Paul's Heart

Make This Difference In 2021

I feel odd trying to write an inspirational message, using the television serial killer Dexter as an example.  But here goes.  First, to be fair, Dexter’s status as a serial killer is complicated in that he is really a good guy.  One of his major flaws (besides the ease of killing criminals released by the judicial system often on technicalities), is he is emotionally barren, for at least half of the series, before his “feelings” begin to mature.  I am trying to be respectful in not “spoiling” anything.

You get it though, Dexter does not show, or pretty much, have any emotions, or feelings.  His sister Deb, with a mouth more colorful than a truckdriver or sailor (or whatever metaphor you want to use), has emotions, but has not control of them, often leading her to make decisions that involve regret.  She often tells Dexter she loves him, but he is unable to respond in kind to his sister.  This is not the only time that Dexter has been in this position, through no fault of his own.  It is just who he is.

Anyway, as the series draws to a conclusion, Dexter is moving away, far, far, away.  Deb’s only request, a hug before he leaves, something I do not recall seeing in any of the episodes.  I will leave it there.

There are no second chances.  I wrote just a couple of days ago about my father’s situation with my stepmother, an argument, never being able to be resolved.

That had not been the first time, that I had experienced that guilt, of a lost opportunity.  Growing up, though different circumstances, I did not deal with emotions well either, in fact, not at all.  But early in my adulthood, when my grandmother had been diagnosed with cancer, and the mere thought of losing her, I found out, that I did have feelings, and they mattered.  And for the first time, I began to show my emotions.

On a daily basis, I made sure that I told my grandmother that I loved her.  When I visited her, I always gave her a hug.  Except for one time, and it was the last time that I saw her alive.

She was about to begin her second fight against cancer, beginning chemo the Monday after the weekend.  I stopped by to visit with her Saturday morning as I had a full day planned on Sunday with my church’s youth group that I ran.  I had discovered that she had cut her her short, to prepare for the hair loss that would accompany her chemotherapy.  But then I noticed something odd.  Her booklets on her chemo information had still not been touched.  I just attributed that to my grandmother’s nature of just accepting things, and doing what she had to.  That is how she rolled.

As I sat across from her in her living room, she had a distant look on her face.  There was a lot on her mind, clearly with the chemo beginning in just days.  I would soon find out, she had a lot more on her mind than she let on.  I asked her what was wrong.  She just responded that she “just want to get this over with.”  She definitely was not her normal “brave” self with me.

When I went to leave, she did not get up from the couch as I approached the door.  I told her, “ok grandma, I am going to get going.  I will give you a call tomorrow, then come see you on Monday.”  My hopes of thinking she would take that as her cue to come over and hug me goodbye, nope.

The next day, she had passed away.  The one time I did not hug my grandmother or tell her I loved her, because I was distracted by her “distance” and distraction, is how we parted.

You see the pattern here.  Three examples, all three, “coulda, woulda, shoulda.”

My daughters never got to meet my grandmother.  They never knew what happened to my stepmother and the impact it had on my Dad.  What I do not know, is if among all the other stuff they have watched, if they ever watched Dexter.

But one thing is for sure, from the moment they were placed in my arms, they have always been told “I love you” by me.  They get as many hugs as I can give them.  There is no “given” that just because I am their father, they have to love me or that I love them.  No, for the first time in my life, my daughters made me feel that way, and I made, no, make sure that they know every day how much I love them.  There will be no regrets with not having said the most important words to my daughters.

We never know when the inevitable is going to happen.  And 2020 has been extremely cruel with Covid19 devastating so many families permanently.  And now, faced with recommendations, proven to be at least helpful in reducing risks, we are asked to make sacrifices, which could very well be the last time, we see a loved one or friend.  Nobody gets that more than me.

Whether you believe in the severity of Covid19 or not, and whether you have been personally affected by Covid19 or not, does not change the fact, that you only get one last chance with someone, and we do not know when that moment will be.  But Covid19 has made a huge impact on hundreds of thousands of lives, permanently.

2020 has been extremely cruel, and likely filled with a lot of regret, of things left unsaid.  Regardless of what you believe about Covid19, or any other situation that at one moment can change your life forever, you can make one huge difference in 2021, every day.

Good Riddance 2020

So the question across my news feed this morning, was “name something good that happened for you in 2020.”

For the majority of us, this is likely to limit responses to just January, February, maybe March.  There are two notable things that I consider good during this time. 

