7 Things Dad would want you to know

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believe, caring, children, courage, Dad, death, Diana Schwenk, family, Fear, friends, generosity, grief, growing up, happy, health, Hump Day Chronicles, joy, kids, laughter, life, lifetime, living in the moment, loss, love, memories, Mom, parents, Relationships, sadness, stories, Stuff my parents used to say and do

This post has been sitting in my draft folder since December 2015, just a short month after Dad passed. It hasn’t felt right to publish it until now. ♡

*******

Dear Mom,

I’ve been thinking about you and Dad and our family.

In particular, I’ve been thinking about how Dad and I could just sit in the same room, not saying anything, yet somehow be on the same page. And I’ve been thinking about some of the conversations Dad and I have had over the years and I think there are at least seven things that Dad would want you to know.

I’ve listed them below in the form of a letter to you from Dad.

Meine Liebe Salat Schnecke,

1.       Don’t ever doubt how much I loved you

Remember our Wedding night? It wasn’t a fancy party. We did the best we could though and we had fun right? I can still see you running through the street singing in the middle of the night when you’d had a little too much to drink.

What the neighbours must have thought!

But I didn’t care, you seemed happy and honestly Margot, I may not have been able to express myself well, but that’s what I wanted for you. I always wanted you to be happy.

I knew how hard your life had been, I wanted to show you how good it could be.

Remember when we arrived in Canada and once we got on our feet a bit? You have no idea how happy it made me to see you eat butter, eat at a restaurant, eat fruit and cakes and whatever you could get your hands on. Remember that time I brought a dozen lemon donuts home when you were pregnant and you ate 11 of them? I didn’t mind that there was only one donut left for me.

It made me smile to watch you eat all the foods you missed in your childhood.

2.       Building our family

I know you were scared and so determined that our children would never be harmed like you had been. I was shocked that time you would even think I might hurt them but I grew to understand where this fear came from. I loved our kids – I would have done anything for them, and I think I was able to convince you of that with time, right?

No regrets Margot.  Don’t ever underestimate the value of what we were able to give our kids. Sure we weren’t perfect parents, we made mistakes along the way, but we did everything to the best of our ability for them and I think they turned out pretty good, don’t you?

3.       Our 50^th anniversary

Mom and Dad’s 50th Anniversary

Wasn’t that a fun party, Margot? I was so excited to celebrate with you. You looked so beautiful in that blue dress, I was so proud beside you in my new suit. And look how many friends came to celebrate with us!

And our trip to Germany! Yes Canada was our home now, but how wonderful it was to go to the place where we met and married to celebrate our 50^th.

4.       You were a real handful sometimes

A fighter. A hard worker. You had fire in your eyes!

Yeah there were times I wished you would just calm down, relax a little. Just let go of stuff, but maybe it was your pushing that got us as far as we got. And even when you were angry, I knew it was because you were afraid that things wouldn’t work out – those ghosts from the past were haunting you. I knew that you were fighting for the very best.

And you know what? I think I may have originally been drawn to that about you. You have spunk!

I mean who else would have moved to a new country, not knowing the language to start a new life with me? I chose well. You were the right partner for me.

You worked just as hard as me. Remember our job at that summer camp? Picking apples?  Making hats? And all the other jobs we had until I got that job at Kraft Foods and we bought our first home? And even then you cleaned houses to help out with the expenses. Yes we worked hard for what we built.

5.       Regrets

Maybe I could have been more supportive at times. Like when you were seasick on our voyage to Canada or when you broke your ankle. Maybe I could have told you more how much I appreciated you. I just never was one for words. But make no mistake; I was grateful and I really cared about you, even if I wasn’t very good at saying it.

6.       The last few years

I know how hard it was for you to watch me on the couch in pain. It was hard for me too. I wanted to be healed. And sometimes you made me angry when you pushed so hard for me to get up or exercise. But when I would think about it, I knew you were scared. I knew you meant well.

But the hardest thing, Margot was to see what my poor health was doing to you. You were so brave. That’s why I tried so hard to be brave too. That’s why I tried not to complain even when I couldn’t drive the car anymore. You did everything. I really wish I could have helped around the house more. I was so sure I would get better and things would go back to normal. But I didn’t. I’m so sorry things didn’t work out the way we had hoped. If I had known that I wouldn’t get better, perhaps we could have made arrangements that would have made the last years easier for both of us.

