worries me a little, because Jess and I will push back if we need to, but we're not exactly strong right now. Instead, she insists on just a few things. "He must be kept comfortable. Tell your mother to get some sleep. I'll let you know if it gets close to time." Now I know there's no going back. This nurse makes no pretense of recovery, and it is just the waiting. Because the hospital is nearly empty, we get the room next to Dad's, and mom goes to sleep for a few hours. She's been up, by our count, nearly 40 hours straight. Aunt Shirley dozes in the lounge, and Jess and I stay with Dad.

The next few hours will remain forever some of the most memorable of my life. Sitting with my father and my sister, knowing that time is so literally almost out, I feel desperate to stay awake, to soak in every second we have left together. Jess and I cry, even sob, at times. Finally, we decide to make the best of it. First we talk about our favorite memories with Dad. She remembers things I'd forgotten, and vice versa, So we tell him we love him, and why, and tell him what he's taught us, and what we'll remember. At some point, we shift, and talk about the future. Jess tells him what she hopes to name her children, and I do the same. "We promise to tell them about you, Daddy. We promise to take care of each other, and of Mom." We recognize out loud that if we'd been a TV movie, we'd have changed the channel by now.

2:30am: After taking Dad's pulse, Army nurse says we should wake Mom, so we do. But Dad has no intention of dying yet, so we sprawl around his room...in hospital chairs, across the foot of his bed, on the floor, and take turns dozing. When morning comes, he is still with us, and we joke, wearily, about his stubbornness. Sometime in the morning, Brenda comes again. She tells us an amazing story about letting go, about the path toward death as a journey, and we all cry. Brenda, Mom, and Jess go out for lunch, and Shirley goes to pick up Bev at the airport.

While they are gone, Dad's breathing gets more sporadic. He has a kind of apnea, it seems, and stops breathing for a second or two or ten...and then breathes again. Brenda told us this would happen, And that it would indicate the end was coming closer. She said it would get worse until finally the space between breaths was greater and greater...and eventually, he would just stop.

2pm: Mom and Jess come back from lunch, and walk in with Uncle Harry. Harry says, "I'll go," and we tell him he has to say good-bye. So he does. "We'll see you, Dewey," he says, shaking Dad's hand. It is one of the saddest moments I've ever seen.

Jess has to run to the bathroom, just down the hall. Mom and I sit, listen to Dad breathe, then stop. Breathe, then stop. When Jess gets back, Mom has to go. While she's gone, Jess and I watch Dad wince twice to draw breath: it really seems to hurt him. Finally, mom gets back. She sits with Dad's good hand, on his left. I sit on his right, and Jess sits on the foot of his bed. We tell him we love him, that he can go...and he does. He just...stops.

Again, if it were a TV movie, it would be too ridiculous. But that's how it happened, how we got to say good-bye, and be with him. How we watched him die. I don't have a moral to this story, and I'm not telling you this for pity, or to make you sad. It feels good, somehow to share it. It was a gift he gave us, being able to be with him. He was a good man. I miss him.

Languishing (ironically a day late...)

Oh, A to Z blogging challenge.  We were getting along so well. And then I had this busy Friday the 13th, and I was just too tired to do L. So I beg the blogosphere's forgiveness, and press on.
Unsurprisingly, I was going to write about luck for Friday the 13th. But then, as I clicked on the "new post" button, here on the 14th, I remembered that the name of my blog is Languishing, and decided to go that route instead.  And then I thought about how the blog is named after the 'zine, and decided to just print a bit from the Languishing book I've been working on for four years. I hope you like it.

The Subtitles & Bylines

Almost every paper issue of Languishing has a subtitle, that is, a brief statement after the title on the cover, and often a second subtitle on the first inside page. Often the second one is a sort of mini-definition. Well, sometimes. Anyway, it’s just how we’ve always done it. Jen and Nena wrote all of these: sometimes collaboratively, sometimes not. We like to think they reflect Languishing’s love of words, but then again, we’re both nerdy English types.  Taken out of what little context they were in originally, they make sort of a wacky found poem. When read aloud, each should be prefaced with "Languishing: " Of course.

Anatomically Correct and Proud of It.

 

 

Coming to the entire universe from Morris, Minnesota, with a wink and a smile.

Languishing was born in1935 in a 2 room shack in Tupelo, Mississippi, the son of a seamstress and a truck driver.

Oh, wait, that was Elvis.

Handmade in Morris with Sparkling Flavor Crystals

Welcome to Spring!  Anyone seen my gopher traps?

