Alison Hodgson

Expert on the etiquette of perilous times.

June 22, 2013

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Today was the tenth anniversary of my father’s death and in some ways I can’t believe it’s been that long. In others, I can’t believe I ever had him.

We measure his death by Eden’s life. She was five months old when my dad died. She rolled over for the very first time the day of his funeral. I remember so many frantic drives across the state when he was near death, with only Eden in her little car seat behind me.

I wish I still had my dad, but even more I wish my children had a grandfather here on earth.

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I had too much to say this week and so I didn’t say anything.

Last Sunday was Father’s Day and Monday was the sixth anniversary of my father’s death. The week before Paul and I attended the funeral of a nineteen year old boy from church who was killed in a car accident. It was the most beautiful and holy funeral I have ever attended and I have been to many in my relatively short life.

I recently picked up a book of essays called The Undertaking – Life Studies From a Dismal Trade by Thomas Lynch, an undertaker and poet who lives in Milford, Michigan. He is such a good writer and writes so wisely and well about death, the dead and those who survive them. This book would have been good company any time, but especially this week.

“In even the best of caskets, it never all fits-all that we’d like to bury in them: the hurt and forgiveness, the anger and pain, the praise and thanksgiving, the emptiness and exaltations, the untidy feelings when someone dies. So I conduct this business carefully…”
(from the essay Jessica, the Hound and the Casket Trade, page 191)

https://alisonhodgson.com/2009/06/284/

9/27/08

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Had he lived, today would have been my father’s seventieth birthday.  Tomorrow my mother will be 68. When Dad was alive none of us kids could keep their birthdays straight.  Year after year Torey and I would (separately) call Mom and wish her a happy birthday, sometimes singing it to her in a stupid voice.  When we had finished, she would say laughing, “Oh Honey, thank you, but today is your dad’s birthday.”  Then we would call Dad.  Somehow we always forgot.  

Dad went into the hospital on April 2 and finally died on June 22.  Beside the door of his various rooms was posted his information: Wolfe, Donald R. DOB: 9/27/58.
September 27th.  I can’t tell you how many times I read that typed sheet.  In those days upon days that numbered his last on earth, I finally learned the date of his birth.  When it rolled around just three months after his death, I knew it was coming; I was marking it.  This irony was just another drop in the bitterness that was then my cup.  
We kids had never really made a big deal about our parents’ birthdays, following their lead.  We called, sometimes sent cards, occasionally bought a present and that was enough, but the first birthdays after his death, the burden of my mother’s aloneness fell heavily on me.  The 27th dawned and I called my mother and wished her a happy birthday. “Today is your dad’s birthday,” she said gently.  I told that I knew and then we both began to cry.   I have called her on the 27th and done something for her on her own birthday ever since.
This evening I realized that I forgot to call her, that I forgot today was his birthday at all. 
R.I.P. – Rest In Peace is often written as a fitting closing to a tribute or memory of one who is dead, but I don’t find it necessary.  I know he is at peace and I am glad to realize that I am too.

6/22

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Yesterday was the fifth anniversary of my father’s death.  I noted it at 6:31 a.m. as I was getting ready for church.  It was soon before or after six in the morning that the phone rang and woke me that Sunday morning, five years ago.  When I heard my sister’s voice I was confused because I thought she was sleeping in the basement but she had awoken early and driven to the hospital to wait with my mom.  They were there when he died.

I had noted the anniversary several months ago when I was scheduled for early morning prayer at church, on the date.  A couple people walk through every room in the church, praying, before the services.  When it is my turn I often sit through at least two and sometimes three of the services and it is usually apparent why I am hearing a particular sermon more than once.  I wondered if yesterday’s services would have any connection with my father’s anniversary, but they didn’t really.  The sermon was quite good, but not related and nothing connected or highlighted the marking of the day.
Torey and I had talked about getting together and having our version of the Don Wolfe Film Festival that my brothers always have out in California on Dad’s birthday in September.  Torey is trying to find a way to honor and remember Dad, especially with her girls.  I don’t feel that compulsion.  Yesterday, after church, I was tired and just wanted to relax.  I called Torey and told her I wasn’t up for the DWFF and she understood.
Some feelings definitely came up last week with the death of Tim Russert and I had a couple dad related cries, but that was it and without that projection I don’t know if I would have cried around this time at all.
One thing, that I have never thought of is that the eve of and day of his death is the Summer Solstice.  Tanner kept vigil the two nights between removing Dad’s life support and the morning of his death.  Up until then I had been obsessed with the thought of Dad dying alone and wept every time I considered it.  But when I told Paul my fears he said, “Babe, he’s not going to be alone, when he dies.  Even if one of us isn’t there, Jesus will be.”  Pretty much anything, any one said to me sounded like a poor platitude, but this gave me pause.  I knew it was true and I felt reprieved from keeping vigil.  Eden was a newborn and I had been balancing her needs with my father’s months and months of dying and the burden was becoming too much to bear.  Friday night and Saturday night I went home to sleep and Sunday morning, June 22, 2003, he was gone.  It was the longest day of the year.
It was the longest day.
I like to know now that my brother’s vigil was the shortest night.
I like to think that the longest day also means the most light.
I am glad to finally see that we removed the life support on a Friday and that he was alive in Christ on Sunday.
I am thankful to know that the mourning is, for the most part, complete.  And yet I know that, in some ways, it will never truly end until I am, in death, fully alive too.

Mental Health Assessment Part 2

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You have to see THIS.  Go to the theater immediately.  Now!  Now!  Now!

You don’t have to cry, although I SOBBED and Paul had to wipe away tears several times, but you must laugh or, at the very least smile.  If you can walk out of the theater unmoved, call me and we’ll get you some help.
Go watch it today.
*To view the trailer, click on the red guitar.