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Struggling to cope with my father's death


MissionBlue

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MissionBlue

My beloved dad passed away almost six months ago, two days after Christmas, 2014.  We were very close.  My father was my best friend and my hero.  I was his only child and his caregiver.  He raised me by himself after my parents divorced when I was five years old.  For most of the last thirty years I was a caregiver for four elderly relatives in succession, so I stayed home a lot.  My dad and I lived in the same house for 55 years.  In the last 14 years we were together almost 24/7.  It feels like my own life ended with his, because our lives were so intertwined for all those years.  And yet, when I look back, I can't believe all the time that has passed.  The years passed too quickly.  There were so many things I had hoped to do for and with my father, but we ran out of time.  Almost every happiness I experienced was associated with him in some way.  I grew up surrounded by lots of relatives and friends.   Now most of my friends and relatives have died or moved away.  For the first time in my life I am alone, no husband, no children, not even a boyfriend.   I've never felt such intense loneliness and sadness before.  I have tried to make new friends, but the more people I meet, the more I miss my dad, because no one is as kind, generous and considerate as he was.  

 

My father taught me to like the things he liked, especially movies and music.  Through the years we watched and listened to thousands of films and songs, especially classic films and vintage pop music of the '20's and 30's.  Now when I think of our favorite films and songs, I'm filled with sadness and longing.  I think of how I'll never be able to watch a favorite film or listen to music with him again.  Movies and music used to be our refuge from the worries and sadness of life.  The very things that used to comfort me and make me happy now make me sad.    Most people don't share my interests, so I feel very isolated.  Not much of anything interests me anymore.  I don't want to abandon the interests I shared with my father, but it's so painful to think about even the happy memories of my dad.  "There is no greater sorrow than to recall a happy time when miserable." -- Dante.

 

I feel so miserable.  It happened so fast.  My father had been through crises before, but his will to live always pulled him through.  It would take too long to describe all the medical things that went wrong, which make me think the hospital wanted him to die.  He was 86 and had been sick for a long time, but his death still came as a terrible shock to me.  I loved him more than anything in this world, and he knew it, but I still think of times when I wasn't as kind to him as I should have been.  I always asked for his forgiveness right away, but I wish I hadn't complained about things so much to him.  Compared to the way I feel now, I was in the seventh heaven back then.  There were always problems I had to discuss with him, from crooked contractors to inept lawyers to false friends and envious relatives.   Our escape from reality were films and music.  I practically sacrificed my life for my dad, but I still feel I didn't do enough for him.   He was such a good person, so humble, patient and considerate.  In his younger days, he was strong, handsome and as chivalrous as they come..  I always felt safe in his presence, even after he could no longer physically protect me.  I was so proud of my dad.   He never finished high school, but he had more class in his little finger than some people have in their whole body.

 

People say I will get used to living alone, but will I get used to being unhappy?  I never realized before just how dependent my happiness was on my father.   I know my presence was a comfort to him, too.  I helped save his life more than once, but there were times he was alone in the hospital, because I had to sleep and there was no one to cover for me.  I thought he would be watched over in the ICU, but twice I found him in distress with no one helping him.  It broke my heart to see my normally stoic father beg for air, water and God's mercy.  Then when he saw me, he thanked me so profusely.   From that point, I knew I could not leave him by himself anymore.  But by then it was too late.  Once they put him on the morphine drip and removed the nasal gastric feeding tube, it helped with his breathing and for a brief while he was his normal, calm self, until he drifted off into unconsciousness.  Those last images of him relaxed and calm save my sanity.  I then watched him die for 36 hours straight in Comfort Care from respiratory failure.  They say he didn't suffer, but his labored breathing looked uncomfortable.  Sometimes his furrowed brow made it look like he wanted to wake up.  As I kept vigil by his bedside, I finally nodded off to sleep in the chair.  Then he took his last breath. It's as if my father had waited for me to fall sleep before he left this world.

 

I was lucky to have had my father with me for as long as I did, but even at age 56, I feel like a orphan, alone and lost in the world.  My mother died just two months before my dad, but she didn't raise me.  The grief for my father is much worse, because I was with him my whole life.  My life seems so empty now.  People tell me to keep busy, but I still think about him, no matter what I'm doing.  Some activities make me think about him even more, such as working in the garden.  I feel I should have treated him like the rare treasure that he was, and not spent so much time on my hobbies.   I should have cherished every last moment with him.  There were quiet times, when we'd be resting on the couch, when I did cherish our time together, even if we didn't say a word to each other.   I thought he had a few years left.  I'd give up everything I have just to spend one more hour with him, an hour where we could still talk and laugh as if we didn't have a care in the world, like in the good old days. 

 

I'm not sleeping well.  It was a struggle to wean myself off of Ambien and then Ativan.  I barely have enough energy to wash the dishes and do the laundry.  I still have to do most of the same mundane chores I did before, but now without the joy of my dad's company.   Even taking the garbage out and making a  grocery shopping list was more fun when he was around.  When you've been happy with someone all your life, how can you go on without them?   I have lost loved ones before, but I always had my dad to give me moral support.  Now there is no one in the world who loves me.  There are people who like me, but it's not the same as having a parent, a child, a sibling or a partner who really cares about me.  Then I feel so sorry for my father, that he didn't get to do a lot of the fun things that most people do.  Partly it was his choice.  He was happiest at home, but I feel like he short-changed himself.   I haven't had the most fun life either, as a caregiver all those years, but at least my life had a purpose and I was with people I loved every day.  Life without love is no life at all!   Now I have the time and freedom to do fun things, but they aren't fun anymore, because  I miss my dad.  I keep seeing things he would have liked and I wish so much he could see them.  Sometimes I wonder if he is in heaven seeing wonderful things and wishing I could see them, too.

 

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Worstdaughterever

Hi

I lost my dearest mom 4 months back in feb.i am just 22 and may be it can bring in some sort of comfort to you that u were d privelege one who had d time to create beautiful memories with him which few unlucky like me dont even get.i can relate to ur post on so many level. I too used to stay with her,she taught me everything apart from how to live without her.mortality is d rule of life.one who takes birth has to die.from the leaf outside to ur house to ur body cells everything perish.good thing ends only to rebegin.

Not even a day goes pass by when I dont crymyself.

take refugee in fact that this separation is not permanent,u too shall go when ur time comes to the place where ur father have gone.

hugs

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silverkitties

Missionblue, I was just finishing my post when it all disappeared--arrrgh! Anyway, I'll try later, but I just wanted to tell you that so much of what you've written resonates with me: like you, I'm a "never married, no kids" only child who's in her 50s and lost her closest parent: in my case, my 82-year-old mother.  I've written about my experiences in NeverBetter's thread and a thread that I started a few months ago here, "Still missing my mom," as well as a few others, so I won't go into it too much, but suffice to say that every day can feel like a battle when one is besieged by memories.

 

I know all too well it's hard not to think of all the things you've done with your dad--and then have to face them alone. It's hard to head some place which you associate with your dad--or recall it as a place where you were last there with him. It's hard not to watch TV and films and want to turn around and discuss them--before realizing in a split second that the person you most want to discuss them is no longer there. This year, for instance, I simply could not bring myself to watch either Mad Men or Bates Motel (!) because my mom and I used to watch them together.  It's also so difficult to revisit old favorites, particularly from childhood,  and not be tempted to compare past and present; I know I cried so hard when listening to the soundtrack of The Sound of Music a few months ago for the first time after nearly 50 years.  And it's hard to concentrate when your own work brings back memories--which is precisely what I am facing as I'm trying to finish my book. 

 

It's a tough road. I wish I could say that it gets better on a daily basis, but I would be lying if I said that. It can vary: as time passes, there may be fewer and fewer of those truly miserable times when you want to cry all day. But yes, they will hit you every so often. Maybe the skies will remind you of a certain day last year. Maybe you will watch something that brings back a memory. Last week, when I was at the vet's and filling out paper work, I realized it was exactly 8 months after my mom's passing: not only that but because I had to keep one of my cats in close confinement after sedation, I had to sleep in my mom's room that very night. 

 

What has helped me quite a bit is visiting this site. I don't want to say misery loves company, but somehow you feel less alone when you realize others are going through a similar process. And sometimes one feels a little better after comforting another. Many here have helped me feel isolated...and as a result, I feel a little better.

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MissionBlue

Hi

I lost my dearest mom 4 months back in feb.i am just 22 and may be it can bring in some sort of comfort to you that u were d privelege one who had d time to create beautiful memories with him which few unlucky like me dont even get.i can relate to ur post on so many level. I too used to stay with her,she taught me everything apart from how to live without her.mortality is d rule of life.one who takes birth has to die.from the leaf outside to ur house to ur body cells everything perish.good thing ends only to rebegin.

Not even a day goes pass by when I dont crymyself.

take refugee in fact that this separation is not permanent,u too shall go when ur time comes to the place where ur father have gone.

hugs

Thank you for your reply.  I am so sorry for your loss.  I can only imagine how hard it must be to lose your mom at such a young age, although in a way I do understand, because I lost my mom at the age of five, even though she lived to be 89.  After my parents divorced, she only visited me on my First Communion and on my graduation, even though she lived in the same city as I did when I was growing up.  She literally phoned in her performance as a mother.  To lose a loving mother must be terrible.  May God give you strength, hope and courage to help you through your sorrow. 

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MissionBlue

Missionblue, I was just finishing my post when it all disappeared--arrrgh! Anyway, I'll try later, but I just wanted to tell you that so much of what you've written resonates with me: like you, I'm a "never married, no kids" only child who's in her 50s and lost her closest parent: in my case, my 82-year-old mother.  I've written about my experiences in NeverBetter's thread and a thread that I started a few months ago here, "Still missing my mom," as well as a few others, so I won't go into it too much, but suffice to say that every day can feel like a battle when one is besieged by memories.

 

I know all too well it's hard not to think of all the things you've done with your dad--and then have to face them alone. It's hard to head some place which you associate with your dad--or recall it as a place where you were last there with him. It's hard not to watch TV and films and want to turn around and discuss them--before realizing in a split second that the person you most want to discuss them is no longer there. This year, for instance, I simply could not bring myself to watch either Mad Men or Bates Motel (!) because my mom and I used to watch them together.  It's also so difficult to revisit old favorites, particularly from childhood,  and not be tempted to compare past and present; I know I cried so hard when listening to the soundtrack of The Sound of Music a few months ago for the first time after nearly 50 years.  And it's hard to concentrate when your own work brings back memories--which is precisely what I am facing as I'm trying to finish my book. 

 

It's a tough road. I wish I could say that it gets better on a daily basis, but I would be lying if I said that. It can vary: as time passes, there may be fewer and fewer of those truly miserable times when you want to cry all day. But yes, they will hit you every so often. Maybe the skies will remind you of a certain day last year. Maybe you will watch something that brings back a memory. Last week, when I was at the vet's and filling out paper work, I realized it was exactly 8 months after my mom's passing: not only that but because I had to keep one of my cats in close confinement after sedation, I had to sleep in my mom's room that very night. 

 

What has helped me quite a bit is visiting this site. I don't want to say misery loves company, but somehow you feel less alone when you realize others are going through a similar process. And sometimes one feels a little better after comforting another. Many here have helped me feel isolated...and as a result, I feel a little better.

Many thanks for your reply.  I'm sorry you lost your first post!  Please accept my sincere condolences on your mom's passing.  It does help to know that others understand how I'm feeling.  I will check out your other threads, but I wanted to let you know right away how much I appreciate your sharing your experience, especially in regards to tv and music making you miss your mom.  Even though I hardly play music anymore, songs go through my brain and make me think of my dad.  Like this morning I woke up thinking of the song "Why Do I Love You?" from Showboat, which was one of my father's many favorite songs.  He was such a romantic at heart and it makes me sad that he never found a good woman to marry after my mother divorced him.  She suffered from bipolar disorder and had a narcissist personality, so it wasn't his fault at all, and I guess it wasn't her fault either.  She was a beautiful and talented pianist and violinist.  When he married her, he thought he would spend the rest of his life in music heaven, but instead he had to suffer through her jealous rages just because women liked him.  My father could have been a movie star, but he was a homebody who loved his family.  Why is it so hard to be happy in this world?   He said he was happy with his lot in life, and that's the only thing I didn't understand about him.  I am going to have to learn to be happy without him or anyone with me, if such a thing is even possible.  I have people to do things with but no one to do nothing with.  I just found an interesting site called "The Secret to Happiness":

 

http://www.simpletoremember.com/articles/a/happiness/

 

The article says that what you tell yourself about a given situation is the way that situation will affect you.  Your attitude towards any event or situation is not based on its objective reality but on your own subjective evaluation of that event or situation.

 

In the mean time, I have been perusing online dating sites like mad, trying to find a companion of some sort.  I don't want a pet, I want a human being who speaks English.  I had my first date with an attorney no less last Monday.  He's a nice man and a good conversationalist.  He's old enough to be my father, but I am consciously looking for a father figure, even though I know no one can replace my dad.  I don't know if I want to be a caregiver again so soon.  There are younger men with father figure traits, but they're harder to find at my age.  There's another gentleman interested in me who claims he is a retired astrologer, yoga teacher and computer expert.  His messages are written in an intelligent and eloquent manner which I like very much.  However, over 90 percent of the men who message me are scammers. 

