7 Things Dad would want you to know

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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

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The Slippers

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children, Dad, Diana Schwenk, family, grief, growing up, Hump Day Chronicles, life, Life's like that, loss, love, memories, parents, Relationships, Stuff my parents used to say and do

 

I have an old, ugly pair of slippers from Wal-Mart.  They make a click-clack noise. The same kind of click-clack noise Dad’s favourite slippers used to make when he walked across the kitchen floor.

*******

Winter 2012

Michaela and I went back east to spend Christmas with family. Dad was wearing those slippers and click-clacking across the floor. The noise drove Mom crazy. The next time Dad reached for those slippers after a trip into Hawkesbury, they were gone.

In the garbage.

Mom had had enough.

So me and Michaela went to the Fairview Shopping Centre in Pointe Claire and found a pair of slippers for Dad at Old Navy. We’d intentionally picked silent slippers to avoid that click-clacking sound. We couldn’t wait to give them to Dad for Christmas. On Christmas Eve we handed the wrapped slippers to him. He opened the package and angrily tossed the slippers to the side. 

“I hate them.”

They weren’t his well-worn favourite slippers and they weren’t the kind you could just slip on either. You had to bend down and stick your finger in the back to get them on.

*******

How I wish you were still with us Dad, so we could get you the perfect slippers.

The kind you wouldn’t have to struggle to get on.

The kind you could just slip your feet into.

The kind that would click-clack across the kitchen floor and drive Mom crazy and cause that smile of defiant satisfaction to tug at the corners of your mouth…

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~

What If When A Storm Comes In…

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I promise you,

these storms are

only trying to

wash you clean.

 – Jessica Katoff

Wow – this quote really lifted my spirit when I read it the other day! The idea that suffering does not have to be in vain is oddly comforting and hopeful. In the same way that the pains of childbirth lead to new life, the challenges we face in daily living are ultimately meant for our good.

What if it’s true?

What if those rough spots in life; like losing someone we love, illness, defeat and change are meant to wash us clean, meant to remove the layers of useless garbage that we haul around day after day?

What if when a storm comes in, we can choose to slow our breathing, to calm ourselves, to yes – acknowledge and feel the moment, but then soothe our frightened selves with the understanding that we can get through it by (for lack of better words) getting out of our head, RISING above our situation, SEEING the bigger picture, BELIEVING in our ability to get through it, no matter the outcome, and TAKING that first step into the storm KNOWING we will be washed clean?

~ DIANA’S ENORMOUS BOOK OF QUOTES ~

Celebrating Josee

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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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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

My First Father’s Day Without You

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I’m thirsty Dad.

Nice to meet you Thursday. I’m Friday, come over Saturday and we’ll have a Sunday.

Heinz Schwenk

Today is my first Father’s Day without you. The beginning of many firsts without you. Yes, I’m a bit sad about that Dad, but I don’t want to talk about that today. Because I am the luckiest woman in the world.

I am incredibly grateful for having had you in my life. You always made me feel so important and cherished. From day one I knew you were in my corner; even when I was wrong.

You’ve only been gone seven months. Gone yet not really gone. I still see you everywhere. I catch a glimpse of you in the mirror. You grace me with your presence in my dreams. And Dad, the other day an older gentleman who had your walk and your playful facial expression stopped in his tracks and looked at me. It made me smile. I know how blessed I was to have you as my father.

You’re in a better place now, free from pain.

I know you’re ok Dad.

And I want you to know I’m ok too, thanks to you.

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~

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 ~

The Red Dress

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A moment in time, Dad, Diana Schwenk, family, fate, grateful, grief, Hump Day Chronicles, laughter, life, Life's like that, living in the moment, loss, memories, parents, Relationships, Stuff my parents used to say and do, thank you

L-R Arno, Dad, me, Mom

“Your Uncle Arno is coming to Canada at the beginning of September, so I want you to come at the same time,” said Dad on the phone late in the summer of 2015.

“Well, actually Dad I was thinking of coming in October or maybe Christmas.”

“No. Arno and I discussed it. And we agree. You should come at the beginning of September.”

That’s odd, I thought to myself. Dad has never been one to assume I would be able to fly back east and visit. He’s more of a hey-it’s-been-a-while-when-do-you-think-you’ll-be-able-to-visit-again kinda guy. So I was somewhat taken aback at his directness.

Still, Dad never asked for much, and it seemed important to him, so I agreed to fly back east to visit them for a week and booked a flight for September 1.

It was still like summer in Calgary on that first day of September so I wore sandals and the red dress I’d bought in the Dominican when Mom and I had vacationed there a few years back and waited for the cab to take me to the airport.

Uncle Arno picked me up at the Pierre Elliot Trudeau airport in Montreal and after visiting with my brother and his family on the west island, we headed out to my parents place in East Hawkesbury.

Dad was lying on the couch when I got there. He’d been suffering with severe back pain for some time and the only relief he had was when he laid down.

I went into the living room to say hi. I talked about this and that and all the while he had this goofy smile on his face. “What?” I finally said.

“You’re wearing a dress. You hardly ever wear a dress. You look beautiful.”

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~

Dad was taken by ambulance to the hospital on October 28th.  I flew out and visited with him on November 6th. Before we left his room, we made plans to go see him again the next day, but he passed away that same night. Dad thank you for insisting that I attend the September family reunion!

related post: It was like a Schwenkonsortium!

 

Heart-to-Heart

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200 words, courage, Dad, daughters, death, Diana Schwenk, Diana's Enormous Book of Quotes, family, Fear, grief, growing up, life, Life's like that, living, loss, love, memories, parents, Relationships, Stuff my parents used to say and do

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. – C. S. Lewis

Dad and me

Sometimes when Dad tucked me in at night when I was a little girl, we’d have a heart-to-heart.

Once, maybe more than once, I’d tell him I didn’t want to go to sleep because what if I woke up and he was gone, or worse was in an accident and died.

I just couldn’t imagine life without him. The thought made my heart feel like it would pound out of my chest.

Dad would tell me he wasn’t going anywhere; he wasn’t going to die.

“You promise, Daddy?”

“I promise.”

Dad has always been my Plan B, even when I moved across the country. I knew that if I couldn’t figure something out, or if I was in trouble, Dad would make it right.

Even though I did not resort to Plan B much, I knew it was there and knowing it, gave me courage.

It has been eight weeks and two days since Dad passed away. And although I’m not a little girl anymore, some mornings I feel like my heart will pound out of my chest.

~ DIANA’S ENORMOUS BOOK OF QUOTES ~