One Ring to Make them Cry....

tal·is·man 
ˈtaləsmən,ˈtalizmən

noun

an object, typically an inscribed ring or stone, that is thought to have magic powers and to bring good luck.



When my dad died my mother wanted each of us, kids, grandkids, kid-in-laws, to have something of his. She took us in to their room one by one trying to go from oldest to youngest though there was a little skipping of the line in there...

When she brought me in she asked what I wanted. I didn't hesitate for a second. His ring. She knew which one I meant, it was THE ring. But it was lost. She couldn't find it anywhere hadn't seen it in ages. I took a belt buckle instead. But it wasn't the ring. Though when I mentioned it in front of my other siblings my oldest brother said, "Oh yeah, I would like to have that too." So even if it were to be found I wasn't getting my father's ring. Which made me cry. Though to be fair everything made me cry that weekend. You tend to do that when your dad dies.

Fast forward about 3 years. Talking to my mother on the phone and she says she's got a package she had wanted to send to me. She found my dad's ring. And just as I got excited she said, "But I lost it." It was there. I almost had it. (not sure why me and not my brother, but my guess is because it's all I wanted and he had other things) But it was gone again. And I cried again. Not because of not getting the ring, just from thinking about my dad. I still do that sometimes.

My dad wasn't a real big guy. Somewhere around 5'9" and 5'10" but he was solid. Not fat at all but thickly built. (now you all know why I struggle with weight, I always weigh more than you would think, I'm freaking solid as all get out) As much as I loved my dad I never held hands with him. Ever. I held fingers. Even by the time I was a teenager my hands were too small to really hold his. I would wrap my fingers around his thumb or his ring finger and that's how I held hands with my dad. Most girls have their fathers wrapped around their fingers, my father had me wrapped around his.

And when I think of that, when I think of holding my dad's finger, I think of the ring. He had the ring and a matching watch for as long as I can remember. They were as much a part of him as cowboy boots and hats. Big solid turquoise and silver pieces. It lent a lot to how often he was mistaken for Native American, I think. It just fit him. But when I think of my father's hands, I think of thick, solid, hands. I think of calluses and grease stains from working on the car, I think of tan lines around his watch band and I think of that ring. It's larger than life. It's part of my dad. I loved it. And it was gone.

So sitting in my mother's house a few weeks ago and she brings me out a box with some things she has for me. There is a necklace. There is a bracelet that is supposed to go with the necklace. She had given my sisters each one just like it but with different stones. Mine were rubies because I love rubies. And there was a ring box which I had to assume was a ring that matched the necklace and bracelet.

It wasn't.

I cried. Instant and straight to ugly. My father's ring. My mother was telling me it needed cleaned and repaired and the stone is cracked, that always seems to happen with turquoise and I could probably get that fixed as well as some of the silver work that has been broken off and...And I just cried. It's perfect. I don't want it cleaned. I don't want it fixed. The crack in the stone has been there so long I'm not sure I would have recognized it whole. 

I took a picture and posted it online and talked about crying over it. I took it out in the hotel room just to hold it over and over again. Still not sure it was real, I guess. And now I have it sitting next to my computer in the office. I pull it out of the box and hold it. One of these days I will be able to do that without crying. Today is not that day. 

It's heavy. This is not a dainty ring.

My finger swimming in the ring. 

Not even on my thumb.

It's big. But it's bigger than that.

It's pretty much everything.

Dirty, worn, broken but still whole. It's had a hard life. And it's beautiful. And perfect. And I can wrap my fingers around it and hold it close.

It's as much of a piece of my father as I could ever hope to have again.

It's everything.

One year later....

Last year this time I was checking the weekend weather forecast and getting ready to do one last cleaning of the house.  Brent's cousin Kim and her husband Dave were headed to Portland to spend the weekend with us. It was their 26th Anniversary trip and we were really excited to show them around our part of the country for a change.

