"Are you ok? Are you?", the thin man said to me from the wheel chair. The skin on his arm were paper thin, and while his body was failing in the final hours of his impending death, his mind was all there.
I saw it in his eyes. Even the morphine and oxygen couldn't take away his sound mind, the sincerity in his question, the love in his eyes.
It had been seven years since I saw my father, and yet here I was, a thousand miles away from home at his bedside. They all told me that I was his dying wish.
"What does one wear to hospice?” I asked my husband. "Is the little black cocktail dress appropriate since its pre funeral or fleece and jeans better since I am going to Denver? They dress like shit there. I should try to fit in."
No one ever said living with a writer was easy.
What got me to Denver - Morrison, actually, was Jennifer. She called crying. Who on earth manages your fathers case load and calls crying? Apparently, I was my father's dying wish, according to her, which is all I could understand between her heart felt sobs. She looked all over a state where I no longer resided. It took her weeks to locate me, and when she did, she came apart. Afraid I wouldn't come, she told me about my Dad and the importance of my visit.
Lots of water under that bridge. I couldn't even muster up the strength to get angry, although people expected it and frankly justified it.
But I couldn't.
A dying man.
What on earth would I say to him?
What would he said to me?
Twenty eight hours later I'm there at Bear Creek Home, hardly recognizing the body that was in the chair called Jim.
My father being the stoic refused to be in bed. The nurses offered him to lay down in bed several times due to his condition, but oh, no. Dad would never allow his child to see him in that way.
Pride. One of the deadly sins. Apple doesn't fall from that tree, I thought with a laugh choking in my throat.
"I'm good, Dad. Real good." I smiled. We locked eyes. The oxygen tank hummed.
Pictures over his bed of children and grandchildren that weren’t of his blood, but were deemed as family. Not one shot of me. Elizabeth Lions: forgotten and invisible.
But I wasn't.
"You sure?" he asked, blue eyes never leaving mine.
"Yeah." Yup. Dad is all there. I can see it. Somehow it was important to me that he didn't lose his marbles along with his body.
"Dad, I have a good life. I have a book out and a second one coming out. I have a radio show, too. I help people that are lost in their career. I help engineers, and CEO's and even men in the military that come home. It's a good job, Dad."
"You don't say.” his eyes filled with wonder of the little girl that became the woman in front of him that he didn't know. All the years and all the fears vanished. It didn't matter what he did to me or what he had said. In these last moments, it just didn't matter.
"I am married now. My husband loves me and treats me well.” I reported.
It wasn't the married part, but the how I was treated part that mattered to him. The therapist in me sat in wonder watching his reactions. For a moment, I wasn't his daughter. It was therapist and patient. He held onto my hand tightly as we spoke in quiet whispers, like two children with deep secrets.
Bending over him, holding his hand, I proclaimed, "I am a good woman. I don't drink or do drugs like my brothers did. I am highly respected. Everyone knows who I am through my work. I work hard, Dad."
His response and the only one he really gave to me in those two days in hospice continue to roll around in my head, giving me affirmation and approval - the two pathetic things I craved my entire life.
He commented, "It couldn't have been easy for you."
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Why? (follow up to post A Promise Is A Promise)
This wasn't a normal job interview.
In fact, there was nothing normal about this meeting at all.
I sat across from a man that owned and ran a 600 million dollar business that was growing to over a Billion (yes with a Big B) this year.
The job was to run a team of recruiters, mostly men and fill over 200 open jobs. I had to lead them. Coupled with the projected business growth and industry trends, I expected this interview to be more about my qualifications.
But it wasn't.
Instead the man sitting behind the big desk asked me to tell him about myself.
Like most applicants, I am polite and started to talk about my career path, outlining what I do and how I did it. It was a sterile, egoistic interpretation of accomplishments I had made since 2000. Ironically enough he didn't care.
With dark eyes penetrating my soul he corrected me, "No, Elizabeth. Tell me about you. Do you have family? Children? Where did you come from?"
I squirmed. There was no way I could honestly disclose all of that. And, I there are few people walking this earth that actually know this about me.
Frankly, it never comes up. And, honestly, I don't disclose. That's my hiding place. I figure no one really cares, so why disclose.
He pressed on, "Tell me about you."
"Well, I'm not sure where to start."
Yeah, that was an understatement.
How do you tell a man that is a father of five that you have no family and they are all dead?
How do you begin to recount what drives you and what keeps you pressing on and that their deaths were the most blessed thing, other than cancer, that ever happened to you?
And how on earth do you weave that into a JOB INTERVIEW???
I took a long deep breath and looked out his window. The sun shined on the grass and I watched the warm Texas air blow the tree tops in the distance.
"I don't have any family. My tribe is dead."
He didn't seem shocked or uncomfortable, so I continued, carefully.
