Canceled Stamps

97. Great Smoky Mountains National Park

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 12:52:00 +0000

Date: November 28, 2001

Age: 24

I got to spend my birthday in Gatlinburg, Tennessee--giving a speech to a bunch of cops.

Love you

Dad

There was absolutely no way to find an appropriate card for this post, and really, before I came down to Miami earlier this week, I had just grabbed a handful of postcards with no rhyme or reason to them. Therefore, this is the best I can come up with to say that my dad died on Monday.

Sunday began with a comedy of errors--C's flight to Miami arrived about an hour after mine, so I waited for him. As soon as C found me he said, "I picked up someone else's bag, I have to return it to them." Thankfully the woman who ended up with his noticed the mistake before leaving the airport and called his cell phone, otherwise he would have later opened up a suitcase filled with bikinis for her island vacation.

The plan was to rent a car and drive to Dad's, and pick up B when his flight arrived later that afternoon. When we got to the house, however, it was clear we weren't going anywhere, and B was going to have to take a cab over. H was already crying, with news from the hospice nurse that Dad probably would pass away that day.

He made it through the day, however, and through the night, where we all slept on the floor around him. He passed away at 7:45 Monday morning.

That 17-hour vigil was undoubtedly one of the most significant moments of my life, and there's so much to write about it. And I will, but I think I need to wait until he's put to rest, and I'm out of his house. For some reason I feel it's disrespectful to blog about it now. Probably so much of this blog is disrespectful, but there you go.

Dad rediscovered religion in the past few months, so the funeral is a Catholic mass, followed by burial, then reception at his house. H's house. Sunday and Monday she could barely hold it together.

I will say this about his last day on Earth: he had been lying on a couch, and with the pillows removed, it was deep enough for two. Sunday night into Monday, when my brothers and I slept on the floor around him, H slept beside Dad on the couch and held his hand. In the morning, I watched her wake up. She looked at his hand still in hers, no doubt checking the color of his fingers--we all were, as the hours passed, because we were told that his fingertips would begin to turn blue as circulation slowed, a sign that he was nearer to the end. She saw the blue, like I had just a few moments before when I returned to the room after a quick shower, and she started to cry silently. She was awake for only a minute or so when his breathing stopped. 7:45.

I'm doing okay. The day of his death was better than the last day of his life. Yesterday was exhausting. So will today. But then the life I knew in which my dad was always a part of it--at least in his own way--will be finished, and I'll begin to live with him truly absent.

Goodnight, Dad, rest in peace.

96. Heidi's Motel, Brewster, New York

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 18:27:00 +0000

Date: November 25, 1977
Age: Six months

Happy Thanksgiving! This is your first, and we are together in Brewster.

Love, Mommy & Daddy

Dad hasn't left Arkansas yet. He'd been hoping to switch to outpatient at the myeloma clinic earlier this month, but that never happened. Still in the hospital, and chemo is doing nothing. H told C today that he is not going to fight it any longer. Stopping all treatment, and he's going home.

There's no way he can fly on a commercial jet. It's an 18-hour drive from Arkansas to Miami. H is trying to make arrangements with a social worker for an air ambulance so he doesn't have to endure all that time in the backseat.

I know we've gotten the panicked phone calls before to tell us to come right away, but I don't think this one is a fire drill. Once he gets home, H will tell us when to get there. But there isn't much time left, so it should happen next week.

95. Bogota, Colombia

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 18:18:00 +0000

Date: June 12, 1982
Age: 5

This place is very high in the mountains. Tomorrow I take a plane ride to a place where it is very hot. I will be home in 13 more days. I miss you.
Love, Daddy

A few nights ago, I dreamt that my father was flying to South America, and his plane crashed. It had been a big deal for him to get on a plane, considering his immune system was so compromised, and he would be breathing in recycled air and whatever bugs the other passengers were afflicted with. I could see the plane tear apart, inside and out--very graphic, but not gory. Whatever my father had been thinking or feeling is the part of the dream that left my memory almost immediately, and maybe that's for the best.

Then, I was sitting in my father's home office in the house where I grew up, which my mother sold in 1997. I called my brother, C, and before I could even speak, he excitedly told me about his plans to take our dad to the Vatican. That's when I told him our dad was dead.

As always in my dreams about him, my father looked as he did when he was in his late forties/early fifties. Clean-shaven, without the beard he's had since the mid-90s.

I'm not one to interpret dreams. My fear of flying, coupled with my dad's mortality always at the forefront of my mind, brought this one on. Who the hell knows how the Vatican played into it. As for other dreams I've recently had: I know my reccurring one about my teeth falling out is a classic stress dream that many people experience, but beyond that, I really can't explain why, in my sleep, I've been having romantic and sexual interludes with the least attractive men from Top Chef.

What's more intriguing is that a few days after this dream about my dad's failed travels, he emails my brothers and I to tell us he and H are taking the Auto Train to Washington, and from there driving to Arkansas, back to the multiple myeloma clinic.

He's in DC for a meeting. I emailed back to get details about the rest, knowing I stand little chance reaching him by cell phone, since he always has it turned off. He called me, but unfortunately I missed it. His message said that there may be a new treatment he can do in Arkansas, but he was also going to retrieve some of his stem cells, which he said the clinic is "holding hostage." He said he'd try calling me again.

Should he start on a new treatment, he could potentially be in Arkansas for weeks. I guess my brothers and I should try to visit, considering the bullshit guilt trip he tried to lay on us in the Spring.

I realized the other day that this is the first time in my life that everyone in my immediate family lives in a different state: C in New York, B in Pennsylvania, my mom in Delaware, my dad in Florida, my grandmother in Ohio, and I'm in North Carolina. I feel strangely detached from all of them right now--I've only spoken to them all once or twice since I moved here, minus my mother. Even the contact I've been having with her, however, ebbs and flows. I realize I'm sort of doing the same thing my dad has been doing to my brothers and I all this time--keeping people at arm's length, and giving them updates about my life on my terms. It's foolish of me to take for granted that we will come together in one formation or another, and downright morbid that I may be relying on my father's health to be my reason for reuniting with my brothers.

I can't remember if I've mentioned this before, but B once told me that in his role as a dad, he'll often think of how our dad would have handled a situation, and so then he does the exact opposite. He's a pretty goddamn stellar father to his kids, too. While I've enjoyed having some separation from my family, I think I should take a cue from B and do the opposite of what we've experienced, and pick up the phone.

94. Pittsburgh

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 16:36:00 +0000

Date: November 22, 1991
Age: 14

I don't think I ever sent you a card from here, so add this to your collection.
Love, Dad

This card is in honor of my friends Matt and Rachel, who are getting married in Pittsburgh this weekend. Ah, the blessed union of two souls.

I'm on a plane to Pittsburgh tomorrow with a poofy bridesmaid dress (although I'm on Matt's side of the wedding party). Aside from my crippling fear of flying (and I'm out of Adivan to get me through the flights), it's going to be a fabulous weekend. I'll be reunited with my best friends--the people who consistently challenge me, have seen me at my best as well as my worst, and helped shape who I am, both during my childhood (like Liz and Melissa) and my adulthood (I'm talking about the rest of you). My mother will be there as well, and I guess she's played a role in that whole development process, too...