Then the phone rang.  It was my sister Ann. All she could choke out was..."It's Dad.  It doesn't look good."  She said she would call me back and hung up. Now this wasn't the first time in my life I had gotten a call about Dad being sick, or in the hospital or even not doing well. But this was the first time I could feel the bottom start to fall out of the world during the call. For those of you that remember when Brent's dad died I actually thought it was my sister Ann calling to tell me Dad had died instead of my mother-in-law Ann calling to tell me about Jack. So to say that it was unexpected would be lying. But to say I was ready to accept it would be as well.

I texted Brent to let him know Dad was failing and by the time I got a response from him asking me what I wanted to do (we are talking a matter of minutes) Ann had texted me to let me know Dad was gone. Brent told me he could get a ride and would be home as soon as he could. I started to try and put together all of the pieces of what needed done. The moment when grief and practicality collide is always an interesting one for me. It's like your brain splits in to two pieces. There is the part that is wailing, tearing your clothes and putting ashes on your forehead and the part that is making to do lists and they are working together so you are functioning while tears are streaming down your face.

We still had company coming. Yes, they would totally understand if we all left them here for the weekend on their own but what good would it do to drag Brent and C to Albuquerque until the funeral? I would fly out as soon as I could and start on the things that needed done there, they would stay here with Dave and Kim and then fly out for the services. I would leave an itinerary for Brent to follow of all of the places I had planned to take Dave and Kim.  He and C would still have dinner with them that night but I would beg off. I just couldn't. Everyone would understand. I got a flight for first thing the next morning.

During that time my mother called as well. She wasn't sure if I knew yet but of course as soon as I heard her voice and started to sob she knew. Most of you remember that my father died on my mother's birthday. We were all in shock about that one as well. How could that happen? How was that fair? How do you reconcile my mother saying it was God's will and now Dad was in a better place with the fact that she believed God would think it was okay to take him on her birthday? There were times over the next few days that I had to bite my tongue when people would tell me about God calling Dad home and how wonderful it was. I would smile and nod and squeeze my hands together to have something else to focus on so I didn't point out that this belief they held meant that God deliberately chose my mother's birthday to kill my father and that didn't seem like the kind of God I really wanted to spend eternity with. Instead I just smiled and nodded and squeezed....

We all made it through the weekend. Brent and C entertained Kim and Dave and sent me pictures of all of the places they went.  The weather was just about as good as you can hope for June in Portland. Some rain but some sun as well. And I was really glad all of that went mostly according to plan. Albuquerque was what you would expect it to be. I wrote about Dad (of course) here and here and I'm sure other places as well, but those were the two I wrote closest to his death. The things that stick out the most from that time period are the feelings of being adrift. Of not being sure what exactly we were all supposed to do. There were the funeral plans to make, of course, but that didn't really take a lot of time. My Aunt Carol handled a lot of the little things, kept us all corralled on the same page. My family spent a lot of time sitting together semi-quietly. My grand nephew was our comic relief. To a two year old it was just a bunch of people together telling him how funny and fabulous and adorable he is. So he was the bright grief free spot for all of us.

I also fondly remember getting together after the funeral. We all went to my brother and sister's house and ate lunch and played games. It was as close to a normal family visit as anything that weekend was. I think we were all so tired of being sad we needed a time to laugh and relax and since it was just us, just the family, we felt like we could. And that for me was our first piece of, it's going to be okay. Because that's what happens. You have to figure out how to make it okay. To keep moving. To keep laughing. To keep living. Because one death isn't all. Even if it's your father.

So now it's been a year. We are finally at the end of all of the firsts. Which I knew from Jack's passing that those were the worst. From here on out it will be the big days that you dread. His birthday, Mom and Dad's Anniversary, the anniversary of his death. And it will be the little ones that take you by surprise.  The times you see someone who looks like him. You catch yourself saying something that he would. The times he shows up in your dreams. And for a few minutes the grief will clutch your heart and you will feel like you just want to stop again. To sob, to tear your clothes, to get those ashes out. But it passes...and you keep moving. Because you have to. And because that's what Dad would want. And for me I know my father would want me to keep living the best life I can, as the best person I can be, and telling the worst jokes I know.