Mourning the Loss of Grief

It's not lost on me. The redundancy of this title. A repetition of synonyms that describe one's reality when a loved one is no longer with us. However, sequenced as they are above, those words portray a very different reality--one that is simultaneously disconcerting and comforting. A reality that I can only describe as a conflicted sense of melancholy...recognizing that the pain of loss is no longer with me; not palpably at least.

Today marks the 3 year anniversary of my father's passing, and while his absence still touches my life in significant ways, those moments rarely carry the weight of loss that they once did. And for some reason, the healing that evolution represents feels a bit like betrayal, and I find myself wishing that loss would feel like...loss...rather than acceptance.

I've come to describe my dad as a man who never aspired for greatness; simply goodness. Those words are not intended as a slight but rather a deeply felt compliment. In my mind, goodness is the more selfless endeavor...a life's journey filled with humility, compassion, and service to others. I didn't fully appreciate this part of my father until now, but in some ways, that makes sense.

It's hard to truly reflect on the essence of someone's life when they're busy living it. It's difficult to fully embrace what makes them special...until you notice its absence.

My father was full of goodness...and that is what made him great.

Dearly Departed Coal

Yesterday evening, our 11 year old, little black pug, Coal, passed away.

Years of severe allergies had left much of his body hairless and most of his skin painfully inflamed despite regular injections, daily medications, and a number of rotating topical treatments that never seemed to provide any relief. After spending a decade on and off various antibiotics, he had become resistant to all of them. In the end, all we could do was try our best to keep his most recent skin infections at bay.

Pretty soon, we could tell we were fighting a losing battle; Coal was soon a shadow of his former self. The little dog who never seemed to let his infirmities get him down, no matter how bad he felt or how much he itched, was truly for the first time showing the effects of years of suffering.

Since his first birthday, Coal has been a certifiable mess. The first sign of trouble was an allergic reaction to a vaccination, and it's been downhill ever since. He has been on every treatment regimen Banfield could think of--each one providing a glimmer of hope before failing miserably. About three years ago, Coal even started visiting his own doggy dermatologist, but again, hope was soon met with disappointment. Our little guy even had to eat synthetic, hypoallergenic dog food as he was unable to tolerate Fish & Potato, Lamb & Rice, and Kangaroo & Oat (yep, you read that last one right).

To say Coal had a tough life would be an understatement, but you know what, he never seemed to let it bother him. That is what made him such an amazing dog...a wonder-pug as I've said on occasion.

For a dog that was in a constant state of pain and discomfort, he never let it show--never whined, never acted out, never let it slow him down. In spite of the constant appointments and mounting expense, I regularly told our vet how fortunate we were to have such a sweet-tempered pet because any other dog (or person for that matter) with half of Coal's ailments would have been miserable to live with. But Coal was special, and that is why it's been so hard for me to say goodbye.

We adopted Coal for our elder pug Charley, and Coal was instantly devoted to his brother. They would sleep intertwined, forming a yin and yang of fawn and black pug. For 11 years Coal rarely left Charley's side, which made his sudden and consistent absence from Charley all the more concerning. We could tell his health was deteriorating, and he soon began to ignore our instructions, skip meals (unheard of with pugs), and refuse to take his medications.

Sara and I both knew this day would come, and I thought I'd made my peace with it. But by the way I've been blubbering the past 24 hours, I clearly was not as prepared as I thought I was. Coal found his way much deeper into my heart than I realized.

I've both read and seen the movie adaptation of Marley & Me, and to be honest, I wasn't moved by the events of the closing chapters...and this is coming from a self-described softy. Marley, in my opinion, was a colossally bad dog, and while I didn't wish bad things on him, I never found him particularly endearing.

But now I get it. Coal, while not a bad dog, was his own form of colossal mess...but he was my colossal mess, and nothing could every change that. I will miss him dearly, and while I'm glad he's no longer suffering, that fact provides little solace. He may have been tough to pet and truly stinky, but he was the sweetest, most adorable little guy...my little Coaley-Roll.

Farewell, my friend. I hope your beauty within now has matching exterior. I look forward to petting your allergen-free, full coat one day.

Sorry for a downer of Saturday night/Sunday morning reading. Happier tales to come.

Thanks for letting me share.

The Night my Wife Stabbed Me & Other Tall Tales

Some people just know how to put on a production. My Father-In-Law is one of those people. Besides being able to choreograph a killer fireworks display, my FIL is a master storyteller. Anytime the family gathers for a holiday or another food-centric occasion, Saturday morning breakfast is guaranteed to devolve into an exchanges of tales from days gone by...and no one spins the yarns quite like Sara's dad.