I have to come up with a toast for the reception. As the woman of honor (translation: best man) in a wedding over the summer, I think I gave a kick-ass toast. I have plenty of charming anecdotes about my friendship with Matt to draw from for creating another good toast, however many of them aren't for public consumption (such as the Sindex, which was our numeric code for telling each other how far we got with a date, when he and I were roommates. Far more comprehensive than those juvenile baseball metaphors). I'll come up with something good, however. If not, I'll just wish them a happily ever after.

No real news from my dad lately. He and H have decided to sell their house and move into a condo. I think it's a lofty undertaking, as that house is like a museum, so I don't know which is more overwhelming--keeping up with it, or disposing of it and downsizing. Maybe he just needs a project.

He says he's going to have a garage sale, and although I offered to travel down and help out with this, he ignored me completely. He did, however, send me a bunch of camera equipment, including a gorgeous Canon camera from the 1950s. I'm not sure if it works, and even if it does, it's a bit too antiquated for my limited photo expertise to interpret.

93. I Heart New York

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 17:10:00 +0000

Date: August 28, 1980
Age: 3

New York, New York
It's a wonderful town.
The Bronx is up,
The Battery is down.
The people ride around
in a hole in the ground
New York, New York!
love, Dad

Hello New York! I fall more in love with you the longer I know you. And isn't that how a love affair is supposed to be?

See you soon.

92. Key Largo, Florida

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 17:05:00 +0000

Date: August 19, 1998
Age: 21

This summer went so fast. I didn't get done half the things I wanted to, but at least I did some diving. That was good. Talk to you when I get back.
Love, Dad

Not surprisingly, my dad doesn't go diving anymore. He once told me he wanted to still be diving at eighty years old. He'll be seventy this fall, and it will be two years ago next week that he was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, and so he hasn't been diving for a few years now. I doubt he'll even get to do any serious traveling ever again--since his immune system is so weak, his doctors warn him against flying, against breathing that recirculated air.

My dad has always loved the ocean, and I thank him for making it a part of my life for so long. I miss going out on his boat--he was a certified captain. If you asked him to drive fast, he'd drive fast. Slow, he'd go slow. He'd be mindful of people on the boat who had never been on one before, cruising out into the ocean, and made sure it was calming and enjoyable.

I never learned how to dive, unfortunately, but we often went snorkeling around coral reefs, and he'd point out eels and other underwater creatures. The fish didn't care you were there. Sometimes they'd dart away if you tried to touch them, but I'm sure they weren't scared, just annoyed. (Can fish become annoyed?)

Of course, all of this changed when our family fell apart, and when it came back together again, the experiences were different. A few years ago, my brothers and I received gift subscriptions to Islands magazine. My dad and H had taken their diving trips beyond the Florida Keys by then--that's why I have postcards from South Africa, Fiji, and other places that I couldn't tell you if they are their own countries or territories of another. Places my brothers and I may never have the good fortune to go, so it seemed strange that we were receiving a magazine about destinations such as these--and others far more remote.

I have never once read the magazine.

A few days ago I opened up my mailbox at my new apartment in Greensboro, and there it was. Sure, my mail has come forwarded from my Brooklyn address, but Islands seems to follow me, as if it's not going to let up until I read one cover to cover. My dad must have our subscriptions on an automatic renewal. I wonder if he even realizes we still receive it.

Two years ago next week was one of the worst times of my life--my father was diagnosed with cancer, my long-term relationship ended acrimoniously, and I was in between abdominal surgeries: no longer sick, but not yet healthy, and between my body recovering and the emotional turmoil I was going through, I looked more sick than anything else.

To look at me today, you'd never know I was sick, and having gone through such a terrible illness is something I'm not quite over emotionally, but I'm getting there. I'm sorry that my dad is never going to get there. No matter how well his disease is managed (and here he's made us think, twice, that the end was nigh), he's never going to get a break from it, never not look ill. When my brothers and I pushed him around in a wheelchair at the Metro Zoo back in June--and that alone was surreal for us--H called and told us to return right away, the doctors phoned, our dad needed more blood, or new blood, or platelets, or something. This is it for him, this is how is life will be, no matter how long, or little, it lasts. I don't mean to imply that my father's life now is pitiful, because he can still have good days and enjoy life, and I think he does--but he's got to miss the traveling, the diving. At least he still lives near the ocean.

Someone I once knew, who is no longer with us, wrote during his own illness:

"I'm mentally and physically blasted. But I am thankful for life, thankful for love, thankful for existence, and thankful for everything, in ways that never, ever happened until I made it out of the house today. Yesterday I was so depressed I couldn't think of anything but death. Today I am so glad to be alive I'm just amazed...I'm writing about it today party to have notes I can read when I'm back to feeling hideously trapped in this house...But I am just going to let if fly today, let it fly."

Let it fly, Dad. Let it fly.

91. Best Western Berkeley House

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 15:47:00 +0000

Date: January 9, 1979

Age: 1 1/2 years

This is the town which was a center of student violence a decade ago. People say it's a great place, but it looks pretty tacky to me.

Love, Daddy

This one goes out to Denis, who will make it back to Berkeley where he belongs, someday. I know it's not as tacky as my father claimed it to be. Perhaps his opinion was based solely on this postcard. And after consulting a librarian's (which I'm now qualified to be, thanks to finishing my MILS) best friend/worst enemy, Wikipedia, the incident of which my father wrote happened at People's Park in 1969. Anyway, I find it funny that this is the only representation of Berkeley in my collection, and my only other Bay Area postcards are your traditional San Francisco photo ops--Alcatraz and cable cars.

So I've been in North Carolina for about two weeks now--I was hoping to update this sooner, but between trying to get settled and starting school and UNCG HAVING ONLY ONE WORKING SCANNER FOR THE ENTIRE STUDENT BODY, this fell by the wayside. I'm not going to write about life in NC just yet. There's still a lot to process. All I will say is that so far, it's been great.

My last night in New York, I cried a little after I said goodbye to my best friend, and cried some more the next morning as I was driving over the Verrazano Bridge, leaving Brooklyn. But I wasn't sobbing, I wasn't distraught. My reasons for leaving were too exciting.

I've spoken to my dad once since I moved. He sounded pretty good, and an email a few days later said that "biopsy results show only an incremental decline. Will start a new therapy next Tuesday." Once again, I have no clue what any of this means. Upon further pressing, I found out the therapy is once a week, outpatient. I know that C has asked about coming to visit, but my dad has returned to putting him (and therefore, all of us) off. I'm convinced he only wants to see us when he thinks the end is very, very near, and so our visits thus far have been based upon false alarms.

I'm glad he's getting along fairly well. Why he had to scare us with a "weeks to live" prognosis in June, I don't know. Maybe he just wants the rest of us to understand some semblance of what he's feeling.

Last week I had a dream that I was still a teenager, living in his house, and I was angry at him over something, and told him he couldn't live there anymore. My brother B took my side, and moved in to the house to resume parenting responsibilities over me. We saw our dad one last time--he came over to tell us that he'd stay away, but he would have no part of us ever again. He was the angry, unhappy person I remember knowing 15, 20 years ago. In fact, he's always that age in my dream--late 40s, early 50s. Before he had a beard. He's had a beard since probably 1996, and yet whenever he appears in my dreams, there's no beard.

I woke up feeling so horribly guilty about whatever had gone down between my father and I in the dream that I was questioning the frustration, and sometimes anger, I've been feeling toward him for the past year. When post-slumber coherence returned, I understood that my feelings are still justified, but the dream also reaffirmed that, no matter what goes down between us from here on out, there's no point in confronting him about it. And even if he wasn't dying, I'd still feel the same way.