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silverkitties

Missionblue, you know what's funny is that my parents enjoyed Japanese movies and programs, partly because they grew up under the Japanese occupation in Taiwan. Unfortunately, I never learned Japanese and they didn't want to teach it to me either. (I suspect because they wouldn't be able to have any private conversations...)

 

However, I have many happy memories of our watching TV together. I grew up watching Dark Shadows w/ my mom when I was a tot: I always tell my students that my mom weaned me on horror as we'd watch Ghost Story, Twilight Zone, and Creature Feature together. (LOL, and she wonders how and why I wound up writing a dissertation on horror and teaching it as well!) Not too long ago, we would unwind by renting movies from the library; I was determined to learn the classics, to watch everything featuring Liz Taylor (w/ whom my mom shares a birthday in the same year!), Katherine Hepburn, Grace Kelly, and Marilyn Monroe; it was always interesting to get her take on how they were perceived when she arrived in this country in 1959. We would watch these alongside of Mad Men and Little Britain. 

 

It wasn't just TV we enjoyed together....she was the one who first taught me about fashion, the stock market, literature, and music so we'd discuss all of these things. In fact, she's the only person with whom I share an extended range of topics; she would frequently read the books I recommended to her, even grad-level books--despite the fact that English was her 4th language.  Most of my friends only want to discuss politics and academe. Not that I mind, but I need the other topics too! So yes, I know exactly what you're talking about. What do you do when someone you've shared so much with is gone? Because if there's one thing I like even more than doing any of these things, it's discussing them. Only then do I feel like I've appreciated it all the way.   Where am I ever going to find someone like that?!

 

Most of my triggers go off when I'm browsing through Youtube and listening to 60s hits that I remember from my childhood....Downtown, Georgy Girl, Flower Girl (Cowsills), anything by the Jackson 5 brings back so many memories of my childhood in the Bronx....at first, they were pleasant when my mom was still alive. I remember all those times we took the subway together, visiting the Guggenheim, the Met, Natural History museum,  Macys, Gimbels. I have pleasant memories of the more local activities too....going to the Bronx zoo, the Botanical Garden, shopping at Alexander's, having a hotdog and sundae at Woolworth's. But now they feel almost poignant. I feel sad knowing I'll never board another train with her to NYC and try those restaurants we were discussing back in 2013.

 

We had so many plans until she had her first stroke on April 24, 2014. Except for a few happy weeks until June 17, it was all downhill from there. Trust me, I have many complaints about the way they treated my mom in the hospital-beginning with the dimwit doctors. And some of the nurses and tech assistants, although some were very nice.  I don't know if it because of her age, her race, or maybe the fact that she's not the 1% with plenty of $$$. It still makes me angry thinking about how they rarely responded to her calls to use the bathroom, to turn her over. As a matter of fact, her roommate's visitor ended up helping her use the potty! More on all of this later. 

 

The site you showed me is interesting. In some ways, it does worry me: will my constant thinking about my mother doom me to always feeling miserable without her? I try to tell myself every day, mom has always told you to live life. That she won't be around forever. It is so....logical, and yet, and yet...sometimes it doesn't work. 

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silverkitties

The question you posed about your dad's conceptualization of happiness is an interesting one. As a homebody, he probably did enjoy his life with you even if he could have more. Perhaps he felt it was either her--or no one else?  Sometimes I wonder if I was not the same myself when my mom was alive. Yes, I did want to be married...but then lost interest. I did not mind that my parents wanted to move up here with me either.

 

Don't stress out over arguments w/ your dad...we all have them, partly because we love them so much. I had a lot of arguments with my mom--mostly over my dad--but they usually washed over in a day or so. And yes, the grudges would return with another argument. But mostly I knew that mom and I loved each other.

 

I wanted to add that I can relate about the lack of energy. My place looks like an utter pigsty. I feel more and more drained, although this is partly because I have to hand in part of my book manuscript ASAP and can't focus on anything else until that's done. But I have noticed a general slippage from last month. I've never really gotten along with my father--he's always been selfish and bullying--and there's a part of me that hates having to serve him. i'd much rather serve my mom who cherished me every step of the way. Last year was stressful for me: but I'd do it all over again for her.

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MissionBlue

The question you posed about your dad's conceptualization of happiness is an interesting one. As a homebody, he probably did enjoy his life with you even if he could have more. Perhaps he felt it was either her--or no one else?  Sometimes I wonder if I was not the same myself when my mom was alive. Yes, I did want to be married...but then lost interest. I did not mind that my parents wanted to move up here with me either.

 

Don't stress out over arguments w/ your dad...we all have them, partly because we love them so much. I had a lot of arguments with my mom--mostly over my dad--but they usually washed over in a day or so. And yes, the grudges would return with another argument. But mostly I knew that mom and I loved each other.

 

I wanted to add that I can relate about the lack of energy. My place looks like an utter pigsty. I feel more and more drained, although this is partly because I have to hand in part of my book manuscript ASAP and can't focus on anything else until that's done. But I have noticed a general slippage from last month. I've never really gotten along with my father--he's always been selfish and bullying--and there's a part of me that hates having to serve him. i'd much rather serve my mom who cherished me every step of the way. Last year was stressful for me: but I'd do it all over again for her.

Silverkitties, I have been reading your other posts and I am astonished at how much your experiences mirror my own, except in reverse -- you had a wonderful mother, and an indifferent father, while I had a wonderful father and an indifferent mother.   I got to know my mother better when she was older, living in a ladies residence home.  Right before she was going to be admitted to a nursing home, she asked me to be her caregiver, but I didn't do it, because she did not earn the privilege since she didn't raise me.  Besides, it would not have been fair to my father.  She could be witty and charming, but when she went off her meds she was a totally different person, sometimes suffering delusions and hallucinations.  It's sad that she didn't experience a mother's love either.  Her mother sent her to be raised by a wealthy aunt which is where she received the violin and piano lessons.  She became first violinist with the Portland Youth Symhony.  When she returned to live with her mother as a teenager they were like strangers and rivals.  She didn't even experience a father's love, because her parents divorced when she was a small child and her father was stationed for many years in China as a member of the US diplomatic service.  She remembered seeing him in a newsreel when she was 12 years old.  He was among the wounded during  the USS Panay Incident in 1937.   

 

My parents divorced when I was five years old and I was raised by my father and my grandmother. My mother was not very involved in my life.  I got to see her more often as an adult. She ran her own little performing arts studio but she did not give me music lessons.  Sadly, she suffered from bipolar disorder and a narcissist personality. When he married her, my poor father thought he would spend the rest of his life in music heaven, but it was not to be. He would have stayed with her forever, but she divorced him. Shortly before a stroke robbed her of speech, my mother asked his forgiveness. She said he was a good man and admitted that divorcing him was the biggest mistake of her life. She died in October, two months before my father. She was 89. Naturally, I miss her, but in her case, I mourn mostly the mother she might have been rather than the mother she was to me.  I miss my father much more, because he lived with me all of my life and he was the kindest man I ever knew.  

I cried over and over reading your posts, silverkitties, because I understand so well what you went through with your mother and what you continue to go through with your father.  I can even relate to your calling the Suicide Hotline even though you weren't suicidal -- I did the same thing, because I felt so desperately lonely and anxious after my father died.  Like you, I told the person on the line that I wasn't suicidal but just needed to talk to someone.  I tried calling the Samaritans first but got no answer -- maybe they don't take long distance calls?  So then I tried calling the local suicide hotline.  The young woman who helped me was nice enough.  The trouble is that usually when I talk to people, especially strangers, suddenly I switch to cheerful mode which doesn't reveal my inner turmoil.  She referred me to some grief support groups in my area -- there are surprisingly very few here in San Francisco.  At one point, she put me on hold and that made me feel guilty about tying up a resource that someone else might need more than me, so I didn't talk that long. 

I've tried three different grief support groups but getting to them without a car is hard, because of my low energy.  I never owned a car or learned to drive.  People tell me I should buy a car now and get my license, but if I do that then I'll regret that I didn't do it when my dad was alive.   I wanted to, but my father always talked me out of it.  My father stopped driving when I was 9 years old, when he accidentally killed a dog which ran in front of his car from between two parked cars.  I've been taking cabs, but it's getting too expensive.  Some of my best therapy I have received from cab drivers.  I have broken down and cried with taxi drivers and they've all been very sympathetic.  I've tried four different therapists already.  I like the current one, because she's female, Hispanic and close to my age, so she understands a midlife existential crisis and the culture I grew up with.  Unfortunately, I don't seem to be making much progress as far as missing my dad and feeling like my life is miserable and meaningless now.  About the only thing I enjoy these days is a good meal or a nice cocktail or three.  I recently enjoyed a small glass of Quady Elysium Muscat at a Turkish restaurant, and am tempted to buy a bottle, but my father used to tell me that sweet wine can cause boils.   He didn't like me to drink alcohol, except a little wine with pasta or brandy in egg nog.  The first two months after his death, I pretty much lost my appetite and lost forty pounds.  Now I'm gaining it back and worry about gaining even more, because food is now my only comfort.   I've struggled with my weight all of my life.  I used to want to lose weight so I could have a better life.  Now I want to lose weight so I'll look good dead.

 

I have spent many, many hours reading and posting to various online grief support forums, and I must say I am deeply impressed by the candor and eloquence with which you have expressed your feelings and your experiences.   How you have managed to persevere through all the struggles and sorrow on your own is truly admirable and heartbreaking.  It's especially hard since we don't have the comfort of absolute faith in an afterlife.  I want to believe I'll see my father again in a wonderful, idyllic setting, but I have my doubts.  Like you, I am agnostic.  Even people who go to church act mean and uncaring sometimes, so religion can only do so much for a person.  I was raised Catholic and I have started going back to church occasionally.  I have always prayed every day, but I just can't force myself to go to mass every Sunday.  I have a couple of altars here in my home, one upstairs as a shrine to my adorable father and a larger one downstairs for general religious purposes.  I don't like the guitar music they play at mass -- it's so boring.  I loved the old hymns of my early childhood, the mysterious Latin mass,  and the sound of a magnificent pipe organ and chorus reaching up to heaven.  When Vatican II made so many changes, I felt like it no longer matters how we worship and not everything in the Bible is true or relevant anymore.  The fathers of the church decided which books the bible contains but human beings are not infallible.  If Origen's book had been included, then Christians would believe in reincarnation which to me is far scarier than no afterlife. 

 

I'm miserable now, but I know my circumstances could be so much worse.  I try to count my blessings, but missing my dad eclipses everything.  I don't think I'll ever find someone like him on the dating sites, because he was unique, and also a quiet, private man like him would probably never place a dating ad.  Actually, a more outgoing man than my father would be better suited to me, but I can't find even one who likes both classic films and classical music who is located close to me. 

 

Because my tastes in music are not very current, it's hard to make new friends.  I like pop music from the 1980's and before, but not much of today's music scene.  The other night I went to a karaoke bar for the first time to hear a former high school classmate sing.  She got in touch with me through Facebook after 38 years.  While her rendition of "Hey Jude" was very good, some of the songs other people sang were not enjoyable.  Tomorrow I am going to go bowling for the first time with this new friend.   One more thing to scratch off my bucket list.  I feel like I am dying, because I have nothing or no one to live for anymore.  I don't know how to live for myself.   I used to love my hobbies.  Now I feel guilty about spending so much time on them when I could have been watching more movies with my dear, sweet dad.  I knew he would die some day, but I was in denial.  I didn't want to think about my father dying, because I knew life without him would be horrible beyond belief -- and it is!!   I thought he would live to be 90, because he didn't smoke or drink much, but he ate too many refined carbohydrates during his life.  I tried to tell him to eat a healthier diet, but he wouldn't listen until it was too late.  One day a neighbor found him exhausted on the street and she gave him a ride home.  Then he was diagnosed with advanced heart disease, congestive heart failure and peripheral arterial disease.  After injuring his toe, the wound developed into an ulcer which developed gangrene.  He seemed to be getting better on a modified Paleo diet.  He reversed his diabetes and PAD, and recovered completely from the gangrene on his toes, thanks in part to xeroform gauze and MediHoney dressings which I changed daily for nearly a year.  His surgeon called it a miracle.  She thought he would have to have his leg amputated below the knee.