7.       Now that I’m gone

Our last few years together were hard, and I am so thankful for all you did for me. I know you’re sad and that you must grieve – after all we spent 56 years together, one doesn’t get over that quickly. But don’t just remember the last years. Remember the fun times. The family vacations. The German Club New Year’s dances. When I taught you how to drive. Those nights we walked around the block when the kids were in bed.

And don’t grieve too long. There is so much more for you to experience. Spend time with our kids, our grandkids, our wonderful friends. Get back out there doing the stuff you love to do. Simplify your life. Laugh, live and love. Life is far too precious to do otherwise. Grab onto life with both hands and enjoy it as much as you can. And know that when your time comes, I’ll be here, waiting for you.

Dein Mann, Heinz

Her Diminished Size is in Me — Not in Her

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death, Diana Schwenk, Diana's Enormous Book of Quotes, hope, life, Purpose, Religion and Spirituality

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side,
spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts
for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck
of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then, someone at my side says, “There, she is gone.”
Gone where?
Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast,
hull and spar as she was when she left my side.

And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me — not in her.

And, just at the moment when someone says, “There, she is gone,”
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices
ready to take up the glad shout, “Here she comes!”
And that is dying…

Henry Van Dyke

~ DIANA’S ENORMOUS BOOK OF QUOTES ~

The Ring With The Blue Stone

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children, Dad, death, Diana Schwenk, family, foundation, gift, good character, grief, growing up, History, Hump Day Chronicles, lessons, life, Life's like that, love, memories, Mom, parenting, safe, Stuff my parents used to say and do, values

My parents in 1960 and the ring with the blue stone

When you want to build something, you start with a good foundation. When you want to understand something, you start with the fundamental pillars of the subject. In other words, you learn the history, the mechanics of it, the whys and whats and wheres.

In the same way,  when you feel lost, it helps to go back to where you began so you can remember where you came from, what you have learned about this business of living, what you truly long for in life, and how you can get it and how you can share your gifts with the world. Sometimes you grab onto a symbol of the past and carry it with you like a talisman that you can look at, or touch when you need to be grounded.

Since Dad passed away, I’ve been in kind of a fog. I got the basics covered, you know…  I wake up, brush my teeth, shower, dress, exercise, go to work, eat, go to bed and start it all over again the next day. 

But I’ve lost a bit of my oomph.

A bit of my zest for life.

Dad was always my rock.

He had this way of making me feel secure and letting me know that he was there for me, no matter what.

My Plan B, if Plan A should fail.

Although I rarely resorted to Plan B, I knew I could if I had to, I knew it was there if I needed it.  

This past New Year’s Eve, as I was deciding which piece of jewelry to wear for an event I was attending, I came across the ring with the blue stone. The ring that cost forty dollars in 1960 and took Dad several weeks of saving so he could buy it for Mom to celebrate their first anniversary.

Dad was so upset when Mom gave me that ring almost thirty years later. But I’m so glad she did, so I could find it on the last day of 2016 and slip it on my finger. And with the wearing of it, remember the values he taught me and the traits he exemplified; like a good work ethic, empathy, diplomacy, loyalty and strength of character.  

What a gift!

What a great foundation from which to find my way again!

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~

If I Had Known…

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200 words, Canada, Dad, daughter, death, Diana Schwenk, Diana's Enormous Book of Quotes, family, Father, grief, growing up, Heinz Schwenk, Life's like that, love, memories, parents, Relationships

One year ago today, Dad passed away peacefully after eating supper in his hospital room…

If I had known that that last time we were together would be the last time I would ever see you, I would have looked at you more closely. I would have listened more carefully to what you had to say. I would have said to you all the things I ever wanted to tell you.

― Anonymous, page 49, Reflections upon the Death of a Father by Harold Ivan Smith

Dad, I wish I would have stayed longer that Friday. I wish I’d taken the opportunity to be with you alone to talk, to listen, to sit silent, to watch you sleep, to watch you eat your dinner.

I wish I would have looked into your beautiful blue eyes that never changed with age and searched them out for the wisdom you’d learned over the years.