90. Mount Washington, New Hampshire

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 17:16:00 +0000

Date: August 6, 1977
Age: 2 1/2 months

Today we went through the clouds to the top of the mountain.

You slept through the trip.

Love, Mom and Dad

Yeah, I've posted this one before. That's okay. It's my blog, I'm allowed. I posted it last year on August 6, too, as it's the oldest postcard I have in my collection. Postmarked 32 years ago today! Oh, nostalgia.

This time around, however, I also included the postmark. It's the only one in my collection that is the same style of the postmark in my blog's banner at top, from 1950...and it appears that I said as much in last year's blog entry, too. I guess I won't bother linking to it, what with the repetitive information. But at least I did include a goddamn picture of the postmark. Oh, and the banner postcard, sent in 1950, was to my father from his grandmother. My dad was 10 at the time.

One other NYC pit-stop I need to make before moving is the Brooklyn Collection at the Brooklyn Public Library. A few months ago my dad asked me if I could find in the archives of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle a story and photo that he remembered from 1952, about the murder of Arnold Schuster. He was a young man who was on the subway when he recognized a bank robber/fugitive, Willie Sutton. Schuster alerted the cops and Sutton was arrested, and then a few weeks later, Schuster was shot in the eyes.

My father claims that there was a picture of Schuster's dead body in the Eagle, and it scared the bejesus out of him as a kid, and he wanted to use the picture in his next book. So, in efforts to find favor in my father's eyes, I will try to locate this picture of a dead man lacking his own.

89. Seattle

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 16:11:00 +0000

Date: March 14, 2007

Age: 29

Have you ever been here. It is a nice area, but a lot of junkies downtown. Be well.

Love, Dad & H

This postcard goes out to my friend Dave, who just moved to Seattle from Brooklyn last week, effectively stealing my thunder in the ‘farewell NYC’ department, since his move happened before mine. Be well, Dave, and stay away from the junkies downtown.

This is my last week in New York, before a few days at my mother’s in Delaware, and then on to North Carolina. It’s a bit disconcerting to be following my normal routine these past couple of days, which involve going to my internship and drinking at my neighborhood bar. The only evidence pointing to my imminent departure is that I’m living out of a suitcase and sleeping on my brother’s couch, and yet chance has sometimes found me doing the latter in the past.

I still have quite a few things to cross of my farewell NYC tour, and I have a feeling I won’t get to all of them. High priorities are spending time in Dumbo and Red Hook and visiting my grandparents’ grave. Lower on the list are spending time in the West Village, visiting Greenwood Cemetery, and having a hot dog and PBR at the Gowanus Yacht Club.

I’ve done a bang-up job at hitting other favorite food and drinking establishments on my way out of town, however. I’ve had dinners at Alma and Dumont and drinxxx at Barcade, Bar(n), Southpaw (concert too), and of course Sepia, where I go to write. Lest anyone think epicurean urges are the only things I’m trying to satisfy, I got me some culture, too: I saw the Francis Bacon exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, caught Waiting for Godot on Broadway, did some city sightseeing by taking the Circle Line’s Harbor Lights Cruise, and had a picnic in Prospect Park.

I’d also like to get one of my tattoos touched up before I leave, and am thinking I should add that to the high priority list. I can’t guarantee the tattoo artist who did it will be around next time I’m in the city. Not that I know his schedule or have gotten wind of any sort of plans of him to also take flight from Brooklyn, but this city is ever-changing. I lived a very different NYC life when I first moved here in the mid-90s than I do now. Places I’d visit back then are no longer around—which for the most part, is fine, new places crop up—it’s just a blow to my nostalgia-tripping at times.

Dave told me he looks forward to being an NYC visitor. I do, too.

In other news, my dad is out there, somewhere, living his life, as opposed to reaching the end, which is the impression he gave us in June. But he’s getting his affairs in order—he told my brothers and I that he updated his will and what will come to us. He’s cashing in on assorted perks and passing them along to us—we’ve each received frequent flyer miles, American Express gift checks, hotel rewards cards. He let me know that I’ll also receive these wooden, glass-paneled bookshelves that used to belong to my grandparents, and were in my house when I was a kid. They went to my dad when my parents divorced. I told him years ago that if he ever decided to get rid of them, I’d take them. I think that was my thinly-veiled way of saying I wanted them willed to me. Anyway, I’m glad that he remembered. As of now they’re filled with books printed probably in the early 1900s, or whenever Horatio Alger was on the scene, because I remember a lot of Horatio Alger books in there. Also Gangs of New York. I’d like those as well, but wasn’t sure how to tactfully ask for them. I think I just said that if he and H didn’t want to hold on to them, I’d pick them up from him.

88. Barcelona

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 17:54:00 +0000

Date: July 11, 2002

Age: 25

Barcelona has been great, and the Prado in Madrid was really good. We also had many different kinds of Paella.

Love, Dad and H

Last Friday, my brothers, Dad, H and I had paella for dinner in Miami. Twice my father told us that when he and H visited Barcelona, they had paella every night--but this place from where we bought the paella in Miami was "better than all of them."

Later that night on the plane going home, C said to me, "I thought the paella was good, but nothing spectacular." I agreed. My mom's paella is much better. He thought so, too.

So, my dad's physical condition:

Despite supposedly receiving confirmation that he's living on borrowed time, he is much stronger than when we saw him in March. He moves slowly, but he can walk on his own (sometimes using a walker). He has an appetite. He gets through morning to night with only a short nap in between. He bought himself a new Cadillac, with features he couldn't stop raving about, even though he leaves the driving up to H. ("Not that I'll be around long to use it," he apparently told C, and we found his fatalist attitude humorous). We went out to dinner, saw Star Trek, even went to the zoo. That last outing was strange--the zoo was his idea, and pushing your father in a rented wheelchair while little camp kids are running all around in a frenzy over the tigers was unsettling. We didn't see much of the zoo, because we got a call from H saying to come home, the doctor called, Dad needed another transfusion of platelets. The transfusion he had received two days earlier was supposed to last him for ten days, but that wasn't happening.

C thought the trip went well, because Dad seemed in such good spirits. He wants to come up for a Mets game this summer if he's well enough. It was a collective moment to look forward to. Dad was talkative, regaling us with stories. And then I slowly became aware of something that C and B were completely oblivious to, and that's when the trip went all to hell, from my perspective.

All the stories Dad told were about B and C's childhood. Nothing in relation to when I was a kid.

The three of us accepted a long time ago--at least in our minds, if not our hearts--that our Dad never acknowledges his life before H. So why now, has he chosen to wax nostalgic from C and B's early years?

I think it had to do with location. C and B spent their childhoods in Brooklyn and Miami. Except for one year in Miami, I lived in Delaware. My dad cannot identify with Delaware, despite having lived there for eighteen years, but has much to say about Brooklyn and Miami. So I got to hear lots of stories about when my brothers were young. Hell, my dad even talked about their mother's brother and father.

My brothers were able to initiate many of these memories, playing off each other with intros of "remember when..." I'd sit there mute at the dinner table eating that goddamn paella, hearing stories from before I was born. I couldn't even grasp how to throw in my own "remember when" story. I was sitting in the middle of a boys club, and no girls were allowed.