 

My father died on December 27, 2014, from congestive heart failure, kidney failure and pneumonia of unknown etiology.  During his last hospitalization, the hospital gave him two pneumonia vaccines when he already had pneumonia.  He suffered a massive heart attack hours later.  I think the vaccines overwhelmed his already weakened immune system.  I feel so guilty that I wasn't there to advise him to refuse the vaccines until he was stronger.  They talked him into it.  They pumped him full of powerful nephrotoxic antibiotics when they didn't even know the organism causing the pneumonia.  They failed to do a sputum culture during his previous hospitalization two weeks earlier, even after I had collected a sample myself to be sure that they did it.   Instead of trying to treat his CHF, they were pushing hospice and DNR status on him because of his multiple admissions through the years and because he wouldn't have heart surgery.  They botched a simple toe operation two years earlier, so he didn't trust them with open heart surgery.  When I told them they should try a different diuretic because of a phenomenon called braking, they ignored me.  Some of the staff didn't even know what braking or aquapheresis is.  I should have transferred him to another hospital, but all the hospitals have horror stories around here -- this one had the most comfortable accommodations.   At the other hospital close to us, a woman was found dead in a stairwell after lying there for SEVENTEEN DAYS!  A lady in the waiting room told me her father had been discharged from the hospital with an undiagnosed perforated bowel!   When I finally requested to have my dad transferred to a different hospital, they said he couldn't be moved, yet they were able to move him to another floor for Comfort Care.   I think the damn hospital was trying to kill my father before he even entered Comfort Care. 

 

At first, I pleaded with them not to give up on my dad, because his quality of life in between admissions was relatively good.  At home he could still walk, talk, laugh, eat, enjoy movies and music, read, play the keyboard and even do some light chores.   There was a nurse from hell who said she didn't believe in prolonging life artificially, because of her religious beliefs -- what was she doing working in an ICU unit?!!!  She said my medical knowledge was the level of a five year old, compared to the trained doctors and nurses.  I wanted to request that my father be reassigned a different nurse, but I remembered my dad warning me not to make waves, because he would be the one to pay.  At that time he was sedated on the ventilator and couldn't speak for himself.  I was afraid the ICU nurse would pull the plug on him if I complained about her. My dad had chosen to go on the ventilator, hoping it would buy him more time to recover -- he had rallied from the brink of death before, because his will to live was very strong.  He had a fighting spirit -- he was a boxer for the Golden Gloves in the US Army during the Korean War.  The nurse gave me a big lecture when I asked for an extra blanket for my father, because he was cold to the touch and I was cold even wearing my coat.  She told me you're dad may be a wonderful man and all, and you may have taken care of him at home, but he's in a different world now!  I'm not Chinese, but she said that she was tired of Chinese people wanting six blankets on their relative, which causes them to spike a fever and then they have to be given an antibiotic.  The nurse is black and I'm sure if I had made general statements about blacks she would have been livid.  I felt like I had to ask her permission to even turn off the light.  Of course, not all doctors and nurses are that bad, some are very dedicated and compassionate, but all it takes are a few bad ones to make a bad situation much, much worse than it should be. 

My dad wanted to live for my sake and for his own, too, because we had a lot to look forward to.  We had been through financial problems, but were finally back in the black after I sold a vacant piece of land I had inherited.  But the private sale was delayed a whole year, because of inept lawyers on both sides and an escrow officer from hell -- a whole year in which I could have been pampering my dear father.  I finally got to shower him with presents, but he only lasted six months after the close of escrow.  I want to cry when I see all the clothes, shoes, books and collectibles I bought for him, which he hardly had a chance to enjoy.  All I ever wanted to do was make him happy and proud of me.  He was proud of me when I graduated Valedictorian of my high school class, but that was a long time ago.  We both grew up in the same old, rundown house, where we were ashamed to bring over our school friends.  My property is in an area which no one ever wanted before the street was properly paved, but now it's red hot.  I fixed up the outside of the house, restoring the Victorian architectural details, and now I get plenty of compliments, but the inside needs so much more work which I can't afford.  I had dreamed of transforming this house into a place where my father and I could both be proud to live, but now he'll never see the work completed.  The garden is looking so nice with the roses in bloom, but what good is a garden for only one person?  I want to hang onto the property, hoping maybe, just maybe, I'll meet someone who I can love and who will love me.  I had my first online date with an attorney who recently sold his house and wants to live on his yacht.  I don't think that's the life for me.  I can't even swim!   I don't want to end up like Natalie Wood.  I hosted my first barbecue patio party on Memorial Day weekend, just for three cousins, and while it was nice to have company, I missed my father so very much.  Nobody is as fun to be with as my dad was. I tried marijuana for the first time on my 56th birthday, and it did nothing for me.  I giggled only because it was so out of character for me.  I still get a kick from champagne, but even a whole bottle is not enough to drown my sorrow. 

      

Like I said, my dad wanted to live, because we were happy together, in spite of all the problems of daily life, mostly caused by greedy, thoughtless individuals, and his health problems.  I'm glad, silverkitties, that you have so many wonderful memories of doing fun things with your mom.  I wish my father and I had gone out more.  We went out more often in the days before vcr's;  mostly we went to movie houses all over the city.  We especially enjoyed going to silent film screenings at a now defunct art deco theater that has now been turned into a church.  One memorable night in the early 1970's, after watching the silent film "Beau Brummel" with John Barrymore for the first time, I remember my dad and I walking home together.  It was a warm summer evening and the scent of night blooming jasmine filled the air.  I was thinking about how handsome and talented John Barrymore was at the height of his fame.  The organist had played "Romance in E-Flat" by Anton Rubinstein as the love theme.  When we got home, my father played a 78 record of "Romance" for me.  I sat enraptured by this beautiful music and the romantic story of Beau Brummel.  My father and I were both hopeless romantics.  One would never have known from looking at our prosaic lifestyles.  It's tragic that neither of us would ever meet someone we could love with a true Romantic passion, and at my age now, I doubt I ever will.  I don't think I have enough hormones left.  I probably have too much cortisol from stress.  I've been infatuated a few times, but that's about it.   

 

Yesterday, my dad's best friend came over, because he wanted me to order some things for him on the Internet, because his wife disapproves of his spending.  He's a Chinese engineer, married with grown kids.  I hardly turn on the tv anymore, but we watched a documentary together called "The Untold History of the United States".  He sat in the spot on the couch where my father used to sit.  It almost seemed like old times, except he's not my dad.  The documentary used a lot of my favorite classical music selections.  My dad and I were both history buffs.  I know he would have liked watching it.  The archival footage and the music together made me sad, but I didn't want to cry in front of my friend.  I don't know how I am ever going to enjoy life again when this keeps happening.  My friend said I look sick in my dating ad photo.  I said some men like it.  He said that's because they think you're going to die and leave them your property.  He asked me does he get a finder's fee if he finds me a boyfriend?  He has a widower in mind for me, but he smokes.  It's always something!  If I could find just one man who likes the silent film "Beau Brummel" and "Romance" by Rubinstein, it would be like finding a needle in a haystack.  But then even if I found a man like that, would I still feel sad when we watched the silent movie or played the music?  I just tried listening to "Romance" performed by Isaac Stern on YouTube, and had to stop it, because it was too sad.  All of a sudden, I'm finding all kinds of videos my dad would have liked.  Where was all this stuff when my dad was alive?!!  I had stopped showing him YouTube videos after my Plex account stopped working.  The videos wouldn't load properly on my Roku anymore.  I bought a new Roku and an Amazon Fire but they didn't have the right kind of audio outputs I needed.  Now I think if he had been able to enjoy YouTube videos on his big screen tv, like he did before, he might still be alive.  This is how my mind works. 

 

I am very sorry that your father has not given you the moral support you need and deserve.  Of course, I don't know him, but I wonder if he was jealous of the close relationship between you and your mother.  I worry about how you will feel when he passes. I had two uncles who were sometimes mean to me, because they were envious of my inheritance, but I still loved them and miss them.  When they died I felt very sad, even though if I had died before them, they probably wouldn't have missed me the way I miss them.  One uncle died from pancreatitis and the other from C.Diff -- both terrible ways to go.  Greed and envy cause so much suffering.  One of my favorite cousins wouldn't talk to me for over a year, because I wouldn't sell my vacant lot to him $35,000 under market value.  I asked him would you give me $35,000 of your pension?  Because I was a caregiver for family members for many years, I don't have a pension, not even Social Security.   I only have my property.  I know I am fortunate to own a house that's paid for, but it's not like it was handed to me on a platter like most inheritances.  I received my inheritance from my great uncle, because I was the caregiver for his two sisters and then for him.  After the property value was reassessed the property taxes went up 700 percent. 

 

I know what you mean when you said how quiet and lonely it gets at sunset and in the evening.  I sometimes put on talk radio just to pierce the silence, but many times I sit here typing on my computer in complete silence.  Computers and talk radio are two things my dad wasn't into that much, so they are "safe" activities that don't trigger grief reactions  A friend of mine in Denver said I'm being immature to mourn my father so much, but she was adopted and hated both her parents.  She said I must like being miserable since I keep thinking about my dad and torturing myself.  She said I'm going to end up in a cardboard box if I don't snap out of it and find a job soon.  I am living off savings right now.  There's only one friend in Cincinnati who sort of understands what I'm going through, because she is an only child who lost both her parents whom she loved, but she didn't live with them all her life.  She was married for 30 years.  She has no children.  She says that after her divorce, she likes living alone.  But she lives in a neighborhood where people look out for each other.  Here on my street, people keep to themselves mostly.  They argue over parking spaces more than anything else.  A couple of neighbors have even resorted to breaking a windshield and slashing tires of cars parked in their spots -- and these are professional people.  There are several multi-millionaires living on this block, which used to be a working class neighborhood. 

 

I am so glad to know that others understand my grief in ways that people on the other grief sites don't seem to comprehend.  I don't know how people with children, siblings, spouses, and boyfriends can truly feel lonely, unless they don't see them very often or they don't get along.  I'm lucky to have a half brother who takes me out with his family once every couple of months, but even he doesn't understand my grief.  He came to visit often when I was growing up, but  we did not live together under the same roof.  Still, my father was the only dad he ever had.  He helped support him growing up, even though the court did not order alimony for my mother.  My dad even loaned him $15,000 five years ago to help him get out of credit card debt.  Sadly, in the last couple of years, my half brother was not there for my father and me -- not until the very end.  He has invited me to go to Europe with him next month but I don't want to go mainly because I can't get over how abandoned he made me feel when I needed him most.  His wife also hurt my father's feelings sometimes, and I just can't get over it.  About twenty years ago, my dad and I once went on a trip to Yosemite with them, and she complained so much that she had to drive, because my father and I didn't drive, that she ruined our fond memories of Yosemite.  I wish my brother had never invited us.  I vowed never to go on another overnight trip with them again.  I think people with good memories suffer more than most people.

 

Well, this post is already way too long, so I will close for now.  I wish for you and everyone else who is grieving the comfort and healing that I also wish for myself.          

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silverkitties

I am coming up for air right now from some of my work and want to begin by saying I can't tell you enough how uncannily similar our stories seem to be, Missionblue--especially since you're a fellow non-driver too! For the time being, I just want to respond to your observations on the hospital. Disgraceful is the first word that comes to mind here, especially with the woman who found dead in a stairwell for 17 days. I suspect they don't even have a decent vidoe cam which makes me wonder if any of their other equipment is up to date: apart from the sheer horror that they took that long to discover it.   

 

The more I see it, the more I think that many of our hospitals only want to cut corners. If you're elderly, not a celeb, and are not a major donor to the hospital, they could give a crap. You are not going to be first priority because you could die any moment, so why bother? Better to help someone who is young and has a chance of surviving. At least, that's the reasoning. Then they can pat themselves on the back and say, "Aren't we terrific?"

 

No wonder they couldn't be motivated to move your father to another hospital. And no wonder even though my mom was admitted to ER at 3 pm w/ blood pressure of over 175 and pulmonary embolism, they waited till 9 pm to do her EKG and ultrasound. Not only that, but they actually pushed her bed into the hallway which was already crowded with other beds due to the lack of room. To make things worse, some of the docs were making small talk, laughing, joking, and singing Moon River amongst themselves. Talk about adding insult to injury when patients and families are milling about, waiting anxiously only to be told over and over "no we don't know yet..." And yet none of this really surprises me at all, having heard what I've heard from one of my friends who teaches undergraduate chemistry. She's complained numerous times about how so many of her nursing students don't care about their studies; they sit in class checking their iphones and raise their hands to ask her to repeat what was just said because they missed it while looking at their messages. Duh. How much do you want to be that these are going to be the ones sitting at the nurse's station texting and messaging while the patient rings for 20 minutes to use the bathroom? 

 

Then there are the doctors who are resentful that they are putting in 24/7 but not making as much as a Wall Street banker. Why didn't they head to Wall Street to begin with? (Although, of course, there's also the question, why are the latter making so much....but that's another subject altogether.) It's all about me, me, me-- and money. Of course, not everyone in the health industry is this terrible. I've known a few good ones. But when you have so many who are uncaring, it makes you wonder a bit.

 

Part of me blames myself too for not having researched our local hospitals adequately. I assumed that that one was good enough since my father was nursed back to health in 2010. Why didn't I check to see which hospitals were ranked #1 and 2? Maybe I was lazy too: this makes me feel all the worse--like I truly failed Mom. 

 

I'll return later tonight to discuss the music, movies, recollections, and sadness, Missionblue. Thank you mentioning the Anton Rubenstein; I looked it up immediately on youtube and it's beautiful and haunting. I can see why you feel the way you do.  I love classical music and pop up to the '90s (As a huge Mozart fan--even before Amadeus debuted in 1981--I actually minored in music as an undergrad!).  But I will say this first: being perceptive, sensitive, and analytical is both a blessing and a curse. It means we see and understand more: but it means we can feel more too. And the depth of our feelings can truly sear us through and through that we wonder how much longer we can bear it. 