This is diet?

Our own little Tropical Paradise.

Winter is for Sissies. Just Say No.

A zine for the common folks, with appetizers, drinks, & dessert all in one

We’re Snuggled Up Together Like Two Birds of a Feather Would Be.

God gave Rock & Roll to you. I think.

To Ease Your Aching Head

Where the Girls Are Cold & the Beer Is Pretty

As if we don't have anything better to do.

A Pocketful of Sunshine

He's a human; you're a mermaid.

If all else fails, use a tourniquet.

Hotter'n Hades but Not as Eternal.

From the Beauty of the Minnesota Prairie to the four corners of the world

A little something for everyone. Well, maybe not you, but most everyone else.
 
Born and Raised in Minnesota and Still Recovering

Tasty & Fulfilling

Homemade in Hendrum Minnesota Just for You!

Try it. You'll Like It.

Don't be offended. We're not criticizing you directly.

sit on a potato pan otis

It's Hunting Season. Do You Know Where Your Giraffe Is?

Don't pick at it and it'll clear up eventually.

from the great white north to your grubby hands in 10 weeks or less or your money back

Where Have You Been, My Darling Young One?

It's 1997. What Are You Gonna Do About It?

Whatever did you do before Languishing?

A glorious holiday to you and yours from us and ours.

"If not hand in hand to heaven, then hand in hand to hell."

In this issue: everyone gets a pseudonym!

The end of innocence?

Be gentle to us, 2012

Oh, new year, new post. Last year, I revisited my "37 things to do in the next 37 years" birthday list, so I think I'll do that again. Ive been sick for almost three weeks with a cold that will not die, so I'm too tired to think of a new topic. I realize this doesn't bode well for the new year, but I'm hoping I'll perk up by the time classes resume on January 9.

By the end of last year, I'd completed 2 of the 37 things: #10 & #32. This year, I've finished another 3, and made (somewhat questionable) progress on a few others.

9. Let go of all my old shame/guilt for stuff that doesn't matter to anyone but me. Done. Well, kind of, anyway. I imagine this will be a life-long thing, and perhaps it's just that my medication is working really well, but I've been reading the book Self Compassion by Kristen Neff, and it really is clicking with me. Every woman in my family should totally read this book.
15. Have a healthy, well-adjusted dog to take with for #11. (#11 is a Travels With Charley-esque trip). Done. I mean, we're not going on a trip any time soon, but we adopted Seven in June and he's pretty much a rock star. He adores V, tolerates our familial wackiness, and is just a kick-ass addition to our family. I'm not entirely sure he's "well-adjusted," but comparatively, he fits right in.
35. Bake a cake from scratch. Done. It didn't end up even pretty enough to put on the blog, but using recipes from an old issue of Real Simple, I made a fine vanilla cake with vanilla frosting. It's not really that much more work than a box mix, and it tasted divine.

The progressing ones are these:
8. Build a swing set/play house for V. Probably as done as it's gonna get. Okay, I just hung a swing from a tree in the front yard, but she really loves it, and so do the neighbor kids. That kind of success motivates other people, I hear.
12. Take a few sabbaticals. One down, four (?) to go. My first sabbatical was sort of transformative. I feel like I won't actually die from my job any more, and I'm looking forward to going back to class in a way that I haven't in a good ten years. Let's hope it carries me to my next sabbatical...
14. Publish a paper zine again. This is the first official statement, but there will be a paper Languishing in 2012. Stay tuned for more details, and start thinking about stuff you want to contribute. Please. Otherwise it's just me yammering on for twelve pages, and nobody wins when that happens.
26. Write a country music song. Started. This one is a total stretch, but I've got a few lines done, so I'm counting it. I don't want to jinx it, but just you wait. You'll all be impressed. Eventually.


Thank you, gentle readers, for your continued support of Languishing and me and mine. May we all have the healthiest, silliest, gentlest of years in 2012.

Vintage Top Nine List

From the print issue of Languishing, a topical top 9 list. This one is from Issue 5, Volume 4...so around 2000? Somewhere in there. It's not that I don't have new ideas; I just like sharing my old ideas with the internets, hey. V's in public school for the first time, now, and she comes home and says things  like "Why doesn't Suzette celebrate Christmas?" And I'm like, "Suzette? Well, she's probably French..." "No, she's brown." Oh, well, okay. Anyway, I don't know why Suzette doesn't celebrate Christmas, or why she's brown and/or French. But I can offer you this.