I don't take issue with my brothers for this. As soon as I unleashed my anger at the airport at the end of my trip, they understood what I was talking about. They also noted that our dad exercised some revisionist history, too--in some of the stories he told, their mother was a part of the scenery, but he erased her entirely. Also, B pointed out that when we visited in March, he set up Dad's Christmas present--a digital photo frame that presented a slide show of his kids. This trip, he found the frame had been stored away again. (I told B, "Maybe if you replace the pictures of your kids with photos of Dad's new car, he'd leave it up.") So it's not as if Dad has taken a sudden, newfound interest in their lives but not mine.

They assured me it has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with how disengaged and fucked up our father is.

That may be. I certainly didn't cause him to be that way. But I also can't help but feeling that I'm also at fault for being born a female. I don't think he holds women in very high regard and doesn't understand--or care--that some things are just not acceptable. (Note to fathers: don't use the word 'cunt' with your daughter when describing a woman you don't like, ever.)

After I said my piece at the airport, there were a few seconds of silence. Then from C:

"Still, you've got to admit, it was a better trip than the last one, right?"

That was pretty funny.

I don't want to visit anymore. I don't want to be H's support system when Dad's gone. A few good friends told me I was being a good daughter while I was visiting, but now I just want to be the bad, bratty daughter and be done with all this.

No postcard today.

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 13:38:00 +0000

My brother called last night after 10pm. I just knew, this would have to be about dad.

First it was a matter of establishing what both of us already knew. I had spoken to Dad on Saturday, when he received my Father's Day card, and having found out he was ineligible for the trials in Tampa and Baltimore, he was back on a cocktail of drugs that had helped him about before, only mixed differently. That's what we both knew.

C filled me in on what happened today: daily blood transfusions necessary in order to survive. There's a 1 in 20 chance this drug cocktail will better his prognosis. There was other information too--I didn't process it all--because then C got to, "he has weeks to months to live."

I knew someday a prognosis of a fixed time was coming--and that our dad may have known one all along, but wasn't revealing it--but to finally hear it, it seemed unbelievable. Yes, all signs have pointed to this is where he's going. This was all expected, on some level.

C says Dad was upset. Crying. He must be so scared, and that's what upsets me the most, I think even more than losing him--he's not prepared for this. I don't want him to be scared, don't want him to be living out the end of his life in fear.

After we spoke, I noticed Dad had called me while I was in class. I'm glad I wasn't able to pick up that call. I wouldn't have known what to say or do. I don't know what I can do to provide my dad with any sort of comfort or happiness. And I don't think that's just something in the wake of death, but instead it's been a long time since we've communicated in a way that has allowed us to really support one another, or to make each other happy. I want to do whatever is possible to make this better for him, but I have no idea how.

He called this morning. Still upset, but perhaps not as much as he was when speaking to C. He says he's not afraid to die, but I'm not sure I believe him. But he's worried about leaving us and H. Again, I think the worry only extends to H, and I don't say this to be insensitive or fault him in any way. I think he realizes that my brothers and I are going to be okay. We have support systems. H doesn't. As Dad said, she has no friends, and is estranged from her family. I am sure their decision all these years to keep to themselves/live for each other plays a huge role in that, but there could be other reasons too, of which I'm not aware. I told Dad that "we'll work something out." I feel bad for H and honor her dedication and care toward my dad throughout his illness, but I'm not sure what my brothers and I can really provide for her once he's gone. Sometimes I feel the dysfunction cannot be solved with a phone call to see how she's doing. Or maybe something so simple really is the solution?

I think we're flying to Miami tomorrow--C is figuring out flights today.

Fuck.

87. La Basilique du Sacre-Coeur de Montmartre

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 16:47:00 +0000

Date: June 24, 1990
Age: 14

Today we walked to just about every place on this card, from the bottom of the hill to the top of the steeple.
Love, Dad

After writing this entry, I noticed that I already posted this card in June 2008. Oops. That's what I get for being disorganized. I will aim to scan a different French postcard and replace this one by tomorrow. Follow this link to read about the trip, but follow below for what's running through my mind right now.

My father has used the same travel agent ever since he first moved to Miami, which was in the early-to-mid-Seventies. Considering how much he has traveled since then, she's very familiar with our family, and my brothers and I sometimes call her to book our trips, when we are trying to schedule something complicated and don't trust we won't muck it up through a travel website.

I called her last week to attempt some convoluted, yet cheap, trip to Ireland/Paris/Brussels. Well, no such cheap option exists, so in the end, I chose a roundtrip to Brussels (again?) and will take a train to Paris from there. (And here lies the reason behind blogging a Paris postcard).

During our first phone conversation about the trip, the travel agent asked me how my dad was doing. She's out of the loop, I guess, since he's too sick to travel. I told her what I thought I knew: that he was doing better, sounding stronger and more upbeat, has actually called my brothers and I for no real reason but to chat, and is supposed to start a clinical trial in Tampa.

A few days later when my trip was finalized, I spoke with the travel agent again, who said my father had called to book a flight to Baltimore--in order to explore a similar clinical trial like the one in Tampa. Interesting.

I emailed my dad and said, "I hear you're going to Baltimore?"

His response: "Yes, and D has a big mouth--It is just a 1-day trip for a medical exam."

Jesus, sorry I asked. I was ready and willing to chalk it up to my dad's insistence at keeping my brothers and I at arm's length, but he actually called me the next day to sort of apologize--not that the words "I'm sorry" ever materialized--but he said he wasn't trying to keep anything a secret, it just seems that D has always spoken openly about his travel plans to everyone--although doing so with family "would be okay." Alright, fair enough--he's right, it's not D's place to be sharing his business with everyone. But who else amongst my Dad's circle of human contact is D in touch with? Has he referred her to friends and colleagues? Because if not, my brothers and I are the only ones she would be--sporadically--talking to. My guess is that despite his disclaimer, sharing his travel plans with family is NOT okay with him. And that's fine. But don't jump down my throat over email--jump down hers, okay?

Also, this Sunday is Father's Day. Finding the right card is always a challenge, as I can't get behind the "world's best Dad" variety available. Others have pictures of golf clubs and barbecue grills--ya know, Dad stuff--and those don't really apply, either. I finally settled on a Chihuahua wearing a sombrero, saying "Muchas gracias," probably because it seemed as absurd as the state of our relationship sometimes is.

Before I had a chance to send it, Dad sent my brothers and aunt and me an email titled "Bad News." He wrote:

"Hello All,
Although I seemed to be in remission a month ago, the results of my biopsy found that the myeloma is back with a vengeance. Please don't call--I am not in the mood to talk right now. Tomorrow we are going to Tampa to see what they can do there. Will let you know when I know something."

I get he's discouraged and too upset to talk to anyone. Lord knows I've been there. But if my brothers and I understand correctly, the cancer was always going to return after that last round of chemo--around this time, too. Is it truly worse than before, like 'days are numbered' worse? Did he fill himself with false hope that it would miraculously not return?

In fact, beginning the clinical trial in Tampa was delayed because he was "not sick enough--not enough cancer cells in [his] urine." So theoretically, this now means he can begin the treatment in Tampa that has been showing promise right? Again, I yell, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?

I have this picture of my father and me from when I was five years old, putting him at 42. He's holding me, and the photo was taken at chest-height. We're not smiling, but not frowning. We look calm, like we belong together, despite my (then) blond hair and light skin offset by his black hair and Mediterranean complexion.