"What happened? Did they all die in a fire? An accident?"
Continuing to stare out the window, I responded, "No, I wasn't that lucky."
"Like any normal kid I went to high school and graduated at 18 in June. A month later, my oldest brother, Jimmy, died of drugs. By November of the same year, I buried my mother from lung cancer. I went to college in the fall and it continued. Within another year my other brother and grandmother died. From 18-21 years old, I was responsible for the burial of my entire family. So, while others were drinking beer and coupling off with who would be their spouses, I was a funeral director."
I swallowed hard and thought for sure this would cost me the job.
He asked....I told myself snidely.
That's about when I noticed religious articles in his office, like crosses and pictures and quotes. They were physical statements of him and his life, of his beliefs embedded his surroundings.
I continued, "For many family is their focus. For me, I have deep purpose."
It is my purpose that causes me to continually drive to leave something greater behind that is much larger than myself.
The drive is so big and the vision is so clear that each day at work or at home I am headed a direction.
The purpose, over time, has become my compass.
It runs into the deepest corners of my mind, heart and soul.
Without it, I would have been lost.
Few can survive the death of their entire family. Especially when you lose them all before legal drinking age.
This internal compass guides me in each moment of my life, knowing my time here is short. I learned life was short by 21 when I buried my own family. I learned that life itself is impermanent and that thinking it is otherwise is a grand illusion. And as if I had forgotten that, I experienced my own mortality in 2009 when I had skin cancer.
Nothing like imagining your own obituary and what it would state. At 40.
In the background I keep hearing the childhood song The Cheese Stands Alone.
I get, clearly that each breath in my body is not a dress rehearsal, but a moment in time where I may be able to make a difference, help heal, heal myself or give the gift of listening.
I choose, carefully, people that surround me. I will not allow people to treat me poorly, and I constantly monitor my own errs in my behavior.
I choose carefully my work, who I work for and what I produce. This is much more than a job, but about leadership and bringing others back to themselves for the good of others and for the company.
But make no mistake. My work is my expression through my life in which I measure what I leave behind. That and my marriage which is paramount to me.
Oddly enough, I got the job.
In fact, there was nothing normal about this meeting at all.
I sat across from a man that owned and ran a 600 million dollar business that was growing to over a Billion (yes with a Big B) this year.
The job was to run a team of recruiters, mostly men and fill over 200 open jobs. I had to lead them. Coupled with the projected business growth and industry trends, I expected this interview to be more about my qualifications.
But it wasn't.
Instead the man sitting behind the big desk asked me to tell him about myself.
Like most applicants, I am polite and started to talk about my career path, outlining what I do and how I did it. It was a sterile, egoistic interpretation of accomplishments I had made since 2000. Ironically enough he didn't care.
With dark eyes penetrating my soul he corrected me, "No, Elizabeth. Tell me about you. Do you have family? Children? Where did you come from?"
I squirmed. There was no way I could honestly disclose all of that. And, I there are few people walking this earth that actually know this about me.
Frankly, it never comes up. And, honestly, I don't disclose. That's my hiding place. I figure no one really cares, so why disclose.
He pressed on, "Tell me about you."
"Well, I'm not sure where to start."
Yeah, that was an understatement.
How do you tell a man that is a father of five that you have no family and they are all dead?
How do you begin to recount what drives you and what keeps you pressing on and that their deaths were the most blessed thing, other than cancer, that ever happened to you?
And how on earth do you weave that into a JOB INTERVIEW???
I took a long deep breath and looked out his window. The sun shined on the grass and I watched the warm Texas air blow the tree tops in the distance.
"I don't have any family. My tribe is dead."
He didn't seem shocked or uncomfortable, so I continued, carefully.
"What happened? Did they all die in a fire? An accident?"
Continuing to stare out the window, I responded, "No, I wasn't that lucky."
"Like any normal kid I went to high school and graduated at 18 in June. A month later, my oldest brother, Jimmy, died of drugs. By November of the same year, I buried my mother from lung cancer. I went to college in the fall and it continued. Within another year my other brother and grandmother died. From 18-21 years old, I was responsible for the burial of my entire family. So, while others were drinking beer and coupling off with who would be their spouses, I was a funeral director."
I swallowed hard and thought for sure this would cost me the job.
He asked....I told myself snidely.
That's about when I noticed religious articles in his office, like crosses and pictures and quotes. They were physical statements of him and his life, of his beliefs embedded his surroundings.
I continued, "For many family is their focus. For me, I have deep purpose."
It is my purpose that causes me to continually drive to leave something greater behind that is much larger than myself.
The drive is so big and the vision is so clear that each day at work or at home I am headed a direction.
The purpose, over time, has become my compass.
It runs into the deepest corners of my mind, heart and soul.
Without it, I would have been lost.