But we thought you had turned a corner. And so we left that afternoon as you slept. And we sat the ‘get well’ teddy bear on your table with my handwritten note, “It was good to see you Dad, we’ll be back tomorrow, love you …”

~ DIANA’S ENORMOUS BOOK OF QUOTES ~

I Get That Now

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Berlin, Dad, death, Diana Schwenk, family, Father, Germany, grief, growing up, Heinz Schwenk, Hump Day Chronicles, life, Life's like that, love, memories, Opa, parents, Relationships, stories

Opa, 66, with his Daschund (Cherry) in 1973.

Opa (my paternal grandfather) became a father at 27 years old when Dad was born on June 28, 1934.

Born in 1907, Opa lived through two world wars and the depression. Over the years, Dad told me many stories of his childhood growing up in Berlin, Germany.

Like the time he stole a horse from the Russians so that his family and neighbours could eat meat.

And the time he and his teenaged buddies lifted a Volkswagen over the owners fenced-in yard with a small gate – too small to drive a car through!

But I know very little about Opa. I know that he was raised by his aunt, and that he may not have known some of his siblings.

And once when Dad was in elementary school, he wet his pants in class because the teacher wouldn’t let him go to the bathroom. Opa went to the school the next day to talk to the teacher. Dad never knew what Opa had said, but the teacher told Dad that day that if he ever needed to go to the bathroom, he had permission to just go, didn’t even have to raise his hand to ask.

I know that Opa was athletic and participated in track and field. I know from our visits to Germany as a family, that Opa struggled with alcohol and by the time he was a senior, a half bottle of beer was enough to do him in. Yet even at a ripe old age, Opa could still walk up the stairs on his hands.

Opa passed away on June 28, 1987 (My Dad’s 53rd birthday). Opa had suffered a stroke on a Thursday. Dad booked the earliest flight he could get but unfortunately Opa passed away around the same time Dad’s plane landed in Berlin that Sunday.

I remember when Dad phoned to tell me Opa was dead. He was so calm on the phone, so matter-of-fact. I, on the other hand, burst into tears. Dad tried to console me. When I composed myself, it dawned on me to ask Dad how he was doing and comment on how awful it must be that his father died on his birthday. “I’m fine. Everyone dies eventually Diana. I’m ok.”

On June 28, 2012, I happened to be back east at my parent’s place for Dad’s 78th Birthday. We were talking about this and that when suddenly out of nowhere, Dad with glistening eyes said, “It’s 25 years ago today that my father died.”

I touched Dad’s arm.

What could I say?

Maybe you never quite get over the death of your father.

I get that now.

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~

 

Celebrating Josee

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Alberta, British Columbia, Calgary, Canada, celebrate, Chateauguay, courage, death, Diana Schwenk, friends, grateful, grief, growing up, Hump Day Chronicles, Josee Bull, laughter, life, Life's like that, living in the moment, loss, love, memories, Quebec, Relationships, stories

I remember one summer day in the early 90’s when Josee picked me up from my apartment in Calgary with the Sporty featured on the above photo.

My friendship with Josee started long before then though. We met in the mid 70s and spent a lot of time in the basement of her house on Maple Crescent beside the park in Chateauguay, Quebec.

Ahh that basement. It was like an episode of ‘That 70s Show.’ It was there that we graduated from drinking tea to playing darts, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer and talking about our relationships with the opposite sex. Thinking back, I feel bad for Josee’s mom who had to put up with us. But then again, she always seemed to be happy to see us.

Josee and I didn’t really stay in touch much after I left Chateauguay, but every decade or so we would manage to get together over a meal and catch up on each others’ lives. I was surprised and shocked when I heard the news of Josee’s passing a few weeks back.

This past Saturday, we celebrated Josee’s life at her daughter’s place. That’s the way Josee wanted it. She didn’t want people crying, she wanted us to enjoy hamburgers and chili, two of her favourite menu choices, and to reminisce about all the fun times we had. There were a lot of people there, family and friends, for this celebration hosted by Melodie and her husband Jordan.

Lots of stories were shared, but one of my favourites was told by Melodie. It seems that when Melodie was about 15 years old she was upset and in tears about a fight she’d had with her then boyfriend and current husband Jordan. Josee took the matter into her own hands by hopping on her Harley and riding it to Jordan’s workplace.

