Orange Blossoms
My dad died eight months ago after a very long battle with cancer. He was 85 years old. I am grateful to have had him near me for so long. I can count on one hand the number of times out of my 53 years that we didn’t live in the same city. We talked almost daily, visited often and celebrated every holiday together. I lived with the illusion that my parents would always be here for me because they were. Now it feels like I’m in new territory without an emotional compass.
I felt close to my Dad at a very early age. He sang lullabies to my sister Lynn and me at night. “The Three Little Fishes” was my favorite. They got killed in the song, but my Dad used comical voices and hand gestures while singing and this way it still sounded like a goodnight lullaby to me.
We often sat together in front of the television sharing a tin of sardines with onions on rye watching Amos and Andy. It was a fool-proof way of keeping the rest of the family out of the room.
When I became an adult and owned my first home, like my Dad, I had a vegetable garden. We would compete as to who could grow the first tomato of the season; who grew the largest cucumber, who could boast about the biggest bumper crop of oranges, lemons and grapefruits.
My dad felt like my backbone. When he died, it broke.
His passing felt too abrupt. After he died, I started seeing psychiatrists, psychologists and therapists. I topped it off with a grief counselor. Finally, I became increasingly aware that no therapists, psychologists, or psychiatrists held magic healing pills in their palms. There was only grief to swallow.
While most of his life my Dad seemed to favor nature and Blue Light Specials, I was into people. I focused especially on strangers, their expressions, words, their kindnesses or lack of them. I treat people as if I’ve known them all my life. My dad’s idea for meeting strangers was different: be friendly but not familiar! To me, they are friendly and familiar until they’re not, which thankfully isn’t often. I love to stand in line at the grocery store and listen to people’s conversations chiming in with my opinions as if we arrived to the market in the same car.
My dad used to phone me and tell me to stop everything immediately and watch the early evening sky turn blood-red. I’d always tell him, “no problem”, but rarely obeyed. I figured sunsets would always be there and he wouldn’t know the difference whether or not I obliged. Like sunsets, I took him for granted. Now when I see a brilliant orange-red sunset, I pause and watch.
Sometimes he’d call and tell me to head straight to Fry’s Foods. “Ten ears of corn for a $1.00”. I pretended to heed his advice, but didn’t. Now that he’s gone and I see 10 ears of corn advertised for a $1.00, I buy it. I don’t even want the corn, but a deal is a deal.
Occasionally he’d call and say, “Put down your comic book and go outside! It smells like rain is coming!” I never read comic books. He knew it and I knew it, but he rarely ever called without throwing in a quip like that.
I remembering crying myself to sleep at night at the thought of him being gone one day. I think I was about six years old then.
When I was three, we were stationed at a military base in Bourne End, England. He rented a large Tudor home in a small village right outside of London. The two-story house was massive. It had so many rooms my dad locked a portion of the house to limit the number of fireplaces he’d have to light each morning. The house sat squat on several acres of land. He built the largest wooden swing that I’d ever seen. He suspended it with thick, braided ropes and hung it from an ancient chestnut tree on the grounds.
Every time I see a swing now I think of him. I recently saw a set of swings as I passed a city park. I drove past them but turned around. Without a thought of where I was supposed to be, I parked my car and headed for a swing, sat and pumped my way up and away from my daily thoughts. Swinging is where I’d wish and dream as a kid. Now I swing and don’t wish or dream at all. I pump back and forth for the sheer joy of the air sweeping through my hair and on my face.
During yet another one of his military transfers, our family drove from the East to the West Coast and through all the states in-between. At night I made my way to the front seat of our Ford station wagon while the rest of the family slept in the back. I’d lean my head against the window and sing duets with him of our favorite tunes. We sang Frank Sinatra songs and Bing Crosby’s and Grace Kelly’s “True Love”. He was Bing; I was Grace.
