Tag Archives: Dad

Holding Tickets

About a month ago I posted on Facebook asking if anyone might be interested in splitting next year’s Football season’s tickets. I had a few responses, but soon interest waned.

Then, I’d figured the season was still half new. There was time yet.

And time is important. Last March Dad had had a stroke. The stroke left him paralysed and our lives changed forever. Now Dad lives 20 minutes from Mom in a fulltime care home. Now Mom travels every day to visit him.

My daughter and I, and Dad, of course, have not been to a game this season. Sometime during the one-day-at-a-time moments of this summer I realised it would be too difficult to go to the stadium without Dad; grief is a messy business. Dad can only sit in his wheelchair for about 40 minutes at a time. We are 2 hours away from the stadium.

Still, we’ve not missed many games. Mom renovated their home. She brings Dad home on the weekends, my sister, my daughter and I traveling to the cabin to help her. At home, we watch a lot of football. And our hikes have changed too. We circle around the crescents, telling stories and trusting that hope will come.

When the leaves fell this autumn we talked about finding a way to get Dad’s chair down to the beach, finding new trails. We spoke hope.

It’s important to keep our tickets. As a young child, I first learned to swear in those seats. When I was first married, my husband and I attended football games when our daughter was in the womb, later with her cheering and bouncing on us dressed in green. Then it was Jess and I, and Dad joined us again, teaching Jess never to boo, teaching her secret handshakes, and listening to both of our stories.

It’s been a long long summer.

At times I was pretty low. I don’t know what happened, but around the middle of August something in me changed. Jessy Lee took my hand, snuggled next to me and said, “I am so glad you’re back. I never thought you’d come back.”

And to tell the truth, for three months, neither did I.

But somehow I knew, it was like holding on tightly to those tickets; in time the idea mattered. Hope mattered.

Maybe Dad might mend. Maybe he’ll go home again? Maybe he’ll walk again? Maybe…

So Saturday night I messaged all my acquaintances, you know those not in my inner circle. Those I haven’t chatted with every day, those who haven’t brought donuts, and hugs, checked in, stayed late, sat long & listened. I texted everyone asking if they might want to share our season tickets next year.

And the most amazing thing happened.

I heard tell ways of love and listening that I’ve pushed away, and ways that I’ve been needing these past seven months.

Folks suggested I post to Facebook. Others offered to ask their friends. Others simply ignored my story…

Others wondered why I needed to split the tickets. Some folks wanted to know why I was selling. A few asked if we were okay, asking after Dad’s health. Some friends shared their concerns, knowing the depth of the pain that has kept Jess and I away from attending any games without Dad.

Only one person asked about Mom, and this twist to the tale of our family narrative: a new journey so filled with unwritten lists that it wakes my daughter and I in the middle of the night, demanding to be written, crossed off, and completed, yet they remaining impossibly un-penned. Much like that space of next year football country.

When I was a child my parents bought these tickets. They’d take my sister & I, and I’d sit beside Dad and talk sports and football strategies and we’d laugh. Sometimes I’d catch a little yellow football the fan club would toss into the air and for the next week after school my friends and I would play touch football at the bottom of Bussy’s Hill.

For the past ten years Dad has been sharing the tickets and sharing the cost. There’s no way I can carry them on my own. I need time. So much will change in the next few years. I’ll be done this degree; Jess will be on her own.

We just need time.

I had many 140 character replies to my text. I had many silenced replies too. Grief is a messy business.

Yet the response that lingers wasn’t a yes or a no. The reply was a story that spoke to the wholeness of my family stories, the grief story, and the hope story that has everything and absolutely nothing to do with football.

“My first paycheck when I turned 16 went to a set of season tickets for my dad and I!”

Mom sees a surgeon Wednesday. Cancer, round five.

When I was a younger girl Dad would take me walking when he felt I needed to listen. We would hike along trails, tasting rose hips, shuffling through leaves, listening to wind, attending to each other’s stories.

So I hold on, to the seats, to the tickets and tightly to our stories.

“‘There are no truths, Coyote,’ I says. ‘Only stories.'” (Thomas King)

 

 

 

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I’m Here

(Red Shoes Series)

Saturday Afternoon at the Cabin

Everyone snoozes.

From the far room, Dad’s snore’s whistle. When I was young Dad’s snores rolled in swells through the house. Once, while camping with my cousins, Dad’s snores woke campers two sites over.

Dad’s snores are the sounds of home, the home of the youth where I turned over at night and snuggled deeper into the covers when there was an unknown thump on the back deck or the coyote howls were nearby; I am safe, Dad is downstairs.

His snores are different since the stroke, high pitched, and far away.

Long ago Dad put a crystal in the front window. It spins in the afternoon sun sending tiny rainbows dancing in circles around the living room.

I drift into sleep and forget for a moment where I am. Remembering comes before my eyes pull open or the ray of spinning light circles by. Curled on the sofa, I pull and push trying to shift away from the heaviness in my chest.

I open my eyes.

I listen to the stillness of a home where everyone sleeps until Dad calls, “Lynne, Lynne.”

“I’m here, Al,” Mom says from her single bed beside Dad and he whistles again.

