Max and Tab

A few years back, after I found out how much Dad liked the photo albums I could make on my Mac, we scanned a bunch of old photos from when we were kids.  The new streamlined album was much easier to carry than the old bulky albums, and it even made the trip to Chile.  I powered up the old Mac the other day to get those pictures off of it, and I came across this one, which I hadn't remembered seeing in the book.

A few things cross my mind here.  Dad seems tired, but it still looks like he pushed aside whatever he was reading to help me with Max and Tab.  He still had that belt in his closet when I went through it a few weeks ago.  And those glasses.  That couch was as hideous when it was new as it was when it was old.  I'm thankful to Mom for taking photos like these because after their divorce, the pictures of us with Dad are few and far between.  (Dad liked to be behind the camera, not in front of it.)

Mostly, though, since he's teaching me to read, I can't help thinking:
This looks like a man who has no idea what he is starting.

These books, plus a few thousand pages of criticism, are what I'll be covering this semester:

A few of the books are missing, but you get the idea.  This is a lot of reading-- all to be accomplished in 15 weeks.  I believe people must think I'm a fast reader, but I'm not.  At all.  With most of these books, I average about 30-40 pages per hour.  I read much, much too carefully to read fast.  One of my professors used to give me a hard time about it, actually.  She said that if what everyone else was doing could be called "close reading," what I'm doing should be called "microscopic reading."

I can tell I'm not reading as well this semester as I have in the past-- when it comes to class discussion, I have a hard time remembering exactly what happened or what was explained in the text.  I'm still plugging along, though, hoping that it will come back.  I believe it will.  I know I had a good teacher.

In the meantime, though, it's Monday, which is a read-from-home day.  So back to reading with my little one I go.

After Loss, What Then?

It's been three weeks now since we lost Dad.  This is a weird space for me because under any other circumstance, being able to say I saw my dad just three weeks ago would be exciting.  I'm conscious, though, that the days and weeks since I last saw my dad are just going to pile up until they become years.  Living away from family has conditioned me to live in the pattern of feeling sad at goodbyes but immediately looking forward to when I'll see my family members again.  Goodbye for me has never really been goodbye.  Other languages do this better-- in my life it's always been more like "auf wiedersehen" or "hasta luego."  Maybe this is why I always say "bye" and almost never say the full "goodbye."  Coming to terms with this goodbye really being for good has been difficult.

Even so, the feeling of loss is always with me.  I thought that returning to Maryland might make Dad's death seem like it didn't happen, because I regularly go several days without hearing from Dad.  I don't know where I got the idea that people wake up in the morning and feel sad when they remember that someone they love has died.  Movies?  Songs?  For me this is an impossibility.  I feel the loss inside me always-- there is never a moment when I don't feel it, even if I am not consciously thinking about it.

In his final days, Dad told me he wished he could make "this" easier for me, so I know he would be happy that I've been able to carry on with things fairly well.  I know I am a words person, but I keep imagining the way I feel on a graph.  If time was on the x axis, and mood was on the y axis, with x=0 being neutral mood, I feel like my baseline mood was always at something like a 3.  Something 4 measurements "good" would take me up to 7 on the mood graph, and something 4 measurements "bad" would take me down to a -1.  Now I feel like my baseline mood is re-calibrated at about -3.  Vickie and Billy still make me laugh around the house.  Seeing each of my close friends over lunch and coffee made me feel better.  When I run into professors and classmates on campus who are genuinely happy to see me, my mood still improves.  I still enjoy being engaged in my academic work.  But now that my baseline is reset, something 4 measurements "good" only takes me up to a 1, and something 4 measurements "bad" takes me all the way down to -7.  Since returning to my life here in Maryland, I feel like myself again, but I feel like myself in a different register.

Last night it occurred to me that this is probably very similar to the way Dad felt while living with what he knew would be terminal cancer.  He seems to have dealt with it by consciously seeking out things that would move him up from his baseline mood and by always looking forward to the next thing, even though he could not know how many next things there would be.  So that's what I'm working on now, too.

And thanks to everyone who has reached out to me through emails, calls, texts, notes, and visits.  Even when I'm in a moment where your kind words and thoughtfulness only take me from a -6 to a -5, I appreciate your help with moving me upwards rather than downwards.

("After Loss, What Then?" is the afterword Judith Butler wrote for Loss: The Politics of Mourning.  I haven't read it, and maybe some day I'll want to, but I'm not much in the mood to critically analyze what I'm feeling.  Sidenote: Katie, do you know this anthology?)