He’d pull into a Howard Johnson’s and let me sit and sip coffee with him while the family snoozed in the car. I couldn’t have felt more special.
I think I inherited his cynical gene. As a young adult, we would often sneak away after the family meal and retreat to his study. I’d lie on his bed while he watched a sport event and occasionally reach for his desk drawer to dip into his snack stash; sometimes Lays Potato Chips or Planter’s mixed nuts; foods our Mom didn’t allow in the house. We’d make fun of the guests that someone brought along or neighbors, which was pretty easy to do. It was lighthearted fun. Not such a great gene to inherit, but we did whisper.
During one of my pregnancies I got horribly sick. I couldn’t keep anything down. In and out of hospitals to hydrate, I was also totally out of my hormonal tree and referred myself to a psychiatric hospital.
I felt like I was dying rather than growing a new little human being inside my womb. I was diagnosed with panic disorder and agoraphobia and quickly released. Lock-down units aren’t very therapeutic for one who feels easily trapped.
Throughout, my Dad was my faithful guardian and in true form with a sense of humor.
As soon as I was released from the psycho ward, which my Dad referred to for years as my stay at “The Resort”, he’d drive to my home every day precisely at 11:30 a.m. to take me to the Big A Restaurant. He’d sit patiently while I ate the Number Six Special, a hamburger topped with mounds of Caesar salad. It was the only dish I craved. This routine went on for over a month until my hormones settled down.
Memories like this still bridge him to my heart, especially when I wolf down a Caesar Salad.
His dying process took forever. I watched him suffer way too much as he withered away. I learned about a new side of him that rocked my stability right out of orbit. It wasn’t so much the withering away that rattled me, it was the ever-growing fright in his eyes that terrified me while I’d sit close to him holding his hand.
Watching him lose his grip, I eventually turned numb and tired. His gradual collapse made me feel like I was dying right along side. During that time I began to cry a lot. Tears in the middle of the night. Tears while driving. Tears when I mentioned his name or when someone asked how I was doing. I welcomed the tears nonetheless. They were his gift to me. Tears were my way to purge my heavy heart without spending a fortune on therapy. My Dad would have appreciated my thrift. I also spent too much money on books about grieving. Had he known, he would have told me to buy them used; Or better yet, get them from the library.
Before he died I thought I knew what “sad” meant; however, I was ill-prepared for the sadness that overtook me when he was gone.
Ultimately it brought me into his circle of what gave him joy.
When he was alive, I hated birds. He loved them. Now I watch them scatter their droppings on my porch, which used to seriously disgust me. I finally understand there’s more to them and what they represent than what they leave behind.
My Dad couldn’t build my character or teach me how to think, but somehow I learned to copy his style. He was a smooth talker and an incredible charmer.
Like pros, we both smooth-talked our way in and out of sticky situations. Like him, I had no long-term goals of financial wealth or grand titles. Good enough things just dropped into my lap. This seemed to end when he died. His death left my lap empty.
Shortly after he died I sat a lot; more than I ever had in my life. I’d catch Oprah on T.V., interviewing people who had overcome mountains of grief. I’d watch them; feel humbled for about ten minutes and go back to feeling sorry for myself.
My Dad died like the man he was all his life. I didn’t know he was a fearful man until his final year and he was never horribly sick until he was. I saw him flinching at death, but not caring what others thought of him. He had lost his camouflage.
One morning the phone rang around four a.m. His nurse said I’d better come right over. He was having a rough time. I called my brother Ken right away. We both showed up quickly. When we walked into his room, my dad looked exhausted yet clear. When he finally opened his eyes, he said, “I’m still here?” He wavered between the fear of dying and wanting to die because he was excruciatingly miserable. But most of all, he was afraid.
He welcomed me to his bedside. He hadn’t for weeks. With a clear look in his eyes, he continued to speak:
“What a night! Glad it’s over. I love you both so much.” Then he closed his eyes again. That was the last time he spoke to me.