Being a non-custodial parent, there are many things that I am not included in.  But this moment was something for me to always cherish.  I got to take my daughters shopping for dresses for a school semi-formal.  Though not a big shopper myself, this was one trip I am so glad I got to make.

This was a huge thing that occurred in 2020, just before the Covid19 shit hit the fan.  Each milestone that I hit, I find myself amazed that I am still here.  Back then, we were only encouraged to think about some magical 5-year mark.

But even through the rest of the year, I did manage to have some good things happen.  My cooking improved for one.  I am an okay cook, but not having an option to go out an sit down, and for the most part opting not to do take out, the pressure was on if I wanted to eat.

Most importantly, in spite of Covid19 and the risks, I still managed to see my daughters.  Besides the law supporting the needs of children to see their non-custodial parents, as long as protections and recommendations were followed, visits were going to happen.

Likely, no one is going to say they would like to just reset and redo the 2020 calendar year.  2020 in fact, is probably going to go down as the worst number to avoid than a 13th floor in a hotel.

With hopefully the recovery from Covid19 going in that direction to start 2021, I have things that I am looking forward to, one major milestone, an effort thought I would never finish, and of course getting to spend more time with my daughters again.

My heart goes out to all who have lost someone this year, not just Covid19.  My wish is for all who are reading this, to find peace, good health, and comfort in 2021.

Traditions Of Christmas Past

As much angst that overcomes me from November through December, I am still able to find a way to enjoy holidays, and even remember fondly some of my past holidays as well.

Flipping through the television channels, I saw a talk-show host Stephen Colbert interviewing president-elect Joe Biden and his wife.  Being from Pennsylvania, I am more than aware of Biden’s tragic family past.  But at this time, both of the Bidens had huge smiles on their faces.  Joe was clearly telling one of his many “Scranton” tales.

It was about Christmas, and a tradition his family had when he was a child, that also existed in my house.  It did not seem to occur everywhere in Pennsylvania, but seemed more prevalent in a certain area, the northeast of the Commonwealth (Pennsylvania is referred to as a commonwealth, not a state – personally I don’t care about that history).

The Christmas Tree.  In my childhood, just as Biden explained, Santa Claus brought our tree Christmas Eve, to put the presents under.  At least, that was how it was always explained to me.  Biden must have been a problem child, because he explained their delivery of the tree as if it were a sign of being “good” as is the tradition of the “Elf On The Shelf.”  If you were good, you had a tree Christmas morning.

I was not thinking about being good, that was a no-brainer.  Santa just needed to show up with that tree.  It appeared also, that I needed to ask for him to set up the train under the tree each year, if I did not, there was no train.  This routine lasted until I was around ten years old, when the commotion downstairs with the arrival of the tree and Santa woke me up.  I eased my way down the stairway, so as not to get caught, and instead it was them who got caught, my mother and my grandmother.  A quick wave to come downstairs, and I was instructed not to say a word to my sister, all the while not addressing my shock at the discovery something did not exist as I had been led to believe.

In my late twenties, I was in charge of a large youth group at my church, and one of the biggest and most beautiful scenes during this time of year, was Christmas Eve church service.  To add to the wonderful night, the youth group would spend two parts of the day, early in the morning, filling old milk cartons with sand, and then spacing them out among the church property, then returning in the evening to light long-burning candles that often lasted will into the early Christmas morning hours.

This tradition picked up again, this time in my forties, at home.  Our entire neighborhood, of nearly 200 homes, using paper bags, with sand, also lit luminaries on Christmas Eve.  As soon as my daughters were old enough to understand the fun of Christmas, we referred to these as “Santa’s Runway.”

For my daughters, this was our tradition, an actual visit from Santa Claus, until my older daughter discovered “HoHo” (her nickname for Santa), wearing her dad’s shoes.  But each year, my daughters could look out the window, seeing Santa dance on the diving board of our closed swimming pool, and in the morning, wake up to a small present under the Christmas tree in their bedroom, with the rest of the loot downstairs.  I always made sure they left goodies for Santa that he would enjoy.

I am now waiting on the next stage of traditions for my daughters.  There will be college, and with their parents being divorced, they will likely split their break time between their mother and I.

But the next stage, that is going to be fun for sure, will be when my daughters have a family of their own.  A new tradition will begin, either travel for me, or travel for all of them.  And who knows, I may just have the chance to dust off that red suit again.