I was going to include it with his Father's Day card, but after that email, I wondered if it would be too sentimental. We look serious, yet still. It's a great photo, something really timeless about it.

I sent the card yesterday, and the photo remains with me, for now.

86. New York

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 15:49:00 +0000

Date: November 18, 1988
Age: 11

I can't remember if you have cards in your collection from NYC. So here is one. Nice fireworks.
Love, Dad

NYC postcards are few and far between in my collection. That's probably because Dad rarely took business trips here, and we traveled to the city so often when I was a kid that a postcard didn't seem necessary. My entire family on my father's side grew up in Brooklyn, and his parents remained in his childhood home until they passed away--my grandmother in 1986, and my grandfather would go less than a year after this card was sent.

This is, unfortunately, the closest I have to a postcard representing Brooklyn. But not even--the caption on the back of the card reads "The Brooklyn Bridge in a dazzling fireworks display celebrating its Centennial Anniversary." But the bridge in the foreground is the Manhattan, and the Brooklyn is in the back, unlit and partially obscured by fireworks smoke. Misleading caption! The postcard company is based out of Long Island City. They're locals, for Christ's sake. They couldn't tell the difference? Really?

Anyhoo...all told, I've been living in NYC for eleven years, seven of them being in Brooklyn. I firmly believe it's the best borough in the greatest city on Earth, and so in some ways, it kills me to move to North Carolina in a few months. I am excited as all hell to join an excellent writing program, meet new people, live in a different part of the country, but I will miss it here. In 2003 I moved to Philly for two years; it was just a short drive away from NYC, and I always knew I'd move back eventually, but any sort of reference to the city--The Magnetic Field's The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side, or flipping past Sex and the City on TV--would get me all wistful. It'll probably happen again--after all, the city won't be as accessible, and I don't foresee myself moving back here once I finish my MFA. I can't afford it anymore. At this point I see myself in Philly again. I love that city as well, and I must admit, it's much prettier. I have friends there, it's more affordable, family nearby. It's a good fit.

But I think North Carolina will be, too. And I give my fellow writers full permission to smack me up the side of the head if I start waxing poetic about Brooklyn. (Especially because I'm no poet.)

I wish my grandfather had still been alive when I first moved to the city. I know he would have loved having me over for dinner so he could teach me Italian or dance with me. He was one of the most inquisitive people I knew, so he would have asked me so many questions about my new life in New York--classes at NYU, dorm living, etc. I could have learned who he really was as well. Although I know a lot about his life, I don't really know what he was like as a person--I think a grandparent is a persona most people wear, one that's shed once the visit with the kids is over. Grandchildren give you a second chance at being a better parent on a limited basis. My grandfather was caring, loving, funny, lively--but I think he was a strict father, not very nurturing. I'm not really sure. From what I've heard in passing after my they were gone, my dad couldn't stand his parents.

They're buried in the Ditmas Park/Flatbush area, and as far as I know, I've been the only family member to visit their grave since my grandfather's funeral nearly twenty years ago. But even I've only been twice.

This could lead into some introspective "who will remember me once I'm gone?" train of thought, but I'll put that aside for now. Instead, I'll say that visiting my grandparents is at the top of my "farewell NYC" list. Mixed in with final stops to cultural destinations and local watering holes, I will go to the cemetery and visit my grandparents. After all, they're the reason I found myself living in Brooklyn in the first place.

85. Chesapeake Bay Bridge, Maryland

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Thu, 21 May 2009 19:01:00 +0000

Date: May 21, 1993
Age: 16

Hi! I just spoke to you on the phone. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Love,
Your Daddy

I received this postcard half a lifetime ago. The following month, my niece was born--the first grandchild to enter our family. After sixteen years, I was no longer the youngest one in our clan.

I remember holding my niece at the hospital, thinking to myself, "when she's my age, I'll be 32." Well, here we are, 32 years old. I'm not sure if I found that age to be frighteningly old or not. I was never one to create 5-year or 10-year plans, so therefore never considered my 30s, or even my 20s, and I could probably think of many reasons as to how that's helped my development as much as hindered it.

My brother was 27 when his daughter was born, which I thought was a perfectly appropriate age for being an adult and becoming a father. Now when I think of it, that age seems so young for having a child, even though it's not. I guess it's because I'm a part of Generation X, which has embraced delayed adolescence like no other.

My brothers' mom was at the hospital, and when my parents and I left, I told my mom how pretty I thought B and C's mom had looked. I didn't get to see her that often, but I had always thought she was a beautiful woman. My mother reacted badly to my observation--I can't remember exactly what happened, but she looked cross, or snapped at me...I don't know, but something happened. It took me by surprise--obviously their relationship throughout the years had probably been a tense one--how should the wives of one man relate to each other? Had nasty words ever been exchanged between them? Anyway, by this point, I had thought any bad blood had been part of the past, but my mother was still irritated.

I'm sure it was insensitive of me to say anything--though if I expressed my admiration for B and C's mom to her today, she'd probably agree and have no trouble with it. I guess when I made my opinion known, it was the calm before the storm in my parents' marriage, and my mother wasn't feeling too good about herself. I'm sure she'd feel foolish now if I told her how she'd reacted. (Or she'd tell me I had remembered it wrong.) Today, I'll bet she and B and C's mother have a certain camaraderie--they've both lived through this: a marriage to my dad gone sour, creating upheaval in their lives, forcing them to question so much of what had been important to them.

I believe now they are both very happy women, aging gracefully.

84. Tampa

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Wed, 20 May 2009 17:05:00 +0000

Date: May 20, 1991
Age: 13

I have to give a speech here today but I'll be home for your birthday.
Have a good one.
Love you,
Dad

My dad was released from the hospital a couple of weeks ago, and has recently been accepted into a clinical trial at a cancer center in Tampa. He'll get infusions every Monday and Tuesday, blood tests Wednesday morning, then heads home--this is supposed to happen three weeks on, one week off, for a year (if it works).

It's good to hear that he, or more importantly, his doctors, are projecting treatment into the year to come. I've never had any real sense about his prognosis, and the frail health plus dramatics my brothers and I faced in Miami this spring made us think there wasn't a lot of time left for him.

The drug he's trying now is called Carfilzomib, which I guess is still so in the early stages that it doesn't pop up on Wikipedia or WebMD yet--meaning, it hasn't yet been written about in dumbed-down terms that I can understand. From what I can make of the info I have found, however, is that it's shown promise in fighting multiple myeloma even if the patient has already relapsed after therapies such as stem-cell transplants (like my dad).

The drive to Tampa is a trek-about 4 and a half hours. Yes, doable, but I'm sure will be exhausting for someone at his age in his condition to be doing every week.

83. Cairo--Giza

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Mon, 18 May 2009 16:37:00 +0000

Date: May 18, 1997
Age: 19

Egypt is very interesting, but very hot--over 100 degrees yesterday. Rode around the pyramids on a camel, saw the sphinx and lots of graves. Got you some stuff.

When my brothers and I were in Miami in March, I noticed on H's desk a postcard leaning against a lamp. It was a shot of the Duomo in Florence. I picked it up and turned it over (yes, I was being nosy). It was sent from my dad to her, while they were on vacation together in Italy in 2007. It read very much like the postcards he has sent me over the years--in fact, he sent me postcards from the same trip, written on the same date. Although H's postcard was written to her, it was addressed to a hybrid of her and my father's names.