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MissionBlue

I am coming up for air right now from some of my work and want to begin by saying I can't tell you enough how uncannily similar our stories seem to be, Missionblue--especially since you're a fellow non-driver too! For the time being, I just want to respond to your observations on the hospital. Disgraceful is the first word that comes to mind here, especially with the woman who found dead in a stairwell for 17 days. I suspect they don't even have a decent vidoe cam which makes me wonder if any of their other equipment is up to date: apart from the sheer horror that they took that long to discover it.   

 

The more I see it, the more I think that many of our hospitals only want to cut corners. If you're elderly, not a celeb, and are not a major donor to the hospital, they could give a crap. You are not going to be first priority because you could die any moment, so why bother? Better to help someone who is young and has a chance of surviving. At least, that's the reasoning. Then they can pat themselves on the back and say, "Aren't we terrific?"

 

No wonder they couldn't be motivated to move your father to another hospital. And no wonder even though my mom was admitted to ER at 3 pm w/ blood pressure of over 175 and pulmonary embolism, they waited till 9 pm to do her EKG and ultrasound. Not only that, but they actually pushed her bed into the hallway which was already crowded with other beds due to the lack of room. To make things worse, some of the docs were making small talk, laughing, joking, and singing Moon River amongst themselves. Talk about adding insult to injury when patients and families are milling about, waiting anxiously only to be told over and over "no we don't know yet..." And yet none of this really surprises me at all, having heard what I've heard from one of my friends who teaches undergraduate chemistry. She's complained numerous times about how so many of her nursing students don't care about their studies; they sit in class checking their iphones and raise their hands to ask her to repeat what was just said because they missed it while looking at their messages. Duh. How much do you want to be that these are going to be the ones sitting at the nurse's station texting and messaging while the patient rings for 20 minutes to use the bathroom? 

 

Then there are the doctors who are resentful that they are putting in 24/7 but not making as much as a Wall Street banker. Why didn't they head to Wall Street to begin with? (Although, of course, there's also the question, why are the latter making so much....but that's another subject altogether.) It's all about me, me, me-- and money. Of course, not everyone in the health industry is this terrible. I've known a few good ones. But when you have so many who are uncaring, it makes you wonder a bit.

 

Part of me blames myself too for not having researched our local hospitals adequately. I assumed that that one was good enough since my father was nursed back to health in 2010. Why didn't I check to see which hospitals were ranked #1 and 2? Maybe I was lazy too: this makes me feel all the worse--like I truly failed Mom. 

 

I'll return later tonight to discuss the music, movies, recollections, and sadness, Missionblue. Thank you mentioning the Anton Rubenstein; I looked it up immediately on youtube and it's beautiful and haunting. I can see why you feel the way you do.  I love classical music and pop up to the '90s (As a huge Mozart fan--even before Amadeus debuted in 1981--I actually minored in music as an undergrad!).  But I will say this first: being perceptive, sensitive, and analytical is both a blessing and a curse. It means we see and understand more: but it means we can feel more too. And the depth of our feelings can truly sear us through and through that we wonder how much longer we can bear it. 

Silverkitties, I agree that the state of many hospitals is disgraceful.  My father and I had already tried several other hospitals on previous occasions.  All of them had problems with their service at some point, so it probably would not have made much difference which hospital he went to.  We didn't even bother to try the Veterans' Hospital because of its bad reputation.  Unfortunately a five hour wait to be admitted to a hosptial from the ER is standard these days.  One time my father and I had to wait two hours just for someone to bring a wheelchair so he could be taken to my half brother's waiting car.  We were waiting in front of the nurse's station where nurses were yacking away without a care in the world.  I asked them several times to bring a wheelchair and all they did was page someone to bring the chair repeatedly.  Not one of them could be troubled to do it.  When the young man finally arrived with a wheelchair his only excuse was that they are understaffed.   At another hospital they would do construction work in the middle of the night.  The nurses would talk and laugh loudly in the wee hours of the morning with no regard whatsoever for patients trying to sleep.  I just hope someday all those inconsiderate medical professionals will suffer the way they made their patients suffer.  I pray to God for vengeance!  Nothing wrong with that since the Old Testament is filled with such prayers.  One inconsiderate surgeon postponed my dad's surgery from morning to the afternoon, and so he went without eating for 22 hours!  He started vomiting from low blood sugar.  Luckily, one dedicated nurse called off the operation.  My dad might have aspirated while under the anesthesia and yet starving him was supposed to prevent that very thing from happening!  One time a clock fell off the wall in my dad's hospital room.  Another time a rolling table flipped over, because it got stuck under the bed when the nurse was lowering it.  Another time an oxygen tank that wasn't secured flew through the air when an MRI machine was turned on.  So much carelessness all around. 

 

When my dad was in the ICU, I had to go home to sleep, so to reassure him I told him that the nurses were watching him on the closed circuit camera.  He made a scoffing gesture with his hand as if to say they weren't watching him.   At this point he couldn't speak because of the ventilator tube in his throat.  One of the ICU nurses reassured me that he would keep an eye on my dad and let me know if anything changed.  He said my dad was showing improvement.  I went home elated by this small glimmer of hope.  It was Christmas Eve and I prayed for a Christmas miracle.  The next morning, I woke up with a feeling of dread.  I rushed to the hospital to find my father with the cannula out and his oxygen saturation dangerously low.  He was begging for air, water and God's mercy.  No one was helping him!   When he saw me he thanked me over and over.  It broke my heart.  I told the nurse to put him back on a face oxygen mask, instead of the cannula, because he was breathing through his mouth more than his nose.  The nasal gastric feeding tube was blocking his airway.  I asked them to increase his oxygen pressure.  I shouldn't have had to ask.  I wonder how many other times he was left to suffer alone like that when I wasn't there.   

 

I have heard horror stories about hospitals from friends, so I didn't even want to try those hospitals.  For example, at one hospital, a friend who was recovering from Guillain-Barre syndrome was paralyzed and couldn't speak.  Someone had left exercise putty in a styrofoam cup next to his bed and the nurse tried to feed it to him!!  Then another nurse put ear drops into his eyes!  At another hospital my father's cousin was found dead in the hallway, because no one was watching him.  I wish the hospitals would let family members keep watch on their loved ones remotely.   

 

Even though I did plenty of research about congestive heart failure and hospitals, I still feel like I failed my father.  The hospitalist assumed he had pneumonia and discharged him after just a couple of days with only antibiotics.  CHF and pneumonia look the same on x-rays.  I should have gotten a second opinion, but I assumed that since he had had pneumonia six months earlier and was treated successfully with antibiotics, I thought they knew what they were doing.  The difference is that they had done a sputum culture that previous time, so they knew the proper antibiotic to prescribe.  This time they didn't do a sputum culture, because of a mixup at the lab, even after I had reminded them to do one -- they weren't going to do one at all.  They discharged him anyway.  I should have insisted they do a sputum culture, but my dad wanted to come home.  I hoped he would recover, but two weeks later he had to be readmitted for shortness of breath and blood in his phlegm.  They did a sputum culture that time, but it did not culture for anything, so it was either a virus or CHF or both, but they never did anything to try to treat his CHF, such as changing his diuretic or trying aquapheresis which has helped people with more fluid retention than he had.  They only treated the pneumonia with both vancomycin and levaquin, which probably damaged his already weakened kidneys, without any proof he had a bacterial infection.  There's no guarantee a second opinion would have helped, but I wish he could have had the same team of doctors and nurses who had treated him six months earlier. 

 

Well, I have to go to see my grief therapist now.   I like this therapist much better than the previous three I tried, but 45 minutes of talking once a week is hardly worth the trouble of getting there.  I think there should be more phone therapy available.   It's just talking after all.

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silverkitties

Missionblue, that sounds like a nightmare--they should have done the sputum culture check to at least rule out pneumonia. Talk about poor critical thinking.  Did they do at least an ultrasound and EKG? Any blood thinners? Then there's always the possibility that they may have goofed on dosing. After all, there was an article in the NYT showing that many doctors think 1/5 is larger than 1/4. Pathetic, right?

 

I still think about how they changed my mom's blood thinner from Coumadin to Enoxaparin (Lovenox) after discovering her pulmonary embolism. (Btw, all of this happened exactly a year ago to the very date.) The problem was that the Enox was causing her problems with incontinence; I noticed it a day after she arrived. And when I read up about it, there was mention that some 50% of doctors witnessed a correlation: so this was not exactly all in my imagination. 50% IS significant, even if it's not a majority vote. Yet, her doctors dismissed it when I brought it up. I kept asking for an alternative but they said there were none--which I thought bizarre. How can there only be two types of blood thinners?!

 

My mom also complained that she was being overdosed a few days before her stroke. She kept saying the hospital was trying to kill her....but a day later on the weekend, she looked remarkably better. She had stopped coughing, so we felt pretty certain that all she had was pneumonia. Then came the stroke on Monday morning.

 

But there two things that stick out in my mind particularly--one in retrospect, the other which I noticed immediately. When I look back, I wonder why they  assigned a hemotologist rather than a GI doctor? I only realized that after I discovered a week before she died that there was in fact a GI oncology department at the hospital. If her cancer started in the bile duct area, she should have been sent there! It's kind of like sending a student who wants to write a thesis on Shakespeare to an Austen specialist: beyond DUMB.  (I actually told them that and they were flabbergasted.)

 

Then I put 2 and 2 together, suddenly realizing that they assigned her to him because he had just transferred to the Hartford area. Did they hand her over to him because he needed patients? Silly me: I thought they had assigned him to her because he was probably the best and most suitable!  After all, he had better academic credentials than most of the docs at the hospital; he had an MD from Columbia and had also done a residency and fellowship at Yale and San Fran. (I really need to stop assuming schooling means anything; look at my dad, LOL!)  My mom liked him a lot and very comfortable with him. I have to admit that even if I knew that there was a GI oncology department, I might still have been reluctant to transfer her for those very reasons.  And yet, I kick myself a lot. I should have checked: just like I should not have waited till after her CAT scan to get a second opinion at Yale or Hartford Hospital which have better oncology departments. But by then, she had really begun to sllp.

 

One thing that also sticks in my mind is the doctors recommending a nursing home and hospice in July: especially the one that was run by her physician. Maybe I study too much Gothic and indulge in too many conspiracy theories, but part of me almost wonders if they were trying to weaken her in order to send her there. On really bad days, I even wonder if they planted her with anything to make her deteriorate. They supposedly put in a filter to help her circulation. How do i know it was that indeed? No less interesting is the fact that her oncologist did not want to try a combination of cisplatin and gemzar even though that is supposed to be the most effective against bile duct cancer; he claimed that the combo would be much too powerful for her and wipe her out. I told him I had read that gem-cis has been discovered to be effective on elderly folks in a peer-reviewed article no less, but he wasn't going to buy that. Yeah, really, what does a dumb English Ph.D. know?! I wonder every day if the gemzar alone weakened her without killing off a sufficient # of cancer cells. Why couldn't they have tried the gem-cis combo just once since there are usually 6 treatments per chemo cycle?

 

Sometimes, I really want to sue these phucks, but know I don't really have a chance since I should have been much more proactive by contesting the oncologist in the first place. Heck, I should have gone to another hospital--PERIOD. I hope anyone else who is reading this will learn from my experience.

 

For this reason--and this reason only--I wish I had gone to med school and become a doctor.

 

P.S. Just wanted to add: when I had a conversation w/ the guy who mows our lawn, he told me that the docs keep telling him for months that his mom is going to die real soon even though she has no illnesses and is perfectly healthy at 97. Makes you wonder. 

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MissionBlue, I read your post and I am so sorry for your loss. I'm sorry that he had suffered so much during his stay at the hospital. The hospital should be sued for continued carelessness. You enter a hospital and trust that your loved one is being taken care of. 

 

I used to work at a Children's Hospital. Most doctors are nice but, you have doctors/nurses with their nose in the air and no greetings. Just plain rude. We were always taught to greet everyone you see with a smile and with a "How may I help you?" 

 

When your friend told you that you were immature to mourn so much, my jaw dropped. My friend recently told me to move forward. I was rather upset because it's still very recent. My mom recently died from a massive stroke on March 13. She died on the same day when she came to America. I was mom's main caretaker. I suffered a bleeding stroke in 2005 and another in 2007. 

 

I've posted in 'Losing a Parent' and 'Mom passed and I feel guilty'. Despite being handicapped with only my left hand to use, I would do it all over again. It was challenging for me to take care of mom. I want my mom here. I have a picture of mom next to the computer so I can see her and maybe she can see me. I miss mom!

 

OMG! Your father experienced a nightmare indeed. I know that you are the feelings that you are feeling. You are not in this alone. **HUGS**

 

 

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MissionBlue, I read your post and I am so sorry for your loss. I'm sorry that he had suffered so much during his stay at the hospital. The hospital should be sued for continued carelessness. You enter a hospital and trust that your loved one is being taken care of. 