Top 9 things to Not Say to Your Atheist Friends During the Holidays

9. Does it bother you that you’re going to hell?

8. Jesus is the Reason for the Season.

7. That’s okay; the pickles are kosher.

6. You know, they used to burn people like you.

5. What’s your problem?

4. How many presents do you get with your no-god having ways?

3. Man, your childhood must’ve been awful.

2. Atheist? So, like, do you eat eggs and stuff?

1. Well then, Happy Kwanzaa.

More old stuff from my mom's garage, and a little digression for good measure

Even though the comments look kinda paltry around here, I do get in-person comments fairly often about the blog. Usualy 3-4 times a week. Mostly because I ask my sister "Did you read my blog post about that thing?" and she says "Uh-huh. It was good." I count that.

When Languishing was a paper thing, a zine you could hold in your hands (that would not appear properly on your iPod or iPad or iPoodle [great. now I want an iPoodle]), I LOVED getting comments from random people: I'd be introduced to someone, we'd chat a bit, and somehow it would come out that "Holy crap! You're the one who puts Languishing together? I've read every issue!" No lie. That happened to me. Twice. It was fantastic. When that happens now, though, I tend to get shy. The blog, somehow, feels more exposing. Maybe it's because there're more pictures of me and mine, or because it's more frequent (at it's height, paper Languishing came out just 6 times a year), or because I have met two or three people in the last 10 years that I hope to never see or hear from again, and being online reduces my invisibility to them (though at least one of them is still institutionalized, I'm pretty sure). (Do they have the interweb in institutional settings? I suppose it depends...). At any rate, in the end, I love hearing the words "I read about that on your blog..." Even if you  think I'm a doofus, I'm glad to know you're reading.

Whew. I said all that to tell you that I got a compliment on a recent post today, and so I'm going to post more pictures of old crap from my mom's garage. See, if you hated that post and didn't tell me, I have only the compliment to go on. You can change the content of the internet if you just tell me what you like and what you don't like. In the end, this is your fault.

The titles are properly capitalized after each photo.

Chain and Metal Sheets

 Calumet Baking Powder, et al

I love the greenish tint of the mason jars and the orange-brown of the tall bottle.

 Garden Stakes, Fishing Net, Handsaw, Leaves.

I adore how human hands cause wear on tools. The flash here obscures some of that, but I also like how my family just hangs all kinds of stuff from the same nail.

 Another shot of the bottles, in different light, with a different camera, from a different angle. I like the milk jar in the back. I call this one Still Life with Water Stains.

The brown glass bottle reads "Juicy Orange Brand" Orange Flavored Beverage Base. And as you can see, it has no pulp. The rock (or hunk of cement, I'm not sure) I had hoped was a skull: my father had a habit of bringing home animal bones, especially during spring plowing. Part of the joy of my May birthday was I got many a deer jaw as a gift. I call this one Hunting Knife.

There you have it, gentle readers. A second round of photos from one little garage in the heart of the Red River Valley.

Tumble outta bed and I stumble to the kitchen...

Lately, I've been working on several dozen projects at once, as usual. But none of them are particularly photogenic, so I find myself stumped with what to blog about. And then I remember there is no photograph requirement for blogging, except the ones I've developed for myself, so here I am thinking out loud again.

1. V's into telling stories. Constantly. She wants me to tell them to her, with her parameters: it usually involves Toy Story+Star Wars Garbage Chute Scene+Princesses+Will and V. This sounds cute and all but it really gets tiring to constantly think of new variations on this story. Recently I had everyone get trapped in ToysRUs, which was very popular, but has led to demands of trips to ToysRUs. I must remember to be careful where those characters end up.

2. My job: As usual, it takes up great heaps of time and energy, which is fine. But I am teaching a new course in the spring (Environmental Literature) and another next fall (Humanities of World Cinema) that I've never taught or taken before, which is much harder than re-teaching courses I'm already familiar with. I'm in the process of gathering input from colleagues, but I'm also trying to ask friends and family, too. So I pose this question to the blog: What non-English movies have you seen that impressed you, and why? And what elements (books, movies, youtube clips, etc) should I include in Environmental Literature? I'm interpreting the course to be about both the world environment of weather, tsunamis, floods, and global warming, and the environments we're raised in, and the environments we create for ourselves. I've chosen a book of essays by Leslie Marmon Silko, a book of writings (poems, essays, fiction) about the midwest called Inheriting the Land, and The Road by Cormac McCarthy, because I'm an optimist. But I'd still like at least 2 more books, maybe as many as 5 more. Again, because I'm an optimist.