I can hear the hum from the fridge and the settling groan from the front porch. The ceiling fan clicks. With each turn the four inch chain pull cord that no one has touched since the winter we put that Christmas tree up with scaffolding whirls.

On the sofa, my daughter’s breaths come in deep fresh air rasps.

The hum from the fridge stops.

Outside, a car passes by.

What will happen when I can no longer hear the whistle…

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Dad: storying

I’ve been taking a photo a day for the past four years. For the past two years I have made these photos into a photo montage of my year, letting the adventures of the past 364 days swirl into a movie. I have even begun to add music. Sometimes I go about my day thinking about the photo I might take, ‘this moment will make a wonderful addition to the ‘year-in-video.’

But for the past 21 days these photo moments have been the most difficult to capture.

21 days ago I was waiting in my car my 17 year old daughter, Jess, beside me. We were waiting in the parking lot at the Moose Jaw Union Hospital, the nose of the car facing the doors to emergency.

We had had the call from my Mom at 4:10pm.

We waited. At 5:00pm I looked over at Jess and said, “Our world is about to change.”

Mom had said she was certain Dad had had stroke.

Dad had gone out for a walk as he did every day, walking the loop near the cabin at the lake where my parents are retired. He would likely stop to feed the birds. Likely, he would then take his usual path towards the boat dock and down towards the trees by the lake, perhaps stopping to leave a treat for the coyotes.

He had left at half past noon.

At 3:30pm Mom had called for him in the garage, she had called for him out the back door and had called out into Dad’s shop. She had then taken the van keys and had headed out to look for him. She found him face down in the front yard in the snow with the newspaper, he was responsive and soaking wet. It would take another two hours before he arrived to Moose Jaw by ambulance.

My sister was in her car next to me and Jess. We heard the sirens before we saw the ambulance. I stepped out and walked as close as I could to the ambulance bay.

I am not certain exactly why I snapped a photo.emergency

I just sensed in every part of me that that moment marked a before and an after for every person I loved most.

The ambulance attendant looked and me and said, “He’s okay.”

A hand came out of the blankets and waved, up and down: Dad.

“I love you Dad!”

We walked quickly to the front doors at the same time my Mom parked her van.

~

For nearly three weeks we lived numb. Maybe we are still living numb. What resonates the most and yet has not surprise me, is the love between my parents.

My parents.

They only wanted each other. As those first few weeks rolled out Dad would reach for her and she would reach for him, just the simple act of touching one another was what was needed, like those finger tips would make him walk, heal the hemorrhage in his brain, control the pain. Neither complained and each would say thank you to everyone that crossed their mompath.

Mom has moved in with me and Jess; it’s more like camping. We hardly see her except for the hospital. We’ve worked out the kinks of living together; we have learned not to run our blow-dryers at the same time, made certain she eats more than the tomato-macaroni soup left over from Dad’s lunch try; My Mom and her indomitable spirit. She has been there every day before breakfast and has learned to send photo and text updates with her phone. My Mom, who has not left her husband’s side, and has left the rest of us wondering from where her energy comes.

 

Dad has been moved to Providence Place and the goal is to … well, increase his independence. Mom hopes he will stand.

There isn’t any conversation we’ve haven’t had these past few weeks. My sister and I have been alternating nights at the hospital and there was a while there when Dad’s pain was so bad that we both stayed. Often, I would return home to find Mom still awake. We’d sit on the edge of her bed and talk into the wee hours of the morning. There isn’t anything we’ve not talked about.

For 21 days I’ve watched my Dad struggle with a body he can no longer control. I’ve watched him do this with kindness to his family and to the care providers around him. I’ve listened to him tell me and my family that he will be here for us when we are ill. I have watched my parents show their love for each other, over and over, show, not just share. I have felt the support of those in my life burst from the margins and bounce to life.

I missed a few days of work when Dad was in ICU, and honestly, that next week while Dad remained unstable, I was a mess. Mom didn’t want a herd at the hospital, my sister and I needed to divide our time, and I needed my other family too; I needed my kids. I am gifted by a safe space to share, to cry, to feel supported. This place is my school. Many of our kids feel the same. Many of our staff feel the same. Our school is a home place, here we belong.

My Dad has often trekked with my students. My instructional practices are replete with the stories and teachings I’ve gleaned from listening to my Dad. Every, every group of students I have taught has been gifted to know my Dad, to have trekked in some way with my Dad, to have had the chance to spend time with him, to have heard a story or two from him, some, even around a campfire, or on a basketball court.

And it may not seem that important, but it feels important. I am sad. I am scared and the kids I live in the midst of understand. And kids that knew Dad well, and knew his stories well, message often and check-in often, and I am grateful that our shared stories have created this space. See, there’s a whole wack sack of truth in my living alongside our kids right now. I share about the love between my parents; I share about how tired I am; I share that I am drinking far too much coffee, about how I am crying easily and often; I share that I love them, and then I share again.

I am sad and I am grateful. This Friday is my Dad’s 74th birthday and I want to walk with my Dad like we have done every year. This year, Jess and I will bring some eggs to Providence Place and colour them.

