Wednesday, August 31, 2005
A month of memories
Another summer gone, another school year begins. I'm 15 years removed from any academic pursuits of my own, but this stretch of the calendar still resurrects memories of school supplies, new corduroys, class schedules, locker combinations and brown bag lunches.
August has other memories for me too -- my sister has her birthday on the 25th, and last week we got to spend it with her during her Alameda visit with her husband and my 20-month-old neice. August was when me and my pals would squeeze in one last trip to Action Park in Vernon Valley, NJ -- home of the alpine slide and wicked concrete burns on your elbows.
On the sad side, August was when my favorite grandfather, Al Chenevert -- a larger than life war hero, boozer and story teller -- passed away in 1988, and when he was buried at Arlington National Cemetery (as I was on my way down to Chapel Hill to start my sophomore year of college). And August is when Denise, my stepmother of nearly 15 years, died...10 years ago, Aug. 17, 1995. This was the first year in the last decade that I didn't somehow mark the day, even if only during a quiet moment of reflection. This year, Aug. 17 slipped by, mixed in with the other pre-visitor days filled with cleaning and planning and whatever. Kathy and I noted the anniversary when she was here, and I think we both were surprised we missed it.
Denise's death blew up my Dad's family, in many ways. She was the emotional glue that kept my father, a notorious shitty communicator, linked to his siblings, his father and, in some ways, his kids. And she left so suddenly -- taken down by ovarian cancer with mere days notice. For me, it was hours notice -- my father called me at work and said (in one big rush): Denise has cancer; she had surgery today; it did not go well; she's in intensive care and may not survive. I left work in a haze, despite being on deadline, and a follow-up phone call a couple of hours later confirmed the worst: at age 50, Denise Dunn Taggart died, on a Thursday night, just three days after being diagnosed with cancer.
I have carried wounds for a long time about how both my Dad and Denise handled that final summer...she was so clearly ill, very ill, and yet she didn't go to the doctor for months. Denial? Fear? Tacit acceptance of her fate that she, somehow, subconciously knew? Got me. But it was one big goddamn mess, between the negligent handling of the situation before her death, the fucking horrible communication the week of her death (hey Dad -- how about a phone call letting us know she has cancer in the first place?) and the sickly aftermath (Dad enjoying the "limelight" a bit too much as the grieving husband).
Gee, still pissed, aren't I? I have never talked to my Dad about the turmoil I still feel when I think about that August and the weeks that followed. (Dad -- if you ever google me and find this, let me lay it out.) How I felt a great responsibility and honor to be by his side at first -- helping pick out the casket, being the one to go in and place personal items next to her embalmed body to spare him the anguish of seeing her, traveling to Indiana with him and the casket for the funeral, speaking at the memorial service. God, I sound like I'm bragging. The point is that I did all this for my Dad...and I know feel like a fucking fraud -- for what I said at the service, for admiring the stories of their "happiness" (gee, I thought, I must have missed that during our visits, which almost always involved fighting and slamming doors and loads of negative emotional baggage), for how he grieved, like he was on stage...acting like a grieving widower instead of feeling like one.
So many complicated emotions, so little desire to lay them out for scrutiny (well, any more than I already have).
Denise, your memory is not dead -- thank you for the many wonderful experiences you brought to our family, and for being a good friend to my sister and me when we needed a nonparental, safe place to turn.
Fortunately, life keeps dealing you opportunities to create new memories...ones that may take the place of, or at least, balance out the crappy ones. So August will also now mean the first time my sister and I got together with all of our kids and watched the cousins bond and form friendships, while the grownups kept the peace, savored Corona Light, played Yahtzee (naturally!) and all got to know each other a little better.
Tags -- you are a wonderful sister who deserves a post of your own, describing your many contributions to my life. But most simply, thanks for keeping me laughing, and for sticking up for me all those years. On the road of life, there we are together -- you carrying a stuffed
chimp in diapers, me toting a black seal with an orange fish buttoned to its nose. And Barry Manilow singing in the background.