You see, my FIL has a unique ability to paint a picture with his words. When he recounts the misadventures of his youthful days alongside three brothers, you almost feel party to the mischief, mayhem, and destruction left in their wake. (My apologies to the city of Shreveport.) When he tells stories about the mishaps at their airplane repair shop, it becomes clear that only through divine intervention did he escape those years without serious injury. I mean, an engine once grabbed him by the moob (that's the medical term), yanked him off his feet, and dumped him on his head, and he walked away just fine...with the exception of a hard to explain bruise.

I've witnessed looks of horrific clarity and revelation come across Sara's grandmother's face as years of unknown mishaps have been brought to light over the breakfast table. How'd her boys go through socks so frequently? Because they became projectile missiles with intent to maim after lights out. Why'd that favorite meal taste a bit off one time? Because my FIL coughed Nestle's Quik into the gravy and simply stirred it in as if it was a thickening agent to cover his tracks.

While my FIL never tells outright lies, he never shies from hyperbole...should it serve the story...as you'll discover in the titular tale.

Several years ago, Sara's father was a regular tenant at Casa de Newhouse. He was working south of San Antonio, and rather than driving 8 hours to Tyler, TX every weekend, he'd cut his weekend commute in half by staying with us.

It was Friday during Lent, and Sara, being a good Catholic, had planned a meatless dinner option for what I playfully (and begrudgingly) refer to as NO MEAT FRIDAY! I arrived home just as dinner prep was hitting high gear. She was making spaghetti, one of my favorites, but I noticed something...odd...in her meal preparation--she was cutting up zucchini and squash. Knowing that spaghetti is typically a stand alone dish for us, I innocently asked, "Are you putting that in the sauce?" (Okay, so there may have been a BLEEECH tone in my voice.) To which she informed me through clenched teeth that we had already discussed this plan, and I had given my approval.

Just moments later, Sara's dad walked through the door, surveyed the dinner situation, and seeing the veggies on the cutting board, asked, "Are you putting THAT in the sauce?!"

This is how my FIL describes the scene from that moment forward (with intensifying volume):

I mean, I just asked a simple question, and next thing you know, Sara grabs the knife and begins gesticulating with it, reading us the riot act about calling us...running the recipe by us...getting our approval...but honestly, all I can concentrate on is how with each passing moment and each blade-emphasized point, the knife is getting closer and closer to Ben's chest...and the poor boy doesn't even flinch...he's so used to these brushes with death.

Covertly, I kept to trying to signal to Ben that he should run for his life and save himself, but I wasn't sure I could get away with it without tipping off Sara. And so I simply begged forgiveness...in hopes of being spared...from an act that Sara clearly would have argued as justifiable homicide.

(End Scene)

With each retelling of this incident, the danger, the rage, and the size of the knife has grown in my father's portrayal. I'm pretty sure in the next iteration, I will finally be stabbed by a sword just for walking into the kitchen, and the scars I really bear from Crohn's and gall bladder surgery will be reminders of the day I questioned Sara's culinary prowess.

Of course, Sara has a very different view of this incident. She feels justified in her frustration since she had taken the time to gain meal approval from the masses, and she swears that she simply gesticulated with the knife because she was in the middle of cutting the squash. No husbands or fathers were ever harmed (or at risk of harm) in the creation of this tale.

And that's how I remember things, as well...because I'm writing this at knife point.

You can put it down now, honey.

Confessions of an Antagonistic Older Brother

My parents deserve to be sainted...even though they lack even an ounce of Catholic street cred.

After raising four children--one boy, three girls, including a set of twins, it's a wonder that my parents let any of us see a double digit birthday. Don't get me wrong, to the outside world, we were good kids, but boy, could we bug the ever-living crap out of each other.

In some ways, I blame vehicular engineering. This was before the advent of the SUV. Now, kids reside in their little fortresses of solitude, beyond the reach of antagonizing siblings. We, however, grew up in the era of the station wagon (80s kids everywhere just shuttered in unison), sporting bench seat technology designed to sit three people comfortably...allegedly. Anyone who has ever sat three butts to a bench will tell you it is anything but comfortable and a brawl is an eventual certainty. You can't help it, any design that forces siblings to touch is woefully flawed.

With only four years of separation between the oldest (yours truly) and the youngest (the twins-Becca & Sara), the teenage era in the Newhouse casa was a repetitious mash-up of hormonal tears, ill-timed acne, relationship drama, persistent self loathing...and that was just me. Once you factored in my sisters, you had what in today's lingo would be referred to as...a hot mess.