I could see it in my mind as Melodie shared the story – Josee, a petite yet formidable woman, pulling up to Jordan’s work place, taking off her helmet and shaking out that long dark hair, her jaw set in determination. Then spotting Jordan and walking toward him to give him hell. Man, he must have been shaking in his boots when she told him that if he cared about Melodie he should make it right and if he didn’t he should just get lost. I’m telling you, we were all laughing by the end of that story!

I also learned through her partner Sean how much she loved to travel. Often she went alone to bike through Europe for example, or visit places like Africa and Thailand. And I learned that she’d been a business owner for some years and then later she and Sean decided to sell the business and manage a resort in British Columbia so that they could travel together during the off-season.

Listening to all the stories, I couldn’t help but wish that I’d made more of an effort to stay in touch with Josee so that I could have known firsthand the person she had become. But maybe life plays out the way it’s supposed to. And maybe because it played out the way it did, it brings those of us who remain together to share our little part of her story, and in doing so we can see the bigger picture of Josee’s story together.

At one point on Saturday, I could not stop looking at Josee’s Sportster. In many ways the staging of Josee’s bike with her jacket laid across the seat at Melodie’s acreage, seemed the perfect tribute to her.

It spoke of her free-spirit, her courage, and her ability to reach her goals.

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~

Josee, You will be missed. Your courage and determination in life, and in facing death, are a great inspiration to us. Rest in Peace my friend.

The Waiting Room

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courage, Dad, death, Diana Schwenk, family, Fear, grief, Happy Birthday Dad, Heinz Schwenk, Hump Day Chronicles, joy, kindness, laughter, life, Life's like that, living in the moment, loss, love, memories, parents, Relationships

Mike raising the flag for Dad’s birthday (June 28) and Canada Day (July 1)

Dear Dad,

Eight months ago when you left this world to go to the next, we, your family made a pact to come together for your birthday so that none of us would have to be alone.

Arno and Ela came from Germany. I came from out west, sadly without Michaela. And Mike, Heather and Spencer drove in from Montreal’s west island to meet at yours and Mom’s home. In my head, this family reunion would be joyful and fun because we would all be together. I thought we would celebrate you, maybe even release balloons with personal notes to you.  But that’s not what happened.

I’m not saying that we didn’t share great memories and moments of laughter, after which Mike brought out your silver tray and shot glasses just like you used to do when entertaining guests and we clinked our glasses in your honour. But always the underlying and unspoken fact that you were not sitting out on the deck with us was with me, and I suspect with the others as well.

Frankly, life is not the same without you Dad. I don’t mean to sound all dark and gloomy – honest I don’t, I’m merely stating a fact.

I recently read a book that said when we lose someone we love, we think we are immediately entering our new life without them. Where we usually end up though, is in a kind of metaphorical waiting room – between our old life and our new life. And there we sit, doing things the same way as before, hanging on and reluctant to change or let go for fear of forgetting our loved one.

The book goes on to say it’s normal to do that but the author encourages her readers to take baby steps by changing little things in their routines, a bit at a time, until they are fully participating in their new life. Stepping into their new lives does not, however, make them forget their loved one.

And that’s what we’re doing Dad, each one of us in our own way, but it’s hard. It’s particularly hard for Mom. We’ll figure it out though, Dad. I know you would want us to enjoy life. And even as I write these thoughts here…

I can almost feel your hand reassuringly patting mine and hear you saying, “C’mon Diana…Everything is OK, it’s going to be fine.” 

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~

Happy Birthday Dad

Love you and miss you

Diana xo

Instant Coffee

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coffee, Dad, death, Diana Schwenk, family, grief, growing up, Hump Day Chronicles, love, memories, parents, Relationships

Do you, or did you ever, have someone in your life that you could spend hours with, never speaking a word?

I think when a relationship gets to that point, you’ve hit a level of comfortable-ness where the two of you are just happy to be in each other’s company.

When I was school-aged, I would get home about 30 minutes before dad who liked to enjoy a nice cup of instant coffee after a long day’s work.

I had the timing down to an art. Dad was one of those people who seemed to live within a specific routine. Maybe that’s why he was always a source of comfort to me. No matter what else was going on at school, in the world, wherever, I could count on dad to do and be exactly where I knew he’d be.