My brother had to head back to his home in Phoenix and wanted to say good-bye to our Dad privately. I got scared and bolted. I told the nurse to call me once my brother had left. I didn’t want to see Ken walk out of our Dad’s room. I came home, a three-minute drive, and without thinking, walked into the back yard and started watering my citrus trees which didn’t need watering. As I stood aiming the hose into the tree wells, I was overcome with the smell of orange blossoms for the first time.
Orange blossoms were my Dad’s big thrill every Spring. It became a tradition to pay a visit to his back yard and have morning coffee with him when the white blossoms filled the air with their sweet perfume. I always pretended to like it. Truth was, smelling them was not high on my priority list but I didn’t have the heart to hurt his feelings.
Still pointing the nozzle into my tree well, I could hear the phone ring inside the house. I didn’t pay attention. I’d just been at my Dad’s; surely the call was from someone else. I just kept watering and feeling overwhelmed with the smell of orange blossoms. Suddenly, I looked up and saw my daughter standing by my side. She gave me that look. My head was swirling with perfume and panic. I inhaled deeply, knowing my Dad had taken his last breath.
Orange Blossoms « Under the Tucson Sun…
I found your entry interesting do I’ve added a Trackback to it on my weblog :)…
Thanks for reading. I wasn’t expecting to be linked to a mental disorder site; life is full of surprises I suppose, but not really. Over three million people have been diagnosed with anxiety disorders and that number represents just those who seek help. The good news is that although it can be emotionally paralyzing, they say we are sensitive and creative folks. Not bad side effects I’d say.
[…] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Jack King, Jack King. Jack King said: Step Under the Tuscon Sun and feel the amazing warmth of a daughter's love for her beloved dad ~ Orange Blossoms ~ http://bit.ly/989g3E […]
Oh Dear One! What wonderfully poignant and powerful words! I’m so glad you found this and posted it. I feel as if I know the wonderful man who has seeped into your soul with his kindness and wisdom. I am better for having read this and MUCH better for having found you as a friend. Blessings and love to you.
Wow powerful story, I do not know what and Orange Blossom smells like but can somehow smell them now.
Thanks for sharing 😉
Writing your emotions is the best therapy, Suzi. Your heart is in every word. You’re fortunate to have so many cherished memories of your parents.
Love, Janis
Okay…really I should have known better than to sit down and read this as I’m walking out the door to work. You brought Dad back into my being today and now I’m sitting in a puddle of tears. Thanks for writing this Suz…even if I do have to go redo my makeup. Good thing I don’t wear much! We are so fortunate to have such memories of our dad.
I meant to warn you ahead Cath, not to read until you were home from work. Oops!
Hope you read this before you put your make-up on today because here comes another memory.
I know you have many citrus blooms perfuming your propery right now just as we do. It feels like walking into our backyard on Pebble Beach short of the fruit cocktail tree Dad grew and no one believed we had. To this day I can’t find a nursery that sells a tree that grows oranges, grapefruits and tangerines all on the same tree.
And daffodils. How many times have you been to Trader Joe’s and not grabbed a few bunches this season, remembering how Dad would show up at your home, then ours to deliver weekly dozens of them. Guess that hill of daffodils in England will always live on in us.
Hi Suzi, I am landing here from twitter. Such beautiful words and insight to your life with your dad, he sounds like a wonderful man! I was welling up along the way as your life parallels mine in places. What a beautiful memory to have for your dad’s final day, the essence of a tree that he loved enveloping your senses. Thanks so much for sharing your heart Suzi.
~lily (@lilyofoz)
Suzi,
This is such an amazing arrangement of words that pulled me in deep from the begining. I walked each path with you. I felt as though I was in the room with you and your father..watching instead of reading. I will never feel the same again around my own father. You have given me this experience to know now while my Dad is still here with me. Thank you my dear friend. Please keep sharing!