I showed it to my brothers, who said it was like a journal of their trip. Yes, but I reminded them that I've been getting these kinds of postcards for 30 years--something I thought was unique to my relationship with my father, since my brothers do not have such a collection of postcards. They've gotten a handful throughout the years, but nothing to the extent of what I have.

I was a little disappointed to find that he was sharing this postcard relationship with someone else--yes, the love of his life, I get that. I don't know how many others there are he's written to H. When did he start? When he first met her, before he left my mother for her? During those years when he was struggling to break away from the life he no longer wanted, was he reaching out to her through postcards as he continued to send them to me as well?

These postcards mean something entirely different to my dad than they do to me--but I don't know what that meaning is. And now I feel like my collection isn't as special, because it's not the only one. This sense of loss isn't enough to make me give up writing about them or enjoying them, but maybe it's time I just take them at face value--documentation of trips taken.

82. North Carolina

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 15:35:00 +0000

Date: August 24, 1990
Age: 13

Yesterday and this morning we worked. This afternoon we do the river. Tell Mom I'll try to throw D off the raft. He can't swim.
Love, Dad

I've blogged before about my Dad's whitewater rafting trips in North Carolina, or as he called it, "Deliverance Land" (even though Deliverance took place in Georgia). He and his work buddies did this annually in the late 80s/early 90s. The one mentioned in this postcard--"D"--has been to visit my dad in the hospital, I believe. Others who I remember participating in the trips are no longer around in different ways--his best friend died a few years back, and another he had some sort of falling out with, though I have a feeling he and my dad are both guilty for the same flaws in integrity.

I finally had the chance to tell my dad that I was moving to North Carolina. When I visited him a month ago, I hadn't made a final decision, and considering the chastising he gave my brothers and me, I didn't want to share any good news. Last week, once I heard he was out of ICU, I left a few voicemails asking him to call me back. Then I sent his wife an email saying, "please have him call me. I'm moving to North Carolina, and I thought he may be interested in finding out why." It would be the first time we spoke since the visit in Miami.

When called, I told him all the good news--that I got into four programs, told him my reasons for picking UNCG, bragged that they told me my fiction sample put me in the top 6 of all fiction applicants, etc. I felt like I needed to talk it up, to make him understand how important this was for me, how getting accepted alone is an accomplishment. And, he got it, he really did. While he said "that's great," which is his usual response when you share good news with him, he asked a few questions about what I'd be doing in the program, and that he could tell that it was something I've always wanted to do.

He sounded tired and weary, but he said, "Don't take my tone as not being excited for you, because I am. I'm just so exhausted." I said, "I know, it's okay." I smiled, I got teary-eyed, I knew he was genuinely happy for me.

81. Greetings from North Carolina

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 04:00:00 +0000

Date: September 14, 1977
Age: 3 1/2 months

I just thought you might want to start a postcard collection from different places. Something to look at when you are older.
Love, Daddy

This was the first postcard I blogged. Although I have other North Carolina postcards yet to put up, I wanted to revisit this one because of its many views of the state--because I decided today that come August, it will be my new home. I'm heading to UNC Greensboro's MFA Creative Writing Program.

I applied to 12 schools and was fortunate to be accepted by a third of them: UNCG, Hollins University, Brooklyn College, and CalArts. I may be completely crazy for passing up Brooklyn College, due to its faculty and it being only a short subway ride away, but I think it's time for me to leave NYC for awhile--it just feels right.

As part of my creative portfolio for my CalArts application, I included ten PDFs of this site, proposing it as an art project. I envision this postcard project becoming something larger, more tangible, with a stronger voice. And since CalArts is an art school that encourages experimentation and even offers courses in visual storytelling, it seemed like the perfect match.

Ultimately, however, this project is not my first priority of things I want to accomplish at school, and so I decided upon a more traditional fiction program.

I haven't told my dad about my MFA plans--he doesn't even know I applied. A friend thought the news may give him something to be excited about. I'm sure he'd be happy for me, but I think it would escape his mind almost instantaneously. But maybe I'm not giving him enough credit. I'll find out once I do tell him.

He's been in Intensive Care for awhile because he came down with pneumonia, so we haven't been able to even speak on the phone. He should be moved to a regular room in the next few days, however, as his health is improving.

80. Miami

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Sat, 04 Apr 2009 16:23:00 +0000

Date: May 18, 1988
Age: 10

Here is another card for your collection. Yesterday and today were no fun. I spent the whole time in a meeting room. More of the same tomorrow.
Love, Dad

I haven't spoken to my dad since leaving Miami, but I know I should, soon. Just to check in. My anger has subsided a little bit from what happened on Tuesday, but I just feel like this is all going to come back to haunt us again.

In regards to his prognosis, I'm not really certain, and there's a lot of medical information that I don't wholly comprehend. Broken down:

the blast of chemo he received is keeping the cancer in the background and under control, for now.
the chemo has also killed just about everything in his body (as expected), which has made him very weak. He has no immune system, and his white blood cell count has been hovering around non-existent for a few weeks now.
once his white blood cell count is at a certain level, he could go to another myeloma center--much like the one in Arkansas --to receive stem cell transplants. He is looking into Sloan-Kettering in Manhattan as well as some place in Washington State.
He has already had his own stem cells harvested and put back into him, and this has proven to only improve his health on the short term. Something about abnormal genetic markers.
A better shot at improvement would be to receive someone else's stem cells. A sibling is usually the best/closest match, but unfortunately, that's not the case with his sister. There are four people on the registry who are decent matches for my dad.
If he receives one of these people's stem cells, there's still a risk of death from the procedure, since no one is an exact match.
He has only a short window of time to do this procedure--probably no later than May--because the chemo blast will only hold off the cancer for so long.
If he can't get his white blood cell count up by May, then he can't get the stem cell transplant, and basically, this is his last option.

As for time frames for best case/worst case scenarios, my dad and H were not forthcoming with those numbers. I'm assuming best case: a couple years, and worst case: he may not last to the end of the year. But I am totally basing that on his age, what he's been through already, his current, frail health and failing hope.

Fuck.

79. Key Lime Pie

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 12:47:00 +0000

Date: January 12, 1978
Age: 7 1/2 months

The pie on the other side of this card is my favorite. Maybe you can make me some when you are older.
Love, Daddy

If my dad had been eating solid food when my brothers and I visited him, we may have brought him a key lime cake that he loves from a baker down there.

I don't even know where to begin with this post. Starting at the beginning sounds unappealing, because working through to the end seems unbearable.

I had brought postcards with me to Miami, but then thought better of blogging there--since my brothers and I were staying at my dad and H's house, I didn't want to leave behind any evidence of this website on their computer (or one of them--it looks like they have four).

I don't want to go back through the blog to see how much I've discussed about how my dad has not wanted his family to visit. Those close to me, however, know that my brothers and I have repeatedly asked or tried to see him, and he discourages us. Visits are "work."

Since it's been nearly a year since we've seen him, we weren't prepared for his appearance. He looks so old. Although he hasn't eaten solid food in a few weeks, he doesn't look emaciated, but bloated from fluids. He has hair, but it's patchy. His eyes are sunken in, circled in black. His hands shake, he sometimes wheezes, and he was able to walk about twenty feet outside his hospital room before he became too weak to continue. He cried a little, because he's depressed and scared. He doesn't believe he's going to survive this, and I'm not sure many others do, either.