 

I used to work at a Children's Hospital. Most doctors are nice but, you have doctors/nurses with their nose in the air and no greetings. Just plain rude. We were always taught to greet everyone you see with a smile and with a "How may I help you?" 

 

When your friend told you that you were immature to mourn so much, my jaw dropped. My friend recently told me to move forward. I was rather upset because it's still very recent. My mom recently died from a massive stroke on March 13. She died on the same day when she came to America. I was mom's main caretaker. I suffered a bleeding stroke in 2005 and another in 2007. 

 

I've posted in 'Losing a Parent' and 'Mom passed and I feel guilty'. Despite being handicapped with only my left hand to use, I would do it all over again. It was challenging for me to take care of mom. I want my mom here. I have a picture of mom next to the computer so I can see her and maybe she can see me. I miss mom!

 

OMG! Your father experienced a nightmare indeed. I know that you are the feelings that you are feeling. You are not in this alone. **HUGS**

Dear MayMW, Thank you for your message.  I am very sorry for the loss of your mother.  I can understand the guilt that you feel, though it's not your fault that she died.  To be guilty means to have intent, but you know very well that you did not wish your mother harm, and if you could, you would have done everything in your power to save her.  You could not predict that she would have a stroke, so why would you have thought to check on her sooner than you did?  When my great uncle had his first stroke, we did not notice right away -- we thought he was sleeping in.   You could not prevent your mom's stroke any more than she could have prevented yours.  Everyone loses track of time sometimes, and you have a medical condition that isn't your fault at all. What you did for your mom in spite of it is admirable.  You probably thought she would call for you if she needed help.  You need to have more sympathy for yourself.  If it were your mother who were wracked with guilt, because she thought she caused your death in the same way, wouldn't you forgive her and try to comfort her?  Of course, you would.  You'd tell her, please don't cry, mom, it wasn't your fault. I don't want you to be sad.  I want you to enjoy life and remember me with happiness.  Not that you should feel guilty for being sad either.  Grief is not something that can be dealt with by the intellect.  The only way to diminish grief is to grieve.  Cry when you have to, because you miss her, but don't feel guilty. 

 

I too struggle with feelings of guilt about my father's death.  I also feel like I killed him, because his last meal at home included a small piece of steak.  I didn't usually serve him steak for dinner, but I had bronchitis and was feeling lethargic.  I wanted to cook him something fast.  He didn't want fish, so I cooked a steak, because I had a craving for it, and I figured the iron would do him good.  He complained that there wasn't any salt on it.  He was on a salt-restricted diet and I didn't keep salt in the house.   He didn't like salt substitutes -- I had bought practically every brand under the sun.  I felt so sorry for him, because he couldn't enjoy food without salt, so I let him use a packet of parmesan cheese on the steak.  One of those ittle packets that come with pizzas. I thought he could handle the parmesan cheese, because the rest of his sodium intake was low enough that day.  Did I miscalculate?  Later that night he was admitted to the hospital for shortness of breath.  The doctor said it probaby wasn't the steak or the parmesan cheese but the walking pneumonia which caused his shortness of breath, but I'll never know for sure.  For my own peace of mind, I wish to God I had cooked him a piece of fish for dinner that day.  I don't believe the steak or the parmesan cheese alone killed him, but I feel like they were two more nails in his coffin.  Sometimes I let him cheat on his low sodium diet, because it made him feel better.  There are so many things I feel guilty about on his last night at home.  The last movie we watched together was a thriller that wasn't very good.  It was depressing and had a lousy ending.  Did he watch it with me just to please me?   I wonder if we had watched  a musical comedy would he still be alive?   Did I play enough upbeat music for him during the last week of his life? I remember on that last night I mentioned the Hollywood movie about killing Kim Jong-un and how the North Korean dictator had vowed revenge.  My dad said to me crankily, why do you worry about that stuff for?  It was not like him to be short with me like that -- he must have been feeling very poorly.  He had not slept well the night before, but I didn't think it was anything serious.  I went to bed early the night before.  Maybe if I had stayed up late like I normally did, I would have been able to help him sleep.  I can't even remember everything that happened now, but I keep having the "what if's" the "if onlys" and "I should have" or "I shouldn't have" done this or that .  It's enough to drive me crazy.  I would forgive him in the blink of an eye if he felt guilty about anything he didn't do for me.   He was not a perfect father and I wasn't a perfect daughter.  Still, I once told him that he deserved a perfect daughter and a perfect wife, because he was the nicest man I ever knew.  He replied, "I'm not perfect either."  I cry just thinking about this.  I'm glad I told him he was my hero long before he was on his death bed, but I wish I had praised him even more than I did. 

 

I miss my dad so much I really don't want to live anymore.  I would not commit suicide, because I don't want to dishonor my father's memory.  My neighbor told me you would dishonor all of us if you did that.  It's hard to have hope for the future, because even if I met a very nice man, I would not be able to trust that he would stay with me forever the way my father would have if he could.  It is so wonderful to have absolute faith and trust in another human being.  You know how people say that God is in all of us.  Well, to me, God was in my father like no other human being I ever knew.  The love of a parent is the most like God's love for us.  It's almost like the devil was in my mother, but as she got older, she got more mellow and affectionate.  The staff and the other patients at the nursing home liked her so much, they had a memorial tribute for her since the patients couldn't attend her funeral.  I showed them a slideshow I had made for her vigil.  Even though my mother didn't really love me, I'm still glad that my father married her, because even though my life is miserable now, I had a good life with him.  Even though she had treated him badly, he said he could never hate my mother, because she had given him me.

 

I have a picture of my dad hanging on the wall above my computer so he is always looking over me. 

 

Thank you, May, for making me feel less alone. You must have more compassion for yourself, just as I should for myself.  Warm hugs to you.   

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MissionBlue

Silverkitties, they did do an EKG and an ultrasound on my dad.  It's just the sputum culture they neglected the first time.  He could have still had viral pneumonia, but if they had ruled out a bacterial infection, then they wouldn't have had to give him such powerful antibiotics which weakened his kidneys.  They ruled out TB by doing a tuberculin skin test.  He had to be kept in isolation for four days which was a pain.  I still think they should not have given him those pneumonia vaccines in his weakened state. He could not take blood thinners, because he was at a high risk for bleeding. Coumadin contributed to his mother's death from internal hemmorhage, even though she was taking regular protime tests.  My dad had been put on Xarelto (blood thinner) but he immediately started coughing up blood.  A few years ago he almost lost a third of his blood supply, from occult bleeding caused by daily baby aspirin and H. Pylori.  He stopped taking Lovenox because it caused him to experience a brief loss of vision.   I'm so sorry that Lovenox caused such bad side effects for your mom.   The doctors would rarely admit side effects for any drug they prescribed.  They kept telling him he would have a stroke if he didn't take any blood thinners but the risk of internal bleeding if he should fall was a worse threat.   I'm glad he never stroked even though he had a blood clot in his heart, caused by arrythmia.  Plavix is another dangerous blood thinner, especially when combined with some heartburn drugs.

 

My dad had advanced heart disease, so chances are he would have had a heart attack anyway, but I wish they had tried to treat the fluid retention in his lungs better by trying something other than Lasix.  He was already on a fairly high dose of Lasix which damages the kidneys over time.  The medications cause as many problems as they cure.  It took a long time for them to find a combination of meds that would help his high blood pressure, but they had bad side effects, too.  The doctors kept pressuring him to take statins but they made him nauseous.  They would never admit it was the Lipitor, but he got better when he stopped taking it.  I know three people who could not tolerate statins. One was th e daughter of my late neighbor who appeared on a national news show talking about how statins had caused the tendons in her legs to rupture. Another friend suffered anxiety attacks from statins and still another friend vomited nine times after taking statins. However, my half brother and his wife both take statins without side effects. There's a very interesting video on YouTube called "The Lipitor Paradox":

 

My father could also not tolerate hydrocodone -- it made him nauseous and constipated.  He felt the less medications he took the better off he was. 

 

Your conspiracy theories make sense to me.  I would sue the hospital, too,  but I'm afraid the only people who would win are the lawyers.  My neighbor recently got sued for her partner harrassing another neighbor over their parking space.  She had to pay the neighbor $3,000 to settle out of court and her lawyer got $15,000 -- all for arguing over a parking space! 

 

My best friend said that when her mom was in the hospital a hospice worker from Hell kept pushing very hard for her to let her mom die.  All the hospitals and nursing homes were pushing for hospice.  The ER doctor that treated her mom had also worked for hospice and the second director of the hospital was working with hospice, too.  My friend was told by her mom's podiatrist, when she was in the hospital, that he knew the newer nurses are being trained in the mindset of hospice for people of a certain age.

 

Is it just a coincidence that one of the last antibiotics my dad took was Vancomycin and it was also the last antibiotic my grandmother received before she died?  I remember being in my grandmother's hospital room back in 1984 and reading The Book of Lists which had a horrific story about Vancomycin killing hundreds of people.  I can't remember the exact details, but I remember walking over to the IV and seeing that my grandma was being administered Vancomycin!  I didn't know what to think. 

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Missionblue, I have to say that I found your post disturbing--and yet so true. As they say, reality is stranger than fiction: and perhaps nowhere more so than in medicine.

 

At the end, it really boils down to $$$. Yes, it sounds crass and simplistic, but that's what it is. I remember getting a great itch med from my dermatologist before leaving for England in 1994. It was perfect. When I returned for good in 2001, my psoriasis flared up again. I think this had to do with my allergy to my cat: because I had been away from him for much of the time, I became sensitized all over again. I wanted to see my old dermatologist, but he had retired. Anyway, when I finally did get a new one, he recommended a triamcinalone which made me itch more. I asked if I get could a refill on my old one since I still had some (can't even remember the name now), but he was so reluctant, I thought bugger it. I continued to use the old tub I had gotten in 1995 until I finished it.

 

In time, the psoriasis eased after a month--probably because I'd become desensitized to my cat; so I stopped my visits altogether. But it did make me think about all of those docs who recommend drugs merely because they have a contract with them. To hell with the patient. Who cares about their needs when they can make a few extra bucks? 

 

No wonder the parents of one of my highschool friends left the US for Canada. They were doctors who immigrated here from England in the early 1970s and wound up getting so fed up with what they perceived as American greed that they departed after less than a decade. There's no doubt they were much more comfortable with the idea of socialized medicine, but it speaks volumes nonetheless.

 

The medical profession is sick, pun intended.

 

I know suing the hospital is next to impossible, so it was something I didn't even contemplate very seriously: unless one has a botched surgery or is given a med that is so obviously unsuitable (e.g., allergies as stated on the form). And yet, that may be precisely why the docs get away as much as they do; not that they would necessarily want to kill, but rather that they can afford to be careless. Not to mention they hire the best lawyers too. In fact, they operate with the assumption that people know this and will seek to give them the benefit of the doubt. You know, carte blanche for the men in white coats.

 

As for the doctors who work at hospice--never mind being actual founders and directors of hospices--that is even worse. Can anyone say "obvious conflict of interest?" Not to mention that it offers a handy excuse when they're not really sure how to treat the illness: "oh well, Mr. X was very old and trying new methods might just kill him. Better let him go to hospice."  But lord knows, the docs and managers all "need" that 15,000 sq. ft mansion to impress their highschool classmates  Wifey must have a monthly $4000 shoe allowance. Junior must attend that $35,000 a year prep school enroute to Harvard/Yale/Princeton, etc.

 

I think this is what makes grieving so difficult. God knows, the loss is hard enough. But when we think about the choices we could have made, we end up feeling even more agonized--like we didn't do enough. We should have gotten that third opinion. We should have researched the options more carefully, everything from the hospital to the actual drug. And even whether to call a visiting nurse or not.  It goes on and on.  

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MissionBlue, thank you for your kind words. My tears are flowing once again. I know that no one can predict a stroke coming on. My mom and I are the only ones in the family who had two strokes each.

 

Mom had her first stroke years ago. One morning when she woke up, she got out of bed and her left foot was dragging, her left hand was numb and her mouth drooped a little. We told her to go to the go to the ER but, as stubborn as she was, she refused to go. She waited almost a week before she gave in. It was her best friend that persuaded her. She recovered and everything was back to normal.

 

I had my first stroke in 2005, a bleeding stroke. We were watching the NBA finals and our team won the Championship. My nieces and nephews went outside to celebrate so I followed them to keep an eye on them. I was leaning up against the car and I suddenly I felt weird. I didn't have any pain anywhere. I just felt weird. I told my sister and she told me to go inside and drink a Gatorade. She thought that maybe I was low on sugar because I hadn't had dinner yet. I think it was around 11-12 pm As I proceeded to step away from the car, I felt my legs were weak. My sister helped me inside. My sister gave me the Gatorade and I couldn't open it. When I took my first drink, it leaked on the side of my mouth.

 

My sister gave me a test to raise both hands in the air, smile and repeat a sentence after her. I failed and she told me that I'm having a stroke. We have a fire station just up the street like 3-4 minutes away. That day was chaos because there was heavy traffic everywhere. People out celebrating. It took them like 8-10 minutes. My sister was my guardian angel that day. Prior to my stroke, she received an email two weeks ago on recognizing a stroke.