Let's just say, the formative years among the Newhouse children were not peaceful ones, and as the oldest, I fully acknowledge that I (perhaps) may have (possibly) been the instigator in a fair number (most) of our conflicts...so much so that I (might) have apologized to them in recent years (on more than one occasion). It's called maturity, folks.

That lengthy introduction sets the context for this next tale...of an incident of which my parents have long been ignorant. Now that we're all at least 30, I am somewhat confident Mom won't ground us. Let's test out that theory, shall we?

I remember it well. Mom and Dad had left us home alone while they ran some sort of errand--possibly to buy Christmas presents, have the car serviced, or simply get the hell away from us--and I was placed in charge as per usual. Now, understand, I embraced the role of the eldest sibling with gusto, not to ensure the safety and care of my sisters, but rather...to boss them around. Sisterly in-fighting had left their collective resolve weak, never growing wise that if they just joined forces, they could shift the balance of power in moments.

On this night, I distinctly remember knowing my parents ETA, and we were t-minus 30 minutes. I was holding court in the kitchen near my middle sister, Carrie. Becca and Sara were on the couch squabbling with each other. Growing tired of the twin-fighting (see what I did there), I grabbed each one by the shoulder gently-ish as if to say, "Cool it.," and inadvertently (I promise) pulled Sara's hair in the process.

What happened next occurred in Matrix-like slow motion.

Sara stood up, lifted her nearly full glass of soda...and I hit the deck. From the safety of the floor, I watched as the liquid projectile arched towards the kitchen and connected with an unseen target, showering liquid everywhere.

Knowing my sister was out of ammo, I prepared to depart the floor and apologize, but just as I began to raise my head, I saw another glass of soda come flying from the opposite direction. In horror, I realized that in my instinctual act of self-preservation, Carrie had gone from innocent bystander to drenched victim, and though Carrie's throw landed true, Becca was close enough to become collateral damage in the process. Suddenly, I was no longer the target of sisterly rage; simply a fly on the wall (or rather the floor) observing the most intense verbal barrage I'd ever witnessed.

Cognizant that the parental units would be home any minute and soda stains were quickly becoming permanent, I sprung to my feet, intending to say something eloquent to calm emotions and restore peace. Instead what came out was, "Mom...Dad...we are all going to die!"

Without speaking, we sprang to action--sopping, scrubbing, and scouring ever piece of carpet, cushion, or linoleum found within the splash zone. Suddenly, we went from super slo-mo to hyperspeed (cue cleaning montage), and just like in the movies, the last wad of soda soaked paper towels landed in the trash just as Mom and Dad pulled into the driveway.

You see, nothing brings siblings together like the collective fear of parental punishment. Amidst intense conflict we came together under a united goal--to save our own asses. There's no motivation quite as powerful.

Nowadays, we get along splendidly, partly because we crammed 60 good years of conflict into 14 years of life, and primarily as it turns out, my sisters are pretty cool people. Who'd have thought?

So Mom, I hope you found this tale more amusing than upsetting. Just think, all those years of blissful ignorance...shattered with one blog post.

Hmm...maybe I should have thought this through a bit.

Stages of Grief

Those who know me well can attest that I am open book for all to see. I find it incongruent to live my passions but hide my pain, to share my hopes but not my fears, to showcase my talents but ignore my faults. To know me is to to get all of me--the good, the bad, and the ugly. Last April, the loss of my father became a part of my story--a chapter from which I'd like to share.

The mourning process for me has been...well...underwhelming. The five stages of grief have never manifested. Many have said that people grieve differently, and I have been no exception. Let me explain by sharing my stages of grief.

Stage 1: Resignation (duration - 11 hours)
From the moment my sister called me at 1 a.m. to let me know Dad was being transported to the hospital, I just knew. Nothing said indicated things were dire, but somehow it was clear I needed to make the trip immediately from San Antonio to Katy. Even when logic started to will me back to bed so that I could travel with a full night's rest, I found myself wide awake. Deep down I just knew I needed to get there to say goodbye.

Stage 2: Tears (duration - 30 minutes)
When I arrived at the hospital about 5:30 a.m., the updates from nursing staff were guarded but optimistic. Looking back, I think they were simply being merciful as no doctor was present to help us make meaning of the reality--Dad was not going to recover. Once in the ICU, the difficult truth was shared, and it was time for us to say goodbye. My mom and two of my sisters went into his room, and I stayed in the waiting room awaiting the return of my other sister. I just couldn't bare to have her walk into the hospital room alone. It was in the interim that I had my one true meltdown...in front of what felt like dozens of (but really less than six) strangers.