August has other memories for me too -- my sister has her birthday on the 25th, and last week we got to spend it with her during her Alameda visit with her husband and my 20-month-old neice. August was when me and my pals would squeeze in one last trip to Action Park in Vernon Valley, NJ -- home of the alpine slide and wicked concrete burns on your elbows.
On the sad side, August was when my favorite grandfather, Al Chenevert -- a larger than life war hero, boozer and story teller -- passed away in 1988, and when he was buried at Arlington National Cemetery (as I was on my way down to Chapel Hill to start my sophomore year of college). And August is when Denise, my stepmother of nearly 15 years, died...10 years ago, Aug. 17, 1995. This was the first year in the last decade that I didn't somehow mark the day, even if only during a quiet moment of reflection. This year, Aug. 17 slipped by, mixed in with the other pre-visitor days filled with cleaning and planning and whatever. Kathy and I noted the anniversary when she was here, and I think we both were surprised we missed it.
Denise's death blew up my Dad's family, in many ways. She was the emotional glue that kept my father, a notorious shitty communicator, linked to his siblings, his father and, in some ways, his kids. And she left so suddenly -- taken down by ovarian cancer with mere days notice. For me, it was hours notice -- my father called me at work and said (in one big rush): Denise has cancer; she had surgery today; it did not go well; she's in intensive care and may not survive. I left work in a haze, despite being on deadline, and a follow-up phone call a couple of hours later confirmed the worst: at age 50, Denise Dunn Taggart died, on a Thursday night, just three days after being diagnosed with cancer.
I have carried wounds for a long time about how both my Dad and Denise handled that final summer...she was so clearly ill, very ill, and yet she didn't go to the doctor for months. Denial? Fear? Tacit acceptance of her fate that she, somehow, subconciously knew? Got me. But it was one big goddamn mess, between the negligent handling of the situation before her death, the fucking horrible communication the week of her death (hey Dad -- how about a phone call letting us know she has cancer in the first place?) and the sickly aftermath (Dad enjoying the "limelight" a bit too much as the grieving husband).
Gee, still pissed, aren't I? I have never talked to my Dad about the turmoil I still feel when I think about that August and the weeks that followed. (Dad -- if you ever google me and find this, let me lay it out.) How I felt a great responsibility and honor to be by his side at first -- helping pick out the casket, being the one to go in and place personal items next to her embalmed body to spare him the anguish of seeing her, traveling to Indiana with him and the casket for the funeral, speaking at the memorial service. God, I sound like I'm bragging. The point is that I did all this for my Dad...and I know feel like a fucking fraud -- for what I said at the service, for admiring the stories of their "happiness" (gee, I thought, I must have missed that during our visits, which almost always involved fighting and slamming doors and loads of negative emotional baggage), for how he grieved, like he was on stage...acting like a grieving widower instead of feeling like one.
So many complicated emotions, so little desire to lay them out for scrutiny (well, any more than I already have).
Denise, your memory is not dead -- thank you for the many wonderful experiences you brought to our family, and for being a good friend to my sister and me when we needed a nonparental, safe place to turn.
Fortunately, life keeps dealing you opportunities to create new memories...ones that may take the place of, or at least, balance out the crappy ones. So August will also now mean the first time my sister and I got together with all of our kids and watched the cousins bond and form friendships, while the grownups kept the peace, savored Corona Light, played Yahtzee (naturally!) and all got to know each other a little better.
Tags -- you are a wonderful sister who deserves a post of your own, describing your many contributions to my life. But most simply, thanks for keeping me laughing, and for sticking up for me all those years. On the road of life, there we are together -- you carrying a stuffed
chimp in diapers, me toting a black seal with an orange fish buttoned to its nose. And Barry Manilow singing in the background.// posted by Bill @ 8:16 PM 
