visual memory

I have always had a visual memory. When I was in college I would study for tests by rereading notes over and over front to back. By test time, all I would have to do was close my eyes and I could mentally see the information I needed as it was written in my notes.

My first memory is an image of my right hand with blood on it from an IV (I figure I was about 2 years at that time)

My grandmother had a stroke (which she eventually died from) when I was 13. My main memory from that time is going to the hospital and placing my hand on her right shoulder as she was laying in the hospital bed while my dad said I was there. I can still see my hand on her shoulder.

All this leads to the mental image that is currently haunting me. I can still see dad lying (dead) in the ER hospital bed, with the breathing tube in his mouth. The tape holding it to his face. Watching the color change on his hand (for some reason I had been staring at his hand for most of the time). It’s been a month (yesterday) and part of me is wondering if these images will fade, but I am doubting that since my memory is so visual. I can’t remember smells or tastes, but some images seem to stay with me forever. I guess in some ways it is a good thing, I’m not sure I want or should want to forget, but sometimes these images pop up in my brain and they feel like a curse.

Dad the artist

My Dad was an artist. He had a degree from the Maryland Institute of Art. He painted many paintings (landscapes and portraits) and worked as a graphic artist. I'm still cleaning out his artist materials, and I keep finding bits and pieces of everything.

I'm finding all this graphic arts work (mainly brochures for a local travel company) and looking at all of the pieces required for one item, I'm in awe. it must have taken so long do things that now, with computers, I have done in a matter of an hour. It gives me a newfound respect for what people like him did before everything became so digitized.

I've talked about dad as a painter and a graphic artist, but when I think of him in the artistic part it is always going to be him as the person who did antique art restoration of local church statues. He would take these church statues that had been extremely damaged and restore them to their former glory. I look at the pictures of what had been and then I see the pictures of what he did to them and I am in awe.

When I was cleaning out part of the family room, that Dad had used as a studio, I found a mold of a foot. 

 We knew it was his foot, used to fix a statue, and I'm still amazed. I like to think that I view the world as an artist (I'm an amateur photographer), but I'm not sure I would even know where to begin looking at something like this before picture.

I have been scanning and posting photos of Dad's work: Facebook album of Dad's work

As I'm looking at these photos I can't help but remember all the times i helped Dad set up St. Hedwig's nativity (inside and out- I vividly remember him sending me outside to "borrow" some straw from the manger so we could get the inside scene to sit right) and Easter scenes. When cleaning out I even found one of the lambs (there were two, but one of them was smashed to smithereens- it think he was supposed to fix it- but it I think it was beyond repair)

(given to him after the Church was closed) that I don't think I will ever be able to get rid of.



We even made the paper (another find as I was cleaning)

Olympics

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a HUGE Olympics fan. I watch everything, so I'm hoping this Olympics provides a kind of distraction that might help in my time of grief. Go Team USA!

 NBC Olympics

Not the best day

I just logged into Dad's desktop on the computer (Yes, he. mom and I share a desktop) and found that he had colorized a photo of a cousin, and now I 'm crying, again...) I wasn't even aware that he knew how to use this computers paint program.

I knew this was going to be a tough day. Aside from the fact that there was an inspection at work, so we have all had to deal with that stress over the past week and a half, it was the first time I saw some of my coworkers after dad died. It started when "S" whose own dad died suddenly from a heart attack came in and asked how I was doing, and then asked if she hugged me I'd break down (I would). Then later, another coworker, who texted me within hours after finding out, did hug me and offered her condolences. I made through that okay, but I knew it was just building up for later.  (BTW, we made it through the inspection okay)


 It was my first chiropractic appointment since he died. You are probably asking why this would make a difference, but he went to Dr. John first, for years before I went to him, and was with me when I went to my first appointment. (Even as a 30 year old adult, I took my dad with me to a doctors appointment). I knew I needed to go, between dad's death and all the stress at work because of an inspection, my upper back and shoulders were killing me. But, I didn't want the sympathy, it seems like I'm fine, and then someone mentions it (and it came up a few times today) and then I fall apart. I managed to hug from Dr. John, and hearing he was one of his first patients, with only a few tears welling, but at the end when the receptionist hugged me and told what a good guy he was I broke down. Maybe it was the culmination of the day, or just a product of the process of grief, but it was not the best day...

I'm still having moments when it feels like it isn't real, but then I remember.

cleaning out

I spent last weekend cleaning out the back part of our family room. Dad was a graphic artist and spent several years doing antique art restoration- mainly repainting and repairing church statues, which means that there are a ton of paints and other artist materials that are in the house. Some of it/ was hard to get rid of and some of it I couldn't. I found the mold for the toe section of a foot (that looks like it was made from his foot) that both mom and I could not part with. And all his acrylic paints and artist brushes (which seem to be in good shape) were placed in a desk. I say its in case I decide to take up painting, which likely won't happen, but I used to enjoy that type of thing, so maybe I will, and part of me just hates to get rid of the stuff.

And then there is the stuff that I can easily get rid of, there are many great things I can say about dad, but, he was a pack rat; never threw anything out. So amongst the paint, brushes, and photos (of which I will probably never get rid of any of it), I am also finding magazines from 1994, calendars dating back several years, random pieces of wood and countless pieces of paper. So far I have ended up with five trash bags and 2+ bins of recyclables.

I've been somewhat okay cleaning all this out, probably because there isn't that much emotion one can attach to paints, but I'm dreading the time when mom and i start cleaning out his clothes. At this point, every clothing item I've found has just been tossed into the spare bedroom. I know, at some point, we are going to have to go through all of it. And I am not looking forward to it.

aftermath

It's been about 2 1/2 weeks and there are still times when it doesn't seem real. I'm still expecting him to walk through the door. I wonder how long this goes on? Intellectually, I know that he is gone, but I think my heart doesn't want to believe it. There are still times when I forget it happened.

I've been cataloging my memories. Because I do not want to forget, and I know that there are some things that will fade. I'm already not sure if I remember the sound of his voice. So I'm thankful for the videos I've found.