 

I spent a week in the ICU and a little over a month in rehab hospital. I had to learn to become a lefty. In 2007, I had another stroke. I was at work when it happened. This time it was a minor stroke. Spend a week in the hospital. I was on so many meds that I looked like an addict. When I went back to my doctor for a follow-up, she saw my blood test reading and she told me to go get and MRI on my stomach area immediately.

 

So, I went and the result was that I had a small cyst (smaller than a dime) growing on my kidney. That is what caused my blood pressure to be high. I was on several high blood pressure pills. Until the last year, I'm free of cholesterol and high blood pressure. I'm just taking baby aspirin everyday.l go walking everyday for an hour is what's helping me. I've always been an exercise freak. I used to do aerobics, yoga, core, running. Now, I can't do anything but, basic stretching and walking. I went from 210 lbs to 132 lbs. 

 

I just wish that we are all able to predict when an illness is about to occur. I guess that's life.

 

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Silverkitties, your story about the psoriasis cream reminded me of the time when a late friend of mine had surgery for his sinusitis which left him in a much worse condition.  Later he discovered that he was allergic to his goose down comforter!  All that misery and expense when the solution was so simple. 

 

The thing that torments me the most is that at one point my dad asked me, "Am I going? (to die)".  His question caught me off guard, because death was a subject he didn't like to discuss.  I didn't know what to say.  I told him that the doctor said his heart wasn't doing too good and that he needed an operation.  I thought my dad had the right to make the choice about whether to have surgery or not.  I asked him did he want to go back on the ventilator and have the surgery?  He said no and he immediately started to pray, "God have mercy on me" like a mantra.  I had never seen my stoic father pray so much.  I wish to God I hadn't told him he needed the operation. I should have let him die thinking he could get better on his own.  He knew he needed a heart operation even before this last heart attack but he had declined, because he didn't want to stay in the hospital for months.  He was in there for six weeks just for a toe operation and he had hated it even more than I had realized at the time.  I wish I had just said nobody knows when they are going to go.  Trying to backtrack, I said where there is life there is hope and that I couldn't wait to get him home to take care of him.  One time when I arrived at his bedside, I said, "Here I am, always at your side" and he looked at me with such an unforgettable expression of gratitude.  I treasure those moments when he did not seem in pain or discomfort.  The morphine helped with his breathing.  One of the hardest times besides when he was actually dying was when he was very warm and couldn't seem to get comfortable even though it was not a warm day.  He wanted me to bring a handheld fan from home to cool his face and to help him breathe.  Thankfully, this restless period passed. 

 

To comfort my dad, I reminded him that the priest had given him the Anointing of the Sick while he was sedated on the ventilator and that his soul was pure.  I reminded him of the story of the Good Thief to whom the Lord had promised, "This day you shall be with me in Paradise."  My dad thought it was the most uplifting passage in the entire bible.  His voice cracked with emotion when he said that if a lowly thief could get into heaven, then there was hope for him, too.  My dad's Chinese friend told me he didn't know what my father was worried about re getting into heaven.  He was the kindest person he ever met. 

 

Sadly, even the priests failed my father.  I called two priests, hoping one would come back and pray with him while he was still awake, but being Christmas Day, no one was available.  One priest promised to send a priest attached to the hospital.  He never showed up.  So my dad never got spiritual comfort while he was awake.  That should be routine for anyone placed in Comfort Care.  My father did not remain awake very long anyway.  Once he was placed on the morphine drip, he lost consciousness fairly quickly.  The doctor insists he died of his illness and not the morphine, but it sure looked like the morphine hastened his death.  When my father was praying aloud, an RN told him, "God is good, my friend."  That seemed to reassure him and he was peaceful after that.  I am so glad that my dad was comfortable before he lost consciousness.  He even smiled.  His last words were, "Michael is going to get tired."  Michael is the Chinese nurse who had saved his life two years earlier by calling off his toe surgery after they starved my dad for 22 hours and he started vomiting from low blood sugar.   The toe operation was done successfully a few days later.  But I'll never forget when I removed the bandage at home and saw all the gangrene on his toes.  I thought he was doomed, but good diet and xeroform gauze helped him recover and live two more years.  A very intelligent Filipina nurse helped save his life more than the doctors, because she's the one who would make the right recommendations to the doctor for his treatment.  And yet, the visiting nurse herself was recovering from breast cancer.   Nurses like that deserve a medal.   I wish she had not been transferred to another district. 

 

Before he died, my dad told me he loved me and he thanked me for everything.  I asked him to forgive me for any time I was not a good daughter.  He nodded. He knew about my guilt complex.  One time he told me, why do you feel guilty so much?  What do you care what other people think, as long as I don't have a problem with you?  He was too good for this world. Some people say my dad was selfish to expect me to be with him for 55 years, but it was my choice and I'd do it again.  I took care of all those relatives because I liked being home with my loved ones.  I just wish my dad and I could have taken more vacations together. My biggest regret is that I did not take him to Las Vegas.  I went once with some cousins in 2000 and had the time of my life. I won enough money to pay for everyone's expenses.  My father would have loved Las Vegas, but he didn't want to leave the house alone.  I am so glad that he went with me to New York City, the Poconos and to Mexico, at least.  When I was a girl, we went to visit his younger brother in Lake Tahoe a few times.  We also went to Reno and a camping trip to the Mokelumne River where we panned for gold -- that was fun, but the trips were too few and far between. 

 

By the time he was placed in Comfort Care, there was nothing more that could be done or so they told me.  Recovering from open heart surgery would have been too painful and risky for someone his age and as weak as he was.  He did not want to go back on the ventilator and the dialysis alone probably would have killed him.  His silent heart attack had left him with mitral valve regurgitation which meant that his heart could no longer pump the blood to effectively perfuse his kidneys.  Almost up to the last moment his pulse was strong, though irregular as it had been the last couple of years.  His oxygen saturation was good since they removed the NG tube which was interfering with his breathing, so I was filled with doubts that he really was moribund.  They told me that his heart's ejection fraction of 15 percent could hardly sustain life, but now I have read about people recovering with 13 percent EF and even 10 percent.   I wish I had bought an iPod so I could have looked up things while at the hospital, but I was home so much I didn't think I needed an iPod.  Still his kidneys were failing and he would have had to be put on dialysis at some point.  The doctor said his heart would not be able to stand the volume fluctuations.

 

Even if I were to remove all the guilt and sadness about the way he died, I would still be miserable, because I miss my dad so much.  It is so weird to be here alone in the silence, not a soul to talk to.  Even when people call me on the phone, it only lasts so long, then I'm all alone again with no happiness to look forward to.  A friend invited me to go dancing with her this Sunday, but I can't dance yet. I would feel like I am dancing on my father's grave.  Relatives have invited me to go on trips with them, to Prague, Italy, and Spain.  I even had a chance to go to Disneyland a few weeks ago.  My cousin was going for about the 50th time.  I've never been there.  I can only stand short bursts of "fun", before I start feeling melancholy, because I'm not as happy as the people around me.  I would be thinking about my dad and wishing he could have some fun, too.  

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Missionblue, that was such an eloquent post; I know nothing I write can stop you from feeling guilty but you should know that you have been a more than ideal daughter. And if there were anyone who qualified for sainthood, I would say you come as close to it as humanly possible. You leave me nothing to say but God bless you. God bless you for taking such good care of your relatives. And for loving your father so thoroughly, so selflessly. He obviously loved you too--and you reciprocated it to the very end.  You researched as much as you possibly could, you visited him frequently, and most of all, you were there to comfort him. There are many who probably wouldn't go half as far.

 

Honestly, you did everything you could to respect his wishes--which at the end of the day, is the most important mark of human dignity. I doubt you could have skirted around the issue surgery; because what if he did have a change of heart (so to speak) and decided he wanted one after all? Sometimes that does happen--and you wisely left him that option. We cannot predict what would happen in any event: would he have done better with the surgery? Worse? It seems that you let him pass as peacefully as possible.

 

I wish I could say that time heals all wounds. As you can tell from my posts, I am obviously still trying to work through my grief. Yesterday and today threw a wrench in the works as I couldn't stop thinking of all that happened last year at this very time. Those interminable hallways in the hospital are still looming large in my mind. So long ago, and yet so raw and fresh. It's been challenging to say the least. I'm not concentrating as I should and procrastinating far too much.

 

More tomorrow~

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MissionBlue, thank you for your kind words. My tears are flowing once again. I know that no one can predict a stroke coming on. My mom and I are the only ones in the family who had two strokes each.

 

Mom had her first stroke years ago. One morning when she woke up, she got out of bed and her left foot was dragging, her left hand was numb and her mouth drooped a little. We told her to go to the go to the ER but, as stubborn as she was, she refused to go. She waited almost a week before she gave in. It was her best friend that persuaded her. She recovered and everything was back to normal.

 

I had my first stroke in 2005, a bleeding stroke. We were watching the NBA finals and our team won the Championship. My nieces and nephews went outside to celebrate so I followed them to keep an eye on them. I was leaning up against the car and I suddenly I felt weird. I didn't have any pain anywhere. I just felt weird. I told my sister and she told me to go inside and drink a Gatorade. She thought that maybe I was low on sugar because I hadn't had dinner yet. I think it was around 11-12 pm As I proceeded to step away from the car, I felt my legs were weak. My sister helped me inside. My sister gave me the Gatorade and I couldn't open it. When I took my first drink, it leaked on the side of my mouth.

 

My sister gave me a test to raise both hands in the air, smile and repeat a sentence after her. I failed and she told me that I'm having a stroke. We have a fire station just up the street like 3-4 minutes away. That day was chaos because there was heavy traffic everywhere. People out celebrating. It took them like 8-10 minutes. My sister was my guardian angel that day. Prior to my stroke, she received an email two weeks ago on recognizing a stroke.

 

I spent a week in the ICU and a little over a month in rehab hospital. I had to learn to become a lefty. In 2007, I had another stroke. I was at work when it happened. This time it was a minor stroke. Spend a week in the hospital. I was on so many meds that I looked like an addict. When I went back to my doctor for a follow-up, she saw my blood test reading and she told me to go get and MRI on my stomach area immediately.

 

So, I went and the result was that I had a small cyst (smaller than a dime) growing on my kidney. That is what caused my blood pressure to be high. I was on several high blood pressure pills. Until the last year, I'm free of cholesterol and high blood pressure. I'm just taking baby aspirin everyday.l go walking everyday for an hour is what's helping me. I've always been an exercise freak. I used to do aerobics, yoga, core, running. Now, I can't do anything but, basic stretching and walking. I went from 210 lbs to 132 lbs. 

 

I just wish that we are all able to predict when an illness is about to occur. I guess that's life.

MayMW, thank you for the information about strokes.  I'm so glad that you are free of cholesterol and high blood pressure now.  Raw celery helps to reduce blood pressure naturally. 

 

I should start walking more.  I started walking a couple of months ago, because I had so much nervous energy from not eating.  I was diagnosed with high cholesterol a couple of months ago for the first time.  I think it is the stress and possibly the sleep medications I was taking, but I am not taking anything now. I have not checked my blood pressure lately, but it sometimes goes high when I'm anxious.  I don't get as anxious as before, but I am still very sad and lonely.  I cry more than before, because the numbness has worn off and reality has set in.

 

Like you, I also wonder how my loved ones are doing on the other side.  I especially worry about my father, because he was very dependent on me.  He never finished high school and so I took care of all the bills, taxes and other financial matters.  When he was no longer physically strong, I even had to do minor repairs like change the faucet on the kitchen sink with the help of a YouTube video.   My poor father was so sad that he could not help me with repairs as before, but he still could figure things out.  For example, he knew how to stop the plumbing from making noise in the downstairs bathroom.  It was because the water intake valve was not closed all the way.  I had closed it because of a leaking flapper in the toilet, but not tight enough.     

 

I know my presence comforted my dad, and so I wonder if he is truly happy in the afterlife without me.  I wonder if he knows his way around and if he made it to the pearly gates.  I would gladly follow him into hell or purgatory to keep him company.  It would be better than being lonely here without him.

 

I don't know how I am going to get through the rest of my life without my father to keep me company.  At times my dad and I could read each other's minds. We were like two peas in a pod.  And yet, I have not felt his presence here in the house.  I sometimes see him in dreams, but I only remember fragments.  I saw actor Richard Conte in a dream last night.  That doesn't mean he visited me.  :

 

One friend feels her late parents' presence in their house once in a while. She recently told me,  "I can't believe so much has been created just by chance. Still, if it happens there is nothing but peace afterward, that's not so bad either."

 

I have several friends who after consulting psychics/mediums are convinced that there exists life after death. 

 

One of my cousins has the psychic ability to receive messages from our relatives who pass on. She had a precognitive dream when her older sister was killed by a drunk driver back in 1970. She also saw our grandmother on the night she died. She was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, smiling, and then she vanished. On the night my father died, she said she had a dream in which she saw my dad in a beautiful forest. He looked well and younger. He told her, "I'm ok. I'm good to go."  He asked her to take care of me.  My cousin is so busy taking care of her family that I've only seen her twice in the last six months.  She lives too far away.