The last time I walked with my Dad, two weeks before his stroke, I was walking too fast, going ahead like I did Dad and me walkingwhen I was a child. That last weekend, he stopped often, and when I returned to stand next to him, he asked me to identify the animal scat over which he bent, the twig next to which he stood, and the berry he held in his hand. When I was child, I would not have had the patience for standing and wondering. When I was a child I hadn’t yet come to honour the stories of Dad running Otter Rapids, or Dad canoeing the Churchill, or Dad building a log home by hand, or of Dad putting himself through High school and University, or of Dad choosing to love, and loving, always loving with kindness. That day, two weeks before ‘the before moment,’ I had stood and listened to Dad every time he paused.

I still have much to learn from storying with Dad. There are many walks left in both of us.

Dad would say, there’s a teaching there.

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Cinema Stories

It’s nearing close on winter break. I have been reading my twitter feed. Often, this time of year I have read about peoples’ tensions Dadabout businesses staying open. But it was open movie cinemas and late-night coffee shops that were family to my Dad while he was in his teens. It was these places that mattered during the long days of the holiday season when my Dad’s friends had family and warm homes, and what my Dad had were the folks in the stores and the warmth of coffee shops. I’ve written about this before.

This Fall two of my Dad’s sisters died. The August before my Dad’s grade eight year, he walked away from the family farm choosing to make a life of his own. (There is more to his story. Come for coffee, a campfire, a hike. In time, if you’re lucky, my Dad will share the details.) For years my Dad lived in an abandoned car on the outskirts of town and when the weather was poor he took comfort with caring families and in the church basement. My Dad was homeless throughout his high school years; he was homeless here, in a small city in our idyllic Saskatchewan where people just don’t allow things like this to happen, where people take care of each other… But people knew, his family knew and my dad kept telling his story.

Today, these similar stories still stay silenced.  

My Dad put himself through school. More than that though, he stepped away from his abusive family and began to tell a new story.   

Dad values love, family and learning. He walked away from his family so he would have a shot at these things. Dad knew he wanted these things at the age of 14. He was courageous enough to seek them then too. Dad is my hero. But not just for his past. Dad is a listening parent and the best, kindest teacher. I know, I have spent time with his students.

When I was a girl, my friends were often the kids on my Dad’s school teams. The boys on his teams were my brothers, his school kids were the kids I hiked the Qu’Appelle alongside, pulling wood-ticks off each other and the kids I played basketball with on Saturdays on the crumbling courts outside our schools. Today, when people my age get a far-away look about them, stare at me a bit too long, I usually know what will follow, “Is your Dad Al Saas?”

This holiday break, I was sitting on bleachers watching my daughter play soccer. A colleague stood beside me resting her back, her body swollen with pregnancy. She shared how she had wanted to take her kids cross-country skiing, but was just too tired. That she had learned to love skiing because she had a teacher in grade six who would load the class into his big blue station wagon, on top of the skis and take kids skiing, not returning until well after dark. She chuckled. When I told her that was my Dad, she pulled herself up onto the bleachers and sat with our shoulders touching. Later, at supper, my Dad told us stories about her skiing adventures and how she was a great storyteller; he remembers all kids.  

I love that when I began coaching junior basketball, my Dad was there. It had been years since I’d played ball, I knew I needed help. That first year not only did the wee junior boys’ team make it to districts, we made it to conference. My Dad was at every game. Before the final game when Dad walked into the gymnasium the boys stopped warming up, walked over to Dad and shook his hand. He mattered. It is my Dad’s stories that the senior kids now share with the younger kids. It is my Dad’s ways of living and being with our own stories that the kids and I have come to understand is how we are curriculum makers in our learning-space.

This Fall, my Dad lost two of his sisters. Their loss resonates. These past few years, Dad’s heath continues to be fragile. Last year was the last time Dad was able to attend of our class’s Outdoor Education/Adventure Education field trips. In the classroom learning space, we leave nothing unsaid. Learning is messy, relational narrative work; life is messy; we leave nothing unsaid. My Dad is the kindest and best of men. Every decision he has made has been to put others before him.

Before you judge that in my Dad, pause  – when he was 14 years old, more than 60 years ago, that same young man sat in a cinema for many years on Christmas Eves alone and held true to the that dream. My Dad has spent his life honouring stories, listening to stories, honouring his family, honouring kids’ voice, honouring me. And he did this with kindness.

Leave nothing unsaid. Listen. Respond with kindness.

#alberttruthsThe Farm

When my Dad walked away all those years ago his actions gave voice to the silenced family stories in his home. His life as the kind of father and the kind of educator he has been has continued to give voice to silenced stories. After my Dad left home, my two aunts remained connected with my Dad. They loved him, and understood the need to retell his story.  

Leave nothing unsaid. Listen to stories. If there is no space for your stories to be honoured, create one. Find a key person in your world, find a teacher, find someone you can trust and allow your stories to be heard. If not, find a cinema or a coffee shop and know, there is someone, this time of year, as always, who has a story. Leave nothing unsaid, lean over and begin.

Listen.Dad & Me

Remember, that someone was my Dad. That someone is me. That someone is you.

Leave nothing unsaid.

This is our new year.

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