Beautiful words!!!! You have such a great gift!
Peace & Love
Hi Suzi,
What a beautiful story depicting the life and memories of your beloved father. Just like you, frequently there are things in my life now, that take me back to cherished moments in my life as a child or adult with my mother or father. Your words express the love between you and your father in such a way that the reader feels present in the memories. Thanks for allowing me, and others, the priviledge of sharing these beautiful memories.
Beautiful, Suzi!
Dear Suzi , I was so moved by this ~ I too have just lost my own dear beloved Dad ~ as you very close ~ how apt when you describe the loss of your emotional compass ~ so lost and alone ~ I saw him every day of all of my life ~ since my Mums passing some forty years before ~ his companion confidante and friend ~ sharing so much together ~ cooked for him ~ washed for him ~ he was my life ~ and now ~~ it is hard ~ your write also had a refreshing feel and I could see the sunset that you described that glorious red ~ Ha ~ and my Dad too loved a bargain ~ nice to meet you Suzi ~ think we share quite a bit ~ off to watch the birds clamour for handfuls of seed daily scattered ~ Blessings ~ Lib
Coming up to that day that changed everything and began the chain of what was 2010 ~ the unthinkable ~ the parting that you never imagined would ever be made ~ so much through this year the strength and support that would have been given ~your Dad by your side through your recovery, making sure you ate that special topped with ceasar salad and not just once for a whole month ’till you started to feel a little easier ~ Ah those Dads ~ but you knew they always special ~ strong ~ beloved and loving, loved in return ~ not in a gushing way ~ but edged with a twinkling caring humour ~ made you smile ~ made you feel OK, safe, even when you felt far from ~ had that special magic ~ feel as if I am in ‘countdown’ somehow feeling as if the breath it’s very self counts the beat of time and if the breath could be held then even the power to rewind ~ and almost even to alter the events of time ~ could be changed ~ ‘True Love’ was a song of my Mums and Dads, ‘I give to you what I give to me’ lovely song and I could almost imagine you both singing Suz you and your lovely Dad ~ another for my Mum and Dad personally was ‘Love is a many splendoured thing’, just waiting to see this on their headstone ~ recently watched ‘Gigi’ brought up on all of these old but fabulous musicals, watching with my Mum she had all of the soundtracks, idealistic, romantic but so lovely .. my daughter was allowed home from hospital for a few hours (before returning) and we sat and enjoyed this together .. now even more memorable as we nearly lost her over Christmas .. Also marking the little nine year old Christina Taylor Green girl during the recent tragic events in Arizona ~ *thoughtful* swaying on an imaginary swing entwining scented in orange blossom, white jasmine and peach honeysuckle in much love and hugs your friend Lib xxx
and surrounded by a field of huge Golden Trumpeting daffodils
Hope … you’re seeing .. ‘the early evening sky turn blood-red’
Hope … you’re finding …’swings to swing high ..
and a Number Six Special,
that ‘hamburger topped with mounds of Caesar salad’
…. comfort food ..
sorry me again Suz ..
but found myself wandering ..
and connecting again.
~ hugs always ~
Lib
Thank you Lib- for keeping this story alive with your lovely wishes.
Interesting timing or ?
Just this morning I was feeling both the joy & the sadness that Holidays bring. I believe both deserve equal time to appreciate what we had, what we have now & hopefully what prompts us to love even bigger tomorrow. Love, Suz
note: I must share to anyone who catches this reply; Libi sends me photos of daffodils when they’re blooming in England. They’re gorgeous. If I can remember how to post a picture here, I’ll share my “daffy” gifts from Libi.
Breathtaking. Also poignant, both of my parents are gone and much of what you wrote here resonated with me. I was the sole caregiver for my mom for close to 10 years before she died, after a prolonged and devastating decline (mentally and physically). It’s lovely to meet you on Twitter. Warm regards, Sidney Peck @Fey1IsleofSkye.