My brothers and I thought we'd try to make the most out of this trip--we wanted to take H out to dinner one night, to give her a break, because she doesn't only spend all day at the hospital, but she sleeps there as well. We weren't successful. She won't leave his side, and the only way she might have was if Dad encouraged her to go. That didn't happen.

Tuesday morning's visit--our second visit of the trip--did not last long. Dad was exhausted, but he also looked like he could cry, and probably didn't want to do it in front of us. We gave him his space and said we'd visit later that day--calling him or H to find out when would be the best time.

As the afternoon went on, their cell phones were forever switched off. Calls went straight to voicemail.

C, B and I made lunch and ate poolside at Dad and H's house. Took a swim, got a little sun. Had a drink. We debated what to do. Should we keep calling? Just show up? Wouldn't he hate that? Are their phones purposely turned off so we can't make plans to see him? Fuck it, we said, we're going over around 4pm, and we'll leave messages saying so. If they listen to the messages and don't want us there, then they'll have to call and let us know.

Things seemed okay at first when we arrived. And then my brothers and I get this:

"I was shocked and disappointed that none of you have come to visit me since this all began."

We're flabbergasted. I'm so angry, I can hear my heart beat and tears are at the ready. H is in the corner of the room with her face turned away, fighting back tears. It's wrong to gang up on a guy whose life may end in a matter of months, but something needs to be said.

"We have been trying for over a year to visit you, and you have always told us not to come," I say.

"That was here," he said. "I'm talking about in Arkansas."

Arkansas, where he would go for weeks at a time for his stem cell transplants. "People have visited me and asked, 'where are your kids?'" he said. "My one dream was that at Christmas, when I was in Arkansas, at least one of you would surprise me on Christmas Day. But no one showed up."

B and C are as absolutely slackjawed as I am, and fortunately, they will not let Dad make them feel guilty, either. C told him that he was shocked to be hearing this, and it always seemed like the repeated discouragement we received about visiting blanketed everywhere he was--it didn't matter the location, we weren't wanted. B added that we've been kept in the dark for so long, we figured this is how Dad wanted it, this was the way he needed to deal with his illness.

Dad quickly swept this all aside with "well, I guess there was just miscommunication." How about NO communication? We can't fucking read his mind and realize the "no visitors" only applies to Miami, not Arkansas. I said, "Dad, when you said we could finally come down to visit here in Miami, the three of us were so startled and wondered what changed. And we made plane reseravations THE NEXT FUCKING DAY." (only I didn't use the word "fucking.")

Finally, H speaks up a bit--and in our defense! "He has asked people to stay away, so I can understand why there would be confusion." Or some bullshit like that.

This awful, horrible, melodramatic conversation lasted maybe all of three minutes, but it overshadowed the rest of the visit. I, for one, just wanted to leave. B and C and I were so angry when we finally got out of there. The man is delusional. Does he care about us? To an extent. But he hasn't wanted our presence. If all three of us have thought that all this time, there's no ambiguity in the message. Now he wants to be surrounded by his kids--but maybe only to somehow prove to himself that he is an integral part of our lives.

I can only imagine how many of his friends he's complained to by our inability to visit. There's probably people out there that think we're ungrateful kids. And if he truly was lamenting our absence while he was in Arkansas, if there was something my brothers and I missed to pick up on--why the hell didn't H call and tell us to get our asses to Little Rock? Because she does his bidding, that's why. He tells her what to do, what to tell us and not tell us, and that's it. (The woman drives an expensive 2009 Cadillac, for fuck's sake, and she's not even 40 years old. How many women who aren't even near menopause drive a Caddy? Those who let their 70-year-old husbands make all the decisions, that's who.) So I'll be damned if I'm going to be made to feel guilty about this, and my brothers feel the same way. As we discussed once we were safely out of there, this is the man who:

did not visit C in the hospital as a teenager when the doctors and his mother were scared that he had leukemia.
was not going to come to my college graduation because "we were not one big happy family," until B intervened and told him to grow up and get to the goddamn graduation.
has not been to B's house but once, when he moved in, probably 12 years ago. My dad blames it on B's dog, because Dad is allergic.
Dad has also blamed his divorce from my mom on the account that she and I bought a cat after he moved out, and "that was a clear signal that I was not welcome back." (Again, because of allergies." Never mind that he was having an affair with H (which he denied.)
H was not the first of his indiscretions, during his marriages to both my mother and B and C's.

The stress I feel right now is palpable. My gut has been sore for days. I know he is scared and depressed, and desperate to get out of the hospital and convalesce at home. What he is going through with his health is unimagineable. But I still want to tell him to go fuck himself, and I hate that I feel that way.

I'll report more about the trip during another posting. This is enough for today.

78. Miami

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 21:48:00 +0000

Date: October 14, 1982
Age: 5

Now that we are living in Florida, I have started your postcard collection again. What could be better for starters than a card from Miami? You can add your new cards to the ones you have in Delaware.
Love, Daddy

When I was five, my father went on sabbatical and moved my mother and me to Miami. Although we only lived there for a year, we visited many times, usually multiple times a year, until I was seventeen and my parents split up. Since then--nearly fifteen years ago--I have only been to Miami three times. Tomorrow, I head down again.

H says my father will not be out of the hospital by tomorrow, but perhaps he will get to return home before my brothers and I depart on Wednesday. So, we will be going straight to the the hospital after the three of us arrive at the airport tomorrow afternoon.

There's a certain awkwardness when visiting someone in a hospital--hell, even being visited in the hospital when you're a patient yourself. All told, I spent two months of 2007 in the hospital, and there were very few visitors I felt truly comfortable around. I vacillated between being grateful for visitors and their attention and just wanting to be left alone to sleep, feel sorry for myself, or watch Top Chef. Having visitors means you feel obligated to make conversation. While I was in the hospital, it was only in my mother's presence did I feel comfortable enough to "switch off." I'd remain silent, watch TV, or try to sleep. She read a lot of books that year.

Fortunately, only one visitor made me feel bad about being sick (my ex-boyfriend), but still, often in front of the others, I didn't want to be a bad hostess. While I respectfully asked them to keep away when I wasn't up for visitors, in their presence I didn't want them to see me at my worst (even if they inevitably did). I think I sometimes exhausted myself with social visits. Oftentimes I was thrilled to see them and depended on their presence to keep my mind off of reality. Other times, conversation just felt forced.

One of those people with whom conversation felt most forced was my dad. He's not a big talker, and that's probably something I've inherited from him. I've been trying to come up with conversation pieces for tomorrow and the rest of our visits over the next three days. What's there to tell? He hasn't seen the tattoo on my back, so there's something. He liked my first one. He doesn't know I've been accepted (or even that I applied) to MFA programs; perhaps from his extensive travels he can glean some insight into the one of the locations that may be my home for the next two years.

There's always hospital talk--maybe we can relate that way? "I know how much intravenous potassium my veins can handle without it burning; how's that for you, dad? Do they check your vitals every four hours? That's a bitch when it happens in the middle of the night, isn't it? How's the hospital food? When I was in your shoes (or hospital bed), I was on a steady diet of chicken broth and jello--but always green or yellow, never the red stuff. That's because the red stuff looks like blood if they're checking out your insides. What's your favorite jello flavor?"

The first time my dad visited me in the hospital, he was with my brothers. Between the four of us, we managed to keep the conversation going. Hopefully that's how it will be tomorrow, and that our dad won't hesitate to tell us to leave when he wants to switch off.

