Poignant Moments

Every morning, for the last month, I see Dad's Braun shaver on my bathroom shelf.  When my siblings went through Dad's personal items, my husband, Jay, requested the shaver. We put it beside our stack of bathroom towels, knowing it needed cleaning before using or storing, but neither of us doing the job.  There it stayed a daily reminder of Dad.    

Immediately after his death, each glance of the shaver brought a wrench to my gut. Later, a tug in the heart.  Then, with each tug came memories: me as an awkward preteen watching Dad shave at the laundry sink, knowing each motion he would make, eagerly anticipating the opening of the cabinet and the splashing on of Aqua Velva. How I loved the smell of Aqua Velva mixed with the smell of his morning coffee!  Singing the Aqua Velva TV jingle with my sister, I was proud Dad used Aqua Velva because "there's something about an Aqua-Velva man." I remember watching Dad contort his mouth while shaving the cleft in his chin. How did he get all the hair out of that cavern of a cheek dimple?

Now, as I wonder if my brothers also watched him shave thus learning the manly morning ritual, I absent-mindedly pick up the shaver.  Suddenly, I'm propelled to the last memory of holding this in my hand shaving Dad a few days before he died.  Tears come as I remember his exhaustion from just moving his mouth around for me. I catch myself imitating his mouth shifting left as I hold the shaver up to the right side of my chin. Sad spell broken, I laugh, then purposely turn  it on and shave a swath of hair from my own cheek. I'm comforted with this mixing of my fine, feminine facial hair and his wiry, white beard stubble.  

Cupping the Braun in my hands, I think about him losing the ability to care for himself. I wonder if that was as hard for him as it was for mom. Even with advancing dementia mom could put words to her feelings.  "It's not right that daughters have to help a mom shower and comb her hair."   Dad never voiced much, but a sigh or a quickly exchanged glance communicated much tenderness, gratitude, vulnerability and pain.  Such unguarded glances usually brought tears to both pairs of eyes. Alas, I often opted not to catch too many of them.  I so wanted to protect his dignity.  I feel some regret over my opting out now, but I also respect the choice knowing such intimacy is both precious and sometimes too poignant to prolong.  I'm incredibly grateful for moments Dad allowed us to see his heart.  

Inhaling deeply, fortified with sweet memories, I'm ready to clean the shaver. I snap up the trimmer blade and stubble falls like snow. I'm shocked at the amount!  Each shake brings another cascade of hair snow until my sink is coated.  Again, tears prick my eyes. Dad was always so fastidious with his stuff. Illness and aging require much letting go. I unhook the little brush inside and begin brushing out more stubble.  Not long ago, Dad's left hand cradled this shaver as mine is doing, as his right hand brushed.  I can almost feel his rhythm.  Reverently, I brush the shaver clean, enjoying the scent of shaver and falling hair. 

Shaver cleaned, I run my hand through the fallen stubble. It's beautiful and gritty. Dad's DNA in my sink.  Related DNA in my body, in the hand hovering over the spigot. I feel connected. This moment is wondrous, yet utterly ordinary.   Like life, like death. Like every moment I choose awareness. 

I turn on the water and gently wash away my father's hair. Good bye again, Dad. I love you.
Sharon

 ~~~~~

"You're my kind of guy, I want you so,
baby everything about you is go, go, go,
With Aqua-Velva lotion the romance began
because there's something about an Aqua-Velva man!"    (TV jingle as I remember it. :)



Listen to your father who begot you, and do not despise your mother when she is old.
Proverbs 23.22

I pressed my father's hand and told him I would protect his memory. My father smiled and passed away to the spirit land. Chief Joseph

Waiting For Rain

There is a hush outside this morning. No bird chatter. Even squirrels stop their relentless gathering to ponder the gray canopy above. Bright streaks on the eastern horizon fade as grasses cling to single sparkles of dew. The countryside waits for rain.

Last week, I leaned into my car to retrieve something and rose too quickly smacking my head soundly on the way up. I automatically rubbed my stinging head. When I comb my hair, rub or scratch my head, I’m reminded of that painful smack. The bruise says pay attention! Why am surprised with each reminder my scalp is not fully healed? Perhaps the bump is symbolic of other bumps in which I’m expecting too much of my body, of myself.

I remember my illness that ended in surgery this past August. Repeated smacks to my physical body! I was mindful through the depression of illness, in listening to my body, honoring the need for surgery finally. The surgeon did a wonderful job and the ordeal wasn’t as dreadful as I anticipated. I’m surprised at the lingering bruise though.

Did I expect things to go the way of a surgeon’s simple descriptions? You lay flat on a table during anesthesia while the surgeon cuts away this and that organ, glues you up, then 4 days in the hospital, a week recovering at home, a month to get your energy back. Did I subconsciously hear ‘fixed, done - like in a month I’ll feel like surgery never happened?’ Modern medicine is amazing, and I certainly don’t want a doctor focusing on the bum side of surgery, but I long for a more realistic, holistic, respectful approach with professionals to walk with you through the whole realm of healing. Couldn’t there be hospice for the living and recovering?

My father died three weeks after my surgery. Death is a smack to the gut, to the heart. In the intensity of family gathering, planning services, sorting-cleaning out-finalizing details from a precious life, soaking up the outpouring of love from friends and extended family, in the miracle of my body functioning as well as it did, in all the grief and beauty, I lost myself.

Nature often reminds me of the power of a good pause. My soul waits with nature; not for rain, but for my interior to assimilate all that has piled up in my life. I need this pause in the moment too. Looking around, I’m astonished at the tiny whitecaps in the ripples of the lazy brook running through the meadow. And, when did the tip of the maple tree turn red? I don’t know what I’ll experience in this spiritual and literal pausing, only that I want to embrace it.

Joyfully,
Sharon