My cousin has had some health problems through the years. About ten years ago she almost died from internal bleeding caused by a polyp. After emergency surgery she had a dream in which she was in a beautiful place. A beautiful young girl was beckoning to her to come with her. She was about to go toward her, when she heard her father's voice tell her, "Do not go with the girl!" She then awoke in the hospital recovery room. She felt as cold as death. Her father died fifty years ago when she was only 13 but she had clearly recognized his voice.  

 

According to the Scriptures, Jesus wept at the death of Lazarus, even though he knew he would raise him from the dead, so experiencing grief does not show a lack of faith. It is a normal, natural and human response to loss, and also one of the most painful emotions to endure. I think we never get over our losses. We just learn to live with them. Knowledge and insight can't fix grief, because emotional incompleteness is not resolved in the intellect. Our emotional relationship with a loved one does not end with death. There is no acceptance. How can we accept the unacceptable? We have to learn to live in a new way.

I think loss is like a broken heart that is inoperable. We have to form new connections to people we can love and who can love us -- like the collateral circulation that compensates for blocked vessels in the heart. It will never be as good as when our heart was whole and healthy, but we will survive.  The trouble is finding those new connections. 

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Missionblue, that was such an eloquent post; I know nothing I write can stop you from feeling guilty but you should know that you have been a more than ideal daughter. And if there were anyone who qualified for sainthood, I would say you come as close to it as humanly possible. You leave me nothing to say but God bless you. God bless you for taking such good care of your relatives. And for loving your father so thoroughly, so selflessly. He obviously loved you too--and you reciprocated it to the very end.  You researched as much as you possibly could, you visited him frequently, and most of all, you were there to comfort him. There are many who probably wouldn't go half as far.

 

Honestly, you did everything you could to respect his wishes--which at the end of the day, is the most important mark of human dignity. I doubt you could have skirted around the issue surgery; because what if he did have a change of heart (so to speak) and decided he wanted one after all? Sometimes that does happen--and you wisely left him that option. We cannot predict what would happen in any event: would he have done better with the surgery? Worse? It seems that you let him pass as peacefully as possible.

 

I wish I could say that time heals all wounds. As you can tell from my posts, I am obviously still trying to work through my grief. Yesterday and today threw a wrench in the works as I couldn't stop thinking of all that happened last year at this very time. Those interminable hallways in the hospital are still looming large in my mind. So long ago, and yet so raw and fresh. It's been challenging to say the least. I'm not concentrating as I should and procrastinating far too much.

 

More tomorrow~

Thank you so much, silverkitties, for your very kind and comforting words. God bless you for your compassion.  I'm no saint, but my grandmother was one though.  She was the selfless matriarch who kept our family together.  I have to credit her for giving me a wonderful father.  

 

My dad usually deferred all medical decisions to me, except that possibly fateful one to receive the pneumonia vaccines.  If only he had called me!  You're right, I had to know his wishes re the heart surgery.  If I hadn't told him, perhaps I would feel even more guilty.  When I asked him if he wanted a second opinion, he just shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and made that cute sound he used to make which meant "I don't know."  Unfortunately, all this happening on Christmas Day limited our options.  He succumbed to the morphine too quickly to call in another doctor. 

 

I also struggle with procrastination and a lack of concentration, except when it comes to browsing the Internet in search of answers and relief.  I will pray for you and for all the other members here who struggle with grief.

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Wow! Your cousin is gifted, MissionBlue. I've always been interested in psychic stuff. When my sister-in-law and was in Guangchow years ago, she went to see a medium with her sisters because her father had passed. She was leery about mediums.

 

There were lots of mediums up and down the street. The medium that they went to told them things that was impossible for him to know beforehand. He told them that they had set up an alter in their house in the exact location he said, what their father died of, how old he was, his name and something to do with a watch that he used to have. He also said that their father is able to see them and the had message for them. That message was something that only the the family knew about.

 

My sister's mother-in-law is a Buddhist who is very religious. She prayed every single day for an hour. She was telling my sister what she experienced one day. She said she was in a deep payer and she saw herself in a dream. She was actually in heaven. She was with some monks. She saw a very long line of people waiting to be judged by the highest powder. There are 3 levels where the judge will take them to. First level is for people that get to be reincarnated to an animal or insect. I forgot what the second level was for but, I think it's for people to do prison time. The third level is for people to go straight to hell.

 

She also said what she's going to die from and when. There was a lot of info that she told my sister and her husband. The day she died was exactly how she described it.

 

Also, I might add that the Chinese (not all) believe that when you see a moth or a butterfly, leave it alone. It could be your loved one. Like when my mom passed my oldest brother went back home in L.A. He said that a week later there was a big moth that was following him around the garden. It followed him from the back door to the garden and back. Usually, when he turns on the light the moths rush to the light but not this one. It never happened before.

 

I'm just amazed with the whole psychic and afterlife thing. Are you a believer? I think I am.

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MissionBlue

Thank you for sharing your sister-in-law's experience, MayMW.   My neighbor across the street went to a spiritualist church.  She lost her mother and three brothers all at a young age.  When the medium approached her, he said that he saw a group of spirits around her and one of them was raising his hands clasped in a victory gesture.  Her youngest brother, who had died of AIDS at age 28, used to make that same gesture whenever he received good news.  A former classmate of mine went to the same church here in San Francisco and she said when the medium approached her the auditorium went completely dark and it started raining inside the building.  This vision was only visible to her.  The message she received from her grandmother has not come true yet, but she still believes her mother and her grandmother's spirits have communicated with her.  Another time she was talking to a friend who had lost her fiance and she saw a shadowy figure in the form of a gecko that was looking about the room.  She was frightened by it.  The medium told her that it was the spirit of her friend's late fiance.  I'm kind of skeptical of that vision.  A friend in Europe said he went to the spiritualist church where his mother used to go.  His late father's spirit had a message for him regarding a business matter that the medium couldn't possibly have known about.  He didn't tell me the details, but he is convinced that both his late parents communicated with him.  He has always been agnostic and very scientific, so I am inclined to believe him. 

 

Another acquaintance said that the medium revealed how his friend's father died of suicide in the basement and that he had not really intended to kill himself, but he slipped and got hung accidentally.  Another time there was a skeptic in the audience and the medium told him that he knew he was wearing a urostomy bag even though he could not see it.  The mediums are able to describe the spirits in great detail, to the astonishment of their loved ones.

 

I personally have never seen a ghost, but on my property there is an old rundown cottage built around the turn of the century that may be haunted.  My father said that about 65 years ago, he was taking a nap in the upstairs bedroom when a shadowy figure came out of the closet and started strangling him.  Suddenly the phantom vanished and was never seen again for six decades.  Then about three years ago, my father was sweeping the yard at dusk when he saw a shadowy figure walking toward the cottage.  He thought it was me, because who else could it be?  He called out and asked why I was going over there, because I rarely went into the cottage in the evening.  At that time I was washing clothes in the basement of the main house.  I came around the corner of the house and he looked at me, startled, and exclaimed, "What are you doing over there? I thought I saw you walking toward the cottage!"  It wasn't me.  Then about a month later, I had some workers installing a brick walkway between the cottage and the main house.  One of the workers glanced towards the cottage and saw a shadowy figure standing by the door, then it disappeared.  The foreman didn't see the phantom, but he felt chills up the back of his neck and head at the same time.  Then he went inside to use the bathroom next to my bedroom.  When he was about to come out he felt an invisible entity pull on his shirt, twice.  We had not told the workers about the shadowy figure my father had seen a month earlier, so it is uncanny that they saw/felt it, too.  No one we know of has died in the cottage or in our home, but possibly a former resident?

 

I don't know what to believe, because I have never seen any strange occurrences, except on the day one of my half brothers died in a freak accident, a fluttering bird tried to come in through the window.  This almost never happens.  I was not very close to this half-brother but we didn't have a lot of relatives on my mother's side, so maybe the bird was a spirit messenger?  A weird thing is that he had called my other half brother the day he died, and when he answered the phone the other half brother said he thought he had died, because he hadn't heard from him in a long time.  Then he died later that night when he fell backward down a flight of stairs and hit his head on a thick baseboard.  There had been a power outage so in the darkness he could not see the railing to grab hold of it or he possibly blacked out from a TIA.  Since no one else was home, he bled to death on the spot.  My brother was a veteran Marine who had once guarded President Nixon at the White House and at Camp David. He had survived warfare in the jungles ot Vietnam, only to die in his own home.  

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silverkitties

Missionblue and May, I am loving this conversation: there's nothing I like hearing more than ghost stories--more please!

 

I've got to say my own life is about as prosaic as it gets. I've never really experienced a spirit; and truth be told, I'm not sure I'd want to encounter one. Unless, of course, it was my mom or one of my cats. As I write, May, there is a giant black moth and a little white moth outside.

 

I have had strange coincidences though.  My first silver kitty up and died on December 31, 2007 around 11 pm, making it the worst New Year's Eve ever.  He was a senior cat, 16 and a 1/2. This was just a few months after we moved here from Illinois--and about a year and some months after surgery on his right jaw when we thought he would have to be euthanized. It was as if the move ended up too much for him: and he was also telling me to start a new life. 

 

My mom died on Yom Kippur, which, as you know, is a day of atonement for Jews. When we planned her memorial service, we were trying to fit in a time that would be convenient for the pianist (since she was leaving for Taiwan in less than a week) and would also be ahead of Thanksgiving since we knew that would be a mess. Anything later could be affected by a blizzard, even if unlikely.  As such, the service happened to take place not only on the 49th day after her death--a significant date for Buddhists (day of transformation)--but also on her Catholic feast day. You could call it a double whammy.

 

As if that weren't strange enough, the dates of her first stroke and death are almost fateful, or at least in Taiwanese. You see, the word for "4" sounds just like "death" and is therefore considered an unlucky number. Her first stroke--the first sign that something was very wrong--took place on April 24th: 4/24/14. She died on the 4th of October: 10/04/14. Bizarre, huh?

 

But by far, one of the strangest incidents (apart from brief power outages when Dad and I were discussing her memorial service and on the day of her b-day), was the afternoon the nightlight turned on by itself. I remember I was shoveling one afternoon and crying, thinking how just last year when I shoveled, mom would make something hot for me and we'd chat. When I went in, I found the nightlight turned on in the hallway! We had not used it since last year when my mom was still alive. My father said he had not been downstairs and I knew there was no way the cats could have switched it on either because it requires a certain degree of force.

 

However, we also had a problem with roof leaks in other parts of the house, so I'm wondering if maybe the water affected the circuitry?

 

Missionblue, do you have a Queen Anne or Second Empire Victorian? (I know you mentioned Victorian details sometime earlier). Those are my favorite houses since they look like archetypal haunted house(s). Any interesting histories or backgrounds? And have you been in that cottage? Do you think that ghost might have "gotten" your father? I'm curious because when my mom fell down the basement stairs after her cancer diagnosis, she told me she swore there must be some witch or ghost that made her enter that basement door by mistake. (I will say that my mom was already becoming quite confused; she was trying to pee on the fan...) 

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It's so sad how your veteran brother died. A job that always puts him in danger and a high risk of being killed...but, instead he died from a freak accident at home.

 

You have very good and interesting stories. OMG! I think I'm getting spooked just reading this. It'll stay on my mind for a long time. Seriously! I used to be interested in watching scary movies...paranormal or ghosts movies but, ever since mom died I stopped watching. I'll read about it but, I'll pay for it later. lol

 

I haven't experience any ghostly encounters AND I DON'T WANT TO EITHER. How could you stay in the house? Does the shadow or spirit bother you at all? I mean do you mind it being there? 

 

A friend's sister died. One day at work, she received a phone call on her cell phone. There was no one on the other line. Just complete silence. When she looked at the caller ID it was her sister's cell phone number. My friend was shaking and crying.

 

Thanks for sharing your stories. Now, I have to cover my head when I go to sleep.  :wacko:

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MissionBlue

It's so sad how your veteran brother died. A job that always puts him in danger and a high risk of being killed...but, instead he died from a freak accident at home.

 

You have very good and interesting stories. OMG! I think I'm getting spooked just reading this. It'll stay on my mind for a long time. Seriously! I used to be interested in watching scary movies...paranormal or ghosts movies but, ever since mom died I stopped watching. I'll read about it but, I'll pay for it later. lol

 

I haven't experience any ghostly encounters AND I DON'T WANT TO EITHER. How could you stay in the house? Does the shadow or spirit bother you at all? I mean do you mind it being there? 

 

A friend's sister died. One day at work, she received a phone call on her cell phone. There was no one on the other line. Just complete silence. When she looked at the caller ID it was her sister's cell phone number. My friend was shaking and crying.

 

Thanks for sharing your stories. Now, I have to cover my head when I go to sleep.  :wacko:

I'm sorry I scared you, dear May.  I sometimes wish the shadow man would visit me.  Then I wouldn't be so lonely. lol  I have gone over to the cottage in the middle of the night in the dark, with just a flashlight, because the lights no longer work, and I didn't see anything.  The phantom didn't even tug at my shirt. :(  One time one of my cousins stood outside the cottage and dared the ghost to come out and fight him.  Nothing happened.  My neighbors across the street say their house is haunted, too. Sometimes my neighbor's dead relatives will move things in the house.  