77. Miami

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Mon, 23 Mar 2009 15:11:00 +0000

Date: January 9, 1990
Age: 12

Miami and Key Largo are a lot more fun when you and Mom are here.
I miss you both.
Dad

After another couple of months have passed with little information from my dad regarding his health, my brothers and I finally were let in to his reality a bit, two weeks ago. My brother B called his house. Although my dad and his wife usually let calls go to the answering machine, this time, H picked up. Our dad was napping she said, and then she broke down. He's not doing well. His kidneys can't get back to functioning properly, which just delays the treatments he needs. He was going into the hospital tomorrow for some major blast of chemo that will wipe out his immune system that makes it too risky to have as outpatient.

She said it's probably time that the three of us came to visit. Soon.

We don't know if she was upset because she's overwhelmed, or because she also knows that this is his last chance at fighting his cancer. Of course she's overwhelmed. She has been his only caretaker ever since his diagnosis in August, 2007. But my brothers and I do not feel guilty over this, because this is the way my dad has wanted it from the beginning.

Only a few weeks before B's conversation with H, C asked our dad if he could visit, but was told that a visit feels too much like "work." Some have suggested he's trying to protect us from the gravity of his situation. I don't think that's the case; I'm sure he doesn't want us to see him in such bad condition, but pride is the underlying reason. And H is his world; he feels he only needs her. And thankfully, she's been the devoted caregiver all this time. I wonder if she ever resents going at it alone; if she does, I can't fault her for that.

The next day, when he entered the hospital, C gave her a call. She was in hysterics again, claiming that Dad's bone marrow was filled with cancer. But isn't that how it's always been? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? I left my dad a message on his cell phone (which he always keeps turned off) and he got back to me. He sounded out of it. Tired. Not very hopeful. For the first time, I became very upset about his whole situation.

He's a bit more stable now. We haven't spoken, but B and C say he sounds stronger than he did the day before the chemo ~~shock~~ treatment. When asked if he was up for visitors, Dad said we could come "anytime."

His sudden change of heart startles us. Is he not telling us something? Is this H's influence on him?

B, C and I fly to Miami next Monday for about 48 hours. Only then will we really know what the fuck is going on--and we'll finally understand if this trip is to just provide some support, or to say goodbye.

76. Beverly Hills - Rodeo Drive

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 18:36:00 +0000

Date: May 21, 1998
Age: 21

Happy 21st Birthday. You have certainly grown up to be a beautiful woman.
Love you,
Dad

When I unearthed my postcard collection, this is the one I was looking for. I didn't remember where it was from, but I remember receiving it. I was very skeptical about his sincerity, because I was angry with him, and feeling bratty. How does he know I'm a beautiful woman? How often does he see me?

I should have just given him a break and thanked him for the compliment.

Unfortunately this card was not with the bulk of the collection that I started going through last spring. One final search through basement boxes at my mother's house over Christmas, however, turned up another twenty(!) postcards, from 1993-1998. I think, with this batch, I have found the last of my dad's cards. There is no other place to look. I think it brings the count close to 400.

At some point in my early 20s, I decided to stop being angry with my dad and just start healing. Being angry wasn't doing me any good. It wasn't fueling energy to conquer some goal. It was just sitting inside me, causing pain and sadness.

Ten years later, I need to remind myself of my conscious efforts to move on. In the past year or two, I've had a lot to be angry about. Justifiably. And throughout the months I've successfully rid myself of a lot of it, or transmuted it into art. But it sometimes lingers, still. Sometimes it will stop me dead in my tracks and nearly knock me down, and I throw away the desire to do anything productive or healthy.

2008 was all about rebuilding myself after an unhealthy 2007. I came out of 2008 feeling good about myself, despite the occasional spells of anger. 2009 is for building upon that good feeling, and for that reason, I thought it was time to set some specific goals. For the first time in my life, I created New Year's Resolutions. And the first?

Let go of anger. While it's not going to switch off instantly, every time it creeps into my gut I need to reflect on my life now, which, after so long, seems to be going my way.
Get more buff. My illness of 'aught 7 shriveled my muscles down to nothing, and this year I have made enormous strides in gaining it back. I've set some specific strength-training goals to build upon this.
Run a 10k. My legs aren't as strong as I'd like, so this one will be accomplished as long as I achieve the above.
Finish the book. Over the summer I wrote a story that had been kicking around in my head for awhile, not knowing if I could even still write well after not doing it for about two years. It turned out to be the best thing I ever wrote, and people love it. All that palpable rage and grief over illness turned into something worthwhile--finally, anger had its proper say. I always felt that this story went beyond the telling of the fifteen pages it is, and so I just need to keep going.
Get the aforementioned story published. I'm working on it...
Find a good job. I should finish my MILS by the summer. Christ, I hope the job market isn't as bleak by then.
Get out of the country. Like my father, I have extreme wanderlust, and then for five years didn't have the opportunity to go anywhere. This past year I said "to hell with credit card debt" and went to Germany, Austria, Belgium, and the Netherlands. I don't know where I'm going next, but traveling--often alone--is when I'm at my happiest, so I need to get going.
Don't worry about being alone. I have many friends who are happily paired up, and many others who are single like me. I date, I have sex, and this is better than being in a bad relationship. If I have to go through this life without a life partner, I can do it without fear and have it be fulfilling. Feeling sorry for myself will not solve anything.
Don't abuse my body. This past year, I was drunk/hungover for a week straight (with many more drunken nights peppered in), and did drugs. WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING? I was given a second chance at having a healthy body, for fuck's sake, and I'm basically disrespecting myself and negating everything I've achieved by hurting it. No more of that.
Quit procrastinating. This is going to be the hardest one. I meta-procrastinate, for fuck's sake, by searching for various definitions of "procrastination" on the internet. Procrastination leads to me being self-critical.

Ten is enough.

As for my father--I'm still getting sentence fragments for e-mails with updates on his condition. So far as I know, he's "doing better."

75. One World, One Hope.

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 18:29:00 +0000

Date: July 8, 1998
Age: 21

Hello from the AIDS Conference. I got you a T-shirt.
Love, Dad

I know, it's been too, too long since I've updated this blog. This was not something I wanted to fall by the wayside, but it's been a busy few months, and unfortunately, something had to give. I am hoping that after the holidays I can get back to updating this regularly, at it is a project I feel passionate about, and I don't want it to stall.

Since it's been so long, I decided not to continue right away with the chronicling the Brazil postcards chronologically. Today is World AIDS Day, and my father is very dedicated to AIDS research, education, and prevention, and he's been to multiple International AIDS Conferences. He was even ballsy enough to give me condoms in high school. Not just for myself, mind you, but to give to my friends as well. Yeah, well, none of us were having sex at the time. But every December 1, my friends and I assembled AIDS ribbons and handed them out in school, not driven by any afterschool group or club; just our own thing. I think my Dad noticed.

Speaking of which, I know he's had a relapse, and he's back in Arkansas at the multiple myeloma clinic trying to get his cancer under control and his kidneys into better shape. I tried reaching him on Thanksgiving and the day after, which was his 69th birthday, but no such luck.

74. Leblon and Ipanema beaches with Arpoador on the background

noreply@blogger.com (marsupial) — Fri, 03 Oct 2008 15:12:00 +0000

Date: May 4, 1989
Age: 11

Here is the beach where I am and the arrow marks my hotel. Right now the weather is much like Miami, but the people complain that it is too hot.
Love, Dad