Few can survive the death of their entire family. Especially when you lose them all before legal drinking age.
This internal compass guides me in each moment of my life, knowing my time here is short. I learned life was short by 21 when I buried my own family. I learned that life itself is impermanent and that thinking it is otherwise is a grand illusion. And as if I had forgotten that, I experienced my own mortality in 2009 when I had skin cancer.
Nothing like imagining your own obituary and what it would state. At 40.
In the background I keep hearing the childhood song The Cheese Stands Alone.
I get, clearly that each breath in my body is not a dress rehearsal, but a moment in time where I may be able to make a difference, help heal, heal myself or give the gift of listening.
I choose, carefully, people that surround me. I will not allow people to treat me poorly, and I constantly monitor my own errs in my behavior.
I choose carefully my work, who I work for and what I produce. This is much more than a job, but about leadership and bringing others back to themselves for the good of others and for the company.
But make no mistake. My work is my expression through my life in which I measure what I leave behind. That and my marriage which is paramount to me.
Oddly enough, I got the job.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
The Face of Suffering in America
It is easy to see the suffering with the homeless man on the street, with ripped clothes, smelling of disaster and failure as you step over the body downtown.
It is easy to see the torture in a little boys eyes because he is beaten, abused and hungry.
It is easy to see the scars on the dog's side from the rage left behind of a selfish owner.
I think we all can see that, and sometimes we volunteer a day out of our lives to a charity or write a check around Christmas time, fooling ourselves into thinking that we've made a difference.
While, like you, I see that suffering, I live in the suffering of the silent.
They are normal Americans, just like you. Men and women who go to work each day and wonder if this is all there is to life.
It's the middle aged man who makes 100k a year, who plunks three ice cubes into his drink after a long days work, looking at his children who are growing and need him less and less. He lives in a big house with a woman called his wife who is a really a stranger in this country called his home. There is little connection and he fools himself each morning by getting up, going to work, managing his 401(k) and being responsible for those around him. He was told as a young man that he would have to provide for others and stop being selfish.
Yet at the ripe age of 40 or 50, he sits alone in his beautifully decorated palace wondering if this is all there is, and why isn't he happy after all he has accomplished.
Does anyone see him?
No.
Does anyone feel his suffering in lonliness and isolation?
No.
Furthermore, does he complain?
Little, for no one would listen.
Does he have a place or a book called "Work/Life balance" that would comfort him and tell him he isn't crazy?
No. He plods on to work then we judge and cruisfy him when he pitches his marriage, leaves, buys a sports car and perhaps quits his job.
We call that a mid life crisis because you would have to be nuts to leave the great life you had, buddy. Some thing is really wrong with you. Forget the voices in your head and return.
The face of suffering in America is all around you, in workers, in bosses, in large corporations churning out products and processes and more things we are supposed to buy.
We are no longer happy, and we don't know how to return to ourself and figure it out.
What do I do for a living?
I relieve pain.
It's that simple.
And I'll tell you why....
This is suffering.
It is easy to see the torture in a little boys eyes because he is beaten, abused and hungry.
It is easy to see the scars on the dog's side from the rage left behind of a selfish owner.
I think we all can see that, and sometimes we volunteer a day out of our lives to a charity or write a check around Christmas time, fooling ourselves into thinking that we've made a difference.
While, like you, I see that suffering, I live in the suffering of the silent.
They are normal Americans, just like you. Men and women who go to work each day and wonder if this is all there is to life.
It's the middle aged man who makes 100k a year, who plunks three ice cubes into his drink after a long days work, looking at his children who are growing and need him less and less. He lives in a big house with a woman called his wife who is a really a stranger in this country called his home. There is little connection and he fools himself each morning by getting up, going to work, managing his 401(k) and being responsible for those around him. He was told as a young man that he would have to provide for others and stop being selfish.
Yet at the ripe age of 40 or 50, he sits alone in his beautifully decorated palace wondering if this is all there is, and why isn't he happy after all he has accomplished.
Does anyone see him?
No.
Does anyone feel his suffering in lonliness and isolation?
No.
Furthermore, does he complain?
Little, for no one would listen.
Does he have a place or a book called "Work/Life balance" that would comfort him and tell him he isn't crazy?
No. He plods on to work then we judge and cruisfy him when he pitches his marriage, leaves, buys a sports car and perhaps quits his job.
We call that a mid life crisis because you would have to be nuts to leave the great life you had, buddy. Some thing is really wrong with you. Forget the voices in your head and return.
The face of suffering in America is all around you, in workers, in bosses, in large corporations churning out products and processes and more things we are supposed to buy.
We are no longer happy, and we don't know how to return to ourself and figure it out.
What do I do for a living?
I relieve pain.
It's that simple.
And I'll tell you why....
This is suffering.
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