3. My hoarding hairball. I'm trying to figure out why I am more comfortable in a home packed to the gills with stuff, why I love acquiring things as much as if not more than using them. And how to translate this into a living situation that doesn't drive my partner and daughter and me completely crazy.

4. The new V television series, and Flash Forward, both of which are breaking my brain a little and making me happy at the same time.

5. Putting the blog into a book form, for my own records, for when the apocalypse comes and devours the internet. I'm working with BLURB, and am on page 83 of 290. It's tedious, mostly because I have so many photos that the software can't really handle it. So I'm going a page at a time, adding in the photos as I go.

6. Putting the zine into book form. This is an ongoing project, one I've been working on for over 2 years. Languishing the Zine started publishing in 1996 or 1997, and technically hasn't stopped yet. The book form has over 120 pages of very small type. Several months ago, I said to Tenessa (who is 34 today!) that I didn't know where to start editing 120 pages. She laughed at me, since she's a book editor, but I noticed she didn't offer to take it over for me. Unlike the blog book, this book will be available for purchase. Eventually. The other thing slowing me down is I'm missing some issues from 2002-2003, and I can't hardly print a comprehensive book missing two whole years.

As you can see, I'm busy with non-photographable pursuits right now. I welcome your advice, mocking, and open scorn. Sharing these things with the blog world makes them more real, so now I better go get to work.

Issue 1, Volume 9

Ah, the namesake of this website's Issue I, V9 is finally back from the printers. Those of you who signed up for my art trade will be getting one, as well as something that involves more glue. Those of you who are regular Languishing (the paper version) subscribers will get one, too...anyone else who wants one can ask, and as long as I have enough leftovers after the subscribers and contributors, I'll keep sending them until I run out. The photo doesn't caputer this, but the cover is a lovely cream color and the pages are coral. It's sort of a dreamsicle issue, and the theme (we rarely have themes, and when we do they are so loose) is Work. Back issues are also available, but I should look into that more and provide more specific detail before I get everyone in a lather over it. I know how you all like to get in lathers.

Perhaps my gentle readers are wondering why I would try to finish this new issue of Languishing during the last week of class. Mostly it's a procrastination tool for me: something distracting and satisfying that keeps me from the utter depression that is 50 research essays by college freshpeople. I actually graded 25 of those last night, and will do the other 25 tonight, so the zine was a welcome, cheering break.

AND! Our digital camera came back from the shop. I didn't mention the fact that it was ailing for fear of pissing off the camera gods even more, but it was covered under warranty and is all better now. Expect more mediocre pictures in blogland, thanks to United Camera Repair in Illinois.
15 months old, and she's just this tiny little person. She is so different from her father and me in so many ways. I love her.

Between Scylla and Charybdis

I'm trying to decide if I want to open an Etsy shop, and if I do, what I might want to name it. "Languishing" is the title of a zine I started publishing in 1995 (and still do, occasionally), and it fits me well. It combines the idea of inaction with anguish: the urge to stagnate vs. the need to move forward...

Enough of my life philosophy. I don't know that "Languishing" is a particularly fun or ambitious name for a shop. I mean, if there was a store in the mall named Languishing, would you go in it? I would, of course, because I've been publishing a zine by that name for eleven years, but why would anyone else?

I would like to make and sell mostly gifts for children, both fun and utilitarian, and all lovely. So I want something playful, not too obscure (see the subject of this post for an example of one suggestion), that won't annoy me in two years.

Yet I hate it when people have different names for their blogs and their shops. Don't they know anything about branding? And even if I don't open an Etsy shop, I'd like to make some labels (or have them made) because I love the look of labels, and there are a couple of shops in town in which I'd like to place my wares, and I think labels would make things at least appear more polished.

Ach, this is almost as difficult as naming a child. I welcome suggestions/ rebuttals/constructive insults.

Here's a picture to cheer us both up. My mom took it last week on her way to our house. I love how gray the sky is, and how brilliant and yellow the sunflower's petals are. I think she considers this one an accident, but I really like it.

Where it begins...

I respect so many bloggers I've encountered online, I decided to start my own. We'll see how much intense excitement it generates. I've titled it Languishing after my flailing 'zine: I'd like to get some of it online for sharing purposes. But the word Languishing sums up a great deal, too, in my world, so it fits no matter what content I scrounge up.

I think I'm going to put a picture of my daughter up now. She's 4 1/2 months old, and magically delicious.