T-M-I from T-I-M

Picking up my daughter from UC Davis

I picked Zoe up from college a week ago to bring her home for the spring quarter. Understandably she was quite disappointed and emotional. I knew I had to help her pack up and also step up to be her emotional support.

I started with the “It’s not as bad as it could be” approach.

I tried to help her see that if it happened a year before (her senior year in High School) or 3 years later (her senior year in college) it would have been a lot more difficult.

It didn’t land.

I went to the “Others are going through it too” approach.

I tried to help her see that there were tons of other students leaving and lots of students from other schools that were leaving.

It didn’t land.

I pulled the “Let me make her laugh” card, my veritable pocket rockets.

I made her laugh for a bit here and there, in ways that we are so familiar with over 19 years which always helped.

And still it didn’t land.

You see I was trying to soften the blow or even “save” her from her emotions. I’m imperfect.

Finally, I decided to lay back and let things roll out. Tears came and left. I felt her uncertainty and simply observed it or told her that I’m sure this is all difficult.

It sort of landed.

Then she went up and wanted to say goodbye to her friends and didn’t want me to join her. I told her “I don’t care how long it takes, I’ll be here waiting”.

She told me earlier that her friends tell her that she feels things so deeply….sounds familiar.

She came back down to and said that she was ready to go, and I felt her and knew maybe there was just a bit more.

This time I decided I’d do nothing.

I invited her to sit on this huge bench with me. And for the next 10 minutes, she sat there slightly ahead of me on a very deep bench as I leaned back against the back of it.

I felt her emotional waves come ashore and another one behind it. I could feel the rich and deep layers of each of them.

Then, I felt her deep breath of acceptance and she turned around to me with those same beautiful eyes I looked into since she was first born.

With the quiet calm confidence whose source I don’t know she said:

“Ok Dad let’s go” and I smiled.

It finally landed.

We got up and I put my arm around her and told her how proud I was of her and that I loved her. And talk turned to Chipotle for lunch.

Some of my best parenting moments are when I step back, do nothing and let the moment arrive.

If I try to push harder it seems it never quite lands.

My Dad a Metric of 1 in the COVID 19 Stats world

As I continue through the layered grieving process of my Dad through this beyond weird time, something occurred to me.

I see so many of us quoting statistical trends and projections.  I see the at risk data categorizations and probabilities based on demographics, usually by existing health conditions and particularly age.

I see the comparatives to the flu or historical epidemics that cite absolute or ratio death stats.

I see the top level # of deaths from CV compared as a statistic and the growing % as the demo’s get to the >70 years old as so many of them have died already.

ONLY 400 died NOT 27,000!!!  or 400 HAVE DIED!!!! to make points.

Meanwhile, my metric is 1.  I have one person who died in my life, unrelated to the Corona Virus.  And that one person dying has impacted me deeply and a lot of people around me (in both difficult and inspiring ways). 

My Dad was >70 and he’s gone.  Meanwhile, every person that died in the nursing home in Kirkland or elsewhere is likely to have had an impact on all of the people around them. 

Or maybe some of them died and they’ve been long forgotten and have no family.  I’m not sure.

It doesn’t change the fact that watching the arguments on all sides (mostly driven by 1,000 forms of fear) about what to do next partially out the fear of death or the fear of overreacting or the fear of losing jobs, etc. feels pertinent but so missing the point or maybe missing A point.

It almost feels like the statistics are tools to dehumanize us rather than connecting us in our grief in humanness. 

I’m not forgetting that every death has a metric of 1 to the families impacted.  Because my 1 continues to hit me every day.

My Dad's Death from Dementia

After a long and magnificent journey, my beloved father Bob Taylor passed away yesterday. It’s hard to describe how I can feel totally heartbroken, relieved and grateful simultaneously.

 

The emotions feel like they are ripping my insides to shreds. It’s like ocean waves taking me under, I lose my breath, tumble over and taste the salty waves of my tears.

 

My Dad was like me except WAY more friendly and outgoing (kind of an incredible thought for those of you that know me…). He was a force of nature that literally lit any people up that were in his field and beyond.

 

He was a relentlessly optimistic man who also taught me how to feel my feelings. I never walked this earth thinking that my father did not love me as best he could.

 

He was outrageously expressive at times. Ultimately, I got it and have passed on the tradition of being outrageous and at times laughingly embarrassing with my daughter.

 

I have far too many tender memories to count. He would often gently trace his fingers on my hand during church as a child, kiss me lovingly on the head and tell me he loved me.

 

He was so patient even as he tried to teach me to play the accordion which was bigger than I was. I was the WORST baseball ever and I never felt that way as he cheered me on every “mandatory” at bat I had.

 

He harmonized at church to songs that I couldn’t stand but loved because he sang that way, one of the few enjoyments as a child going to church. (with the notable exception of taking great pleasure in seeing one of my brothers get in trouble at such church services….)

 

After a long day at work, he would come home in a short sleeve button down shirt and suit, take off his jacket, set down his huge briefcase and throw dozens of passes, shoot too many shots to count with his boys, my brothers.

 

He never ever gave up on me even when I had LONG since given up on myself in my darkest hours. He rarely gave up on anybody.

 

The Bob Taylor Experience was singular, known by many as Dancing Bob. I’m so proud to have called him my dad.

 

The end was inglorious as dementia took its toll, yet totally peaceful.

 

My heart is huge and open to those of us shepherding our parents to the light. Friends tell me that I really showed up for him in the last few years and it’s still hard to admit I did, maybe I could have done more.

 

It’s easy for me to love you, and yet I have a VERY hard time letting you love me. This will test that to the max and yet the person that best prepared me for it was my Dad.

 

Dad loved me like a warrior. And it’s how I love my daughter today.

 

She walks this earth never doubting that I love her. And I’ve built on that with work to learn how to love her in ways my Dad couldn’t when I was her age.

 

I’m a pretty loyal Peet’s guy but I went to Starbucks today and got my latte with the name Bob.

 

Knowing my Dad, he is in the afterlife already introducing himself to everyone with handshakes and hugs, eagerly leaving a world behind of social distancing.

 

Maybe he also got to heaven, found my brother and picked up the nearest football and has Jeff running routes.

 

Maybe Dad is thinking he needs to be with me right now, I KNOW I can feel him. And there’s an absolute perfection to know that I can absolutely give myself to this grief and sorrow, crying unapologetically like he taught me (like he did when he was so proud of me at the CA Aids Ride below).

 

Or maybe, just maybe Dad has set his shield of life down and he’s in God’s warm arms and light. Maybe he just needs a break, a good long, well deserved break of freedom.

 

Maybe after being someone who loved so completely, maybe he’ll just curl up into God’s lap and let God love him the way so many of us did.

 

You deserve it all Dad. There will simply never be another Bob Taylor, no matter how hard I or anyone else tries. And maybe that’s perfect.