So at the exact right time, I would plug the kettle in and when he’d walk in the door, I’d be making his coffee with one level teaspoon of sugar and a bit of milk. After our initial greetings we would sip coffee together quietly; dad doing one thing and me doing another. Neither of us ever feeling pressure to fill the silence with words.

People wondered about us. Wondered why we didn’t talk and how we could be so in tuned to each other.

I still love my coffee. But I’m a brewed-pot-of-coffee kinda gal now. Yet for some reason, I found myself buying instant coffee one day, a few months after dad passed away. I know now that I was just looking for a way to be with him again. A cup of instant coffee seemed like the best way to do that.

Now on Sunday afternoons when I’m thinking of dad I make myself a cup of instant coffee.

At first I worried that I had nothing to say. And then I remembered we never really had a need to break the silence with words. He knew I loved him and I knew he loved me.

I will always treasure our quiet coffee-time memories Dad.

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~

Who’s one of your favourite people to spend time with? What do you like to do together? Is it something that you don’t do with anyone else?

I Didn’t Know

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caring, courage, Dad, death, Diana Schwenk, family, Fear, grief, health, Hump Day Chronicles, laughter, life, loss, love, memories, pain, Relationships, shock

I stood there in front of everyone and looked out at all the people before I spoke. My family sat in the first row. I felt I had to stand for dad, channel him somehow, be calm and reassuring like he would be. After all, I’ve been told so many times in my life that I am like him.

I didn’t have an opportunity to write down what I would say, so I’d be winging it. And all at once it occurred to me that I should tell those who came because they loved my dad, that I was in shock, that my mother and brother were in shock and that we would need them all to ask about dad when the shock wore off in about three months – because we’d want to talk about him. I’d read that in a book once and had even made myself a note to contact people I care about three months after they’d lost people they loved.

What I didn’t know from the book is what it feels like when the shock wears off. I didn’t know that it’s like getting dental surgery and thinking to myself, ‘I handled that pretty good,’ and then the freezing wears off and the pain comes with such a force it throws you off kilter, completely catching you off guard. I didn’t know how FINAL death is, how empty I would feel inside, how my heart would hurt, how afraid I would be to forget his blue eyes, and the sound his drumming fingers made on the table, what his laugh sounded like, how his strong voice seemed to come from deep within when he spoke. I didn’t know how important the stuff I didn’t give a shit about before would become, like his coin collecting and how I am constantly looking for the young queen with the crown on the new twenty-dollar bill or the quarters with the poppies and putting them aside so I can…

so I can what?

I don’t know.

I didn’t know that I would have good days, that the memory of him would make me smile, that I could share stories and laugh remembering them, that I could even have days that I wouldn’t think of him at all and yet my body would betray me with restless nights, low energy, aches and pains as if it were carrying the load for my broken heart.

This past Sunday (month 4 since he passed away) I was hit with another wave of grief. It came in the form of a realization that I will never see dad again, at least not in this world. Of course I knew that before, but it’s as if my mind was protecting me earlier, as if I kind of just glazed over that point, as if the freezing hadn’t worn off yet.

I guess you really don’t know until you know.

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES~

Shipwreck

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courage, Dad, death, Diana Schwenk, family, Fear, grief, hope, life, Life's like that, loss, love, memories

Yesterday evening, I was at my local deli/bakery buying a cheesecake. While I was waiting for the clerk to fetch the cake from the back room, a woman beside me told that she loves cheesecake but could not ever buy one because her husband is diabetic.

“My dad was diabetic,” I told her.

My breath stuck in my throat.

Tears pressed on the back of my eyes.

Was.

My dad was diabetic. Past tense. I just never know what will trigger my grief.

The following story was making the rounds on Facebook a few weeks back. It brought me comfort. It helped me understand what to expect. I share it here, in the hopes that it may bring comfort to someone else.

Someone on Reddit wrote the following heartfelt plea online:

“My friend just died. I don’t know what to do.”

A lot of people responded. Then there’s one old guy’s incredible comment that stood out from the rest that might just change the way we approach life and death.

Alright, here goes. I’m old. What that means is that I’ve survived so far and a lot of people I’ve known and loved did not. I’ve lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can’t imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here’s my two cents.

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did.  I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to “not matter.” I don’t want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see.

As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a son, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~