The ICU waiting room is not so much a waiting room as it is a carpeted place you stand for the elevators. It's not the ideal setting to hear life-changing news of the negative bent. But really, where is a good place to hear your father is dying? Chili's? No amount of skillet queso and molten chocolate cake can temper that news.

Stage 3: Irritation (duration - 4 days)
Though I can't say that I experienced anger, irritation was a state in which I found myself regularly. It seemed farcical that my father had just passed in the morning, and we needed to meet with a funeral home that afternoon. I was amazed how retailers would hem and haw about our requests for a quick turnaround even after explaining that it was for my father's memorial service. (I'm sorry, we'll just ask Dad to give us some advance notice next time). Some of the irritation was justified and some was a circumstance of my emotional state. I realize now that the Starbucks barista was unaware of my father's passing, and thus, it was not a personality flaw that caused him to screw up my Grande Cafe Vanilla Frappucino with soy, no whip. As a normally even keeled person, I was thankful when this stage was over, and I returned to the standard Zen of Ben.

Stage 4: Emptiness (duration - April 17 to present)
The loss of a loved one leaves a void, an emptiness, that cannot be filled...try as we might. Initially, I attempted to fill that void by managing all the "details" that come with death--fielding phone calls, helping Mom with funeral arrangements, stocking the fridge, cleaning the house, picking up family--selfless acts with selfish intentions. Keeping occupied allowed me to ignore the emptiness.

Though the pain of loss has subsided, the emptiness remains...and I think it always will. In some strange way, I'm okay with that. My dad was an invaluable part of my life--an incredible mentor, my greatest supporter, even my best man; nothing can replace or fill that gap in my life. To look closely at the emptiness is to see my father's impact on my life. Yes, the emptiness is bittersweet, but fortunately it is an emphasis on the sweet.

Occasionally, the melancholy of loss will wash over me. I would be worried if it didn't, but the emptiness is quickly becoming a fact of my life. Fortunately, I remain blessed with an amazing mother, a loving wife, three truly cool siblings to whom I grow closer each day, and an extended family that includes a father-in-law and mother-in-law whom I cherish. None are substitutes for my father, nor would they try to be, but each remind me that my life is very full, no matter how empty it may feel at times.

Boom Boom Pow

After the umpteenth (translation 3rd) mention of my lack of blog activity from various in-laws this weekend, I have decided to teach them a lesson. Rather than interact with them, I will deny them the privilege of my presence in order to blog.

It's their loss really. If you like blog-Ben, you'd love actual-Ben...if I do say so myself. Though it does appear the family is getting along just fine without me...not missing me at all. I wonder if they actually read my blog...or are they simply trying to get rid of me? I'm on to their underhanded tricks.

Growing up, the 4th of July was an anticlimactic affair. My family would grill burgers, drink kool-aid, and the Newhouse kids would bug the living hell out of my father to let us buy fireworks. And by fireworks, I mean sparklers and poppers--fireworks lite, if you will. But back then, it was awesome...until I realized that July in Texas is hot and mosquitoes found me especially tasty.

Needless to say, my childhood did not prepare me for the event that is the 4th of July with my wife's family. You see, my father-in-law loves fireworks. Actually, that's the understatement of the year. My FIL is the proverbial kid in a candy store at a fireworks stand. The first time I accompanied him, I was charged by my then future mother-in-law to keep him in check. With my frame of reference, that would be no problem. $25 max and we'd be on our way. I was so naive...and destined for failure.

We entered the store, and we headed straight toward the big stuff. Within five minutes we had surpassed "keeping him in check" territory. Being new to the family, I was hoping to make a good impression with my MIL. Clearly, that wasn't going to be happening this afternoon. By that evening, however, the shame of my failure was replaced with awe. FIREWORKS WERE AWESOME!

Since that initial show, I have only feigned mild resolve at keeping my FIL in check. Actually, the last time I gave that role much effort, I thought we were going to come to blows. Now, I am simply a fireworks enabler, insisting we go bigger, better, louder each year. It's ridiculous, really...ridiculously awesome.

This year, the show was no exception. We held the 4th early (the calendar be damned), and despite some near misses with a stray homicidal artillery shell, fun was had by all. Now, I just have to convince my MIL that a suburban full of fireworks only costs $25.