 

My psychic cousin claims that almost every night around 11 pm, she senses a presence in her study.  She thinks it is her dead sister who visits her. 

 

Wow, that is creepy about the phone call your friend received from her dead sister.  One time my cousin in Connecticut called me early one morning and asked me why I called him.  I told him I hadn't called him.  Maybe my late father was calling his sister (my cousin's mother).

 

I have another story for you which my friends swore to me is true.  My father and I used to have two longtime family friends named Joe and Ralph who often travelled together.  They were very nice, older, church-going gentlemen.  Joe had a brother who lived in New Mexico, which is also known as the Land of Enchantment.   One summer, Joe and Ralph were visiting Joe's brother and his family.  They were sleeping in twin beds in the guest bedroom.  It was such a warm night that the window behind the beds was open to provide ventilation.  Ralph was trying to sleep when he felt a very cold chill which started at the top of his head and then travelled down the right side of his body, then down to his right foot and then over to his left foot.  Then it was gone.  He looked over to Joe on his left, but he was fast asleep.  The following morning, Joe was shaving in the bathroom when he noticed scratches and welts on his neck and chest.  At breakfast he showed the wounds to his brother and his wife.  He told them that he remembered having a horrible dream the night before in which a female demon had climbed onto his chest and started strangling him and clawing him with her fingers.  He struggled with her and could barely breathe, but he managed to cry out, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"  Then the demon vanished.  Dazed and exhausted, he fell back to sleep.  Then Ralph told them about his experiencing the sudden chill that had travelled down one side of his body to his feet.  Joe's brother and his wife looked at each other knowingly.  Then his brother explained that they lived in a house with a very high wooden fence around it, made of logs.  From the outside, it looked like a fortress.  A coven of witches lived next door and they coveted his property, because the unusually high fence would give them the privacy they needed to perform their secret rituals.  The witches had offered to purchase the property from him but he declined.  So they cast a spell on the family, in order to drive them out.  The demon spirit, conjured up by the spell, had entered through the bedroom window and passed by Ralph, because he was not a blood relative, and went directly to Joe's bed to torment him.  Joe's brother and his family had experienced similar torments.  Eventually, they had enough and moved out of the house, whereupon the coven of witches took it over.       

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MissionBlue

Missionblue and May, I am loving this conversation: there's nothing I like hearing more than ghost stories--more please!

 

I've got to say my own life is about as prosaic as it gets. I've never really experienced a spirit; and truth be told, I'm not sure I'd want to encounter one. Unless, of course, it was my mom or one of my cats. As I write, May, there is a giant black moth and a little white moth outside.

 

I have had strange coincidences though.  My first silver kitty up and died on December 31, 2007 around 11 pm, making it the worst New Year's Eve ever.  He was a senior cat, 16 and a 1/2. This was just a few months after we moved here from Illinois--and about a year and some months after surgery on his right jaw when we thought he would have to be euthanized. It was as if the move ended up too much for him: and he was also telling me to start a new life. 

 

My mom died on Yom Kippur, which, as you know, is a day of atonement for Jews. When we planned her memorial service, we were trying to fit in a time that would be convenient for the pianist (since she was leaving for Taiwan in less than a week) and would also be ahead of Thanksgiving since we knew that would be a mess. Anything later could be affected by a blizzard, even if unlikely.  As such, the service happened to take place not only on the 49th day after her death--a significant date for Buddhists (day of transformation)--but also on her Catholic feast day. You could call it a double whammy.

 

As if that weren't strange enough, the dates of her first stroke and death are almost fateful, or at least in Taiwanese. You see, the word for "4" sounds just like "death" and is therefore considered an unlucky number. Her first stroke--the first sign that something was very wrong--took place on April 24th: 4/24/14. She died on the 4th of October: 10/04/14. Bizarre, huh?

 

But by far, one of the strangest incidents (apart from brief power outages when Dad and I were discussing her memorial service and on the day of her b-day), was the afternoon the nightlight turned on by itself. I remember I was shoveling one afternoon and crying, thinking how just last year when I shoveled, mom would make something hot for me and we'd chat. When I went in, I found the nightlight turned on in the hallway! We had not used it since last year when my mom was still alive. My father said he had not been downstairs and I knew there was no way the cats could have switched it on either because it requires a certain degree of force.

 

However, we also had a problem with roof leaks in other parts of the house, so I'm wondering if maybe the water affected the circuitry?

 

Missionblue, do you have a Queen Anne or Second Empire Victorian? (I know you mentioned Victorian details sometime earlier). Those are my favorite houses since they look like archetypal haunted house(s). Any interesting histories or backgrounds? And have you been in that cottage? Do you think that ghost might have "gotten" your father? I'm curious because when my mom fell down the basement stairs after her cancer diagnosis, she told me she swore there must be some witch or ghost that made her enter that basement door by mistake. (I will say that my mom was already becoming quite confused; she was trying to pee on the fan...) 

Silverkitties, my house is a False Front Pioneer House with Italianate style trim. The haunted cottage is Greek Revival style.  All I know about the history of the property is that it was formerly owned by a German immigrant named Anna Strauss.  She used to own my neighbor's house across the street, too.  Her executrix was her niece Louise von Bargen.  My great uncle purchased the property in 1935 for $5,000 which was quite a bargain.  My dad remembered the first day they moved in the yard was filled with leaves as high as his knees.  He was only 8 years old at the time and it was a great adventure for him exploring his new home and the neighborhood.  In those days there were very few homes around.  It was like living in the country but well within city limits.  There was also a very small barn on the parcel which no longer exists.  My family used to have chickens and a goat during the Great Depression. 

 

I don't think the phantom contributed to his death, but my dad did occasionally have vivid dreams in which he would yell out loud in his sleep, because he was either chasing an intruder or fighting someone.  In the past couple of years he slept in the living room to be closer to the bathroom and where it was warmer.  I would be in the dining room late at night using my computer and I could hear him yell out. I would go over to check on him and he'd smile and say he was dreaming and then he'd tell me his dream.  It wasn't like a night terror or anything horrible like that.  We usually chuckled about it.  He sometimes yelled out while dreaming in the hospital, too.  Once in a while when we would both be dozing on the couch, I sometimes would say a word or two in my sleep.   I miss those quiet times together.  It seems like time passed too quickly.  Sometimes I think I have a mental disorder which makes it feel like time is passing too quickly.

 

About the nightlight switching on, I think the water may have affected the circuitry, because there's a ceiling light in my late great uncle's room which turns on and off only when it wants to and a leak caused a ceiling light in the dining room to function erratically.   What's also strange is that I have a battery operated tall taper candle which sometimes turns on when I least expect it, after months of not working.

 

Talk about unlucky dates, you've probably heard of the Days of the Dead in Mexican culture.  These are November 1st and 2nd.  My father's father died on November 2nd, the Feast of All Souls, and his oldest son Henry also died on November 2nd.  My great uncle died on November 1st, the Feast of All Saints.  Every time these days rolled around, I would get nervous and worry about my dad.  In fact, this last November 2nd, my dad had trouble swallowing some pasta and I was worried he'd have to go to the hospital, but a couple of spoons of grapeseed oil helped the pasta slide down.  I tried to keep him on a modified Paleo diet, but he craved pasta and other refined carbs.  I wish he had not eaten so much white flour and sugar in his lifetime, but he loved pasta, French bread, donuts and pastries.   I used to make him flour tortillas, because that's what he liked, and I feel like I helped kill him.  This was before he was diagnosed with his heart disease.

 

Glad you enjoyed the ghost stories.  I'll try to think of some more I've heard through the years.

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silverkitties

Well, Missionblue, now we know how those stories of hauntings get created! All you gotta do is put together reports of lights turning on and off randomly with nightmares of ghosts. And, of course, it's usually older houses with their patches and leaks that allow wiring and circuitry problems to occur--as well as their histories or even just associations--which stir the imagination to the very heights. And a Greek revival sounds like an ideal setting for an account of a malevolent ghost! Btw, I also enjoyed your story about Joe and Ralph: liked even more  how you said the coven coveted the house~nice word play!

 

There was a story of a shooting in our Illinois house: a shooting which occurred after a father and son had an argument. For some reason, it never really bothered anyone in our family--not even my mom who is the most superstitious. Maybe because she liked the house a lot and it was small; i.e., not the kind that would frighten one. I do remember one amusing incident where she complained that the radio in the basement was going on and off by itself. Interestingly, I had never liked the basement much but went down anyway....and discovered that the radio was on standby. LOL! (My mom thought she had turned it off completely.) 

 

I'm curious: did your dad have more nightmares with his health problems? I keep wondering if that was a sign because my mom certainly seemed to have a number of such nightmares in the year or so before her stroke. Sometimes she would tell me what her nightmares were about, but at other times she would be vague. I don't know if it's because she forgot (somewhat hard if it is a nightmare after all)--or more likely--if the subject matter was one she did not to address: or at least, to me. Maybe it was general stress; but maybe there was also something in her body that was already going wrong and that she tried to repress--even as it was sending signals to her brain. However, it didn't really occur to me at that time since she'd always been the sort to yell in her sleep: I wish I had been more attuned.

 

What tends to jolt me at this point in my life are strange coincidences and/or premonitions: so I can see why you felt uneasy when Nov. 1 and 2 rolled around--and why you were so concerned when your dad had difficulty swallowing.  Superstition does have its way  with the most rational of us!

 

I had a similar feeling about a course I've had on 19th-century horror: on the three occasions that I've taught it, tragedies and near tragedies have occurred. The first time it happened, my cat started to slip downhill--culminating in that surgery I mentioned. Right after the second time I taught it, he died. And on the third occasion, my mother died. I remember having some faint misgivings when I was asked to teach it last year--even though it's a class I very much enjoy. It was back in February 2014 when I was asked--two months before my mom had her stroke in April. Interestingly, I almost didn't get to teach it as the department chair tried to push me over since a more senior faculty member wanted to teach it. I was not going to have it; and my mother encouraged me to fight it all the way even though neither of us felt I had a chance of winning. I guess I must have threatened the powers-that-be sufficiently because they wound up returning the course to me. It was only a few weeks later that my mom was diagnosed with cancer. Finally, she died right in the 6th week of classes.  I had briefly considered cancelling it that very afternoon, but knew I couldn't since I had put up such a fight to get the class back. At the end of the day, tho', I think teaching it saved me from major depression by distracting me in a positive way. I remember telling myself, gotta do it for mom. She would hate to see you quit;  think of it as a tribute to the woman who got you so interested in horror. How fitting it was that as she introduced me to "Dark Shadows" at the age of 3 or 4, she would pass away during a unit on vampires.

 

I won't deny that there's an irrational part of me that whispers to me that maybe if I hadn't taught this class, mom might still be alive. To be quite frank, i don't know what I will do if I get asked to teach this again since it's a class I truly enjoy teaching.

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MissionBlue

Silverkitties, it's natural for our minds to find correlations in events and circumstances.  We are always trying to make sense of things and find explanations when something goes wrong  Even with modern technology, illness and death are still very mysterious.  Why does one person get cancer from second hand smoke, while another person can smoke all their lives and not get it?  I have the chance to date an engineer who smokes, but his wife died of lung cancer.  I don't think it's illogical to assume she died from his secondhand smoke, though it could have been industrial air pollution that caused it.  My dad's older brother smoked, ate bacon and eggs for breakfast every day and rarely ate vegetables, yet he lived to the age of 91.  He was also married to a very mean woman who emotionally abused him during their entire marriage, but he still outlived her.  There used to be a man called the Green Grocer who talked about fruits and vegetables on the news, yet he died of cancer.  Maybe he ingested too many pesticides.

 

I don't know if my father started yelling in his sleep on account of his illness, because I only started monitoring him closely at night during his last couple of years.  He did suffer from mild sleep apnea.  I used to think he was fighting death in his dreams.  Naturally, he was worried about dying at his age, considering all his medical conditions.  I still have stress dreams about having to take a test in school or being late for a class.

 

There's one more story about the haunted cottage which comes to mind.  When my father was a young man, sleeping in the cottage, he used to have a pet Siamese cat which his Uncle Pip had brought home from India.  Pip used to be in the Merchant Marine.  The cat grew very attached to my father.  One day my father wanted to take a nap and the cat wouldn't let him sleep so he placed the cat in the next room and shut the door.  The Siamese cat was furious and started yowling, hissing and clawing at the door.  Then the cat began hurling its body against the door as if it were possessed.  The door was thin and flimsy so each impact made a lot of noise.  The cat must have thought it could break it open.  My dad wouldn't open the door, because he thought the cat might attack him.

 

Well, I need to get ready to go have tea with my next door neighbor.  She's going to tell me her online dating horror story.  Take care and have a nice weekend.

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silverkitties

Precisely, Missionblue--actually, another woman visited Taiwan at around the very time my mom did in 2013. Assuming my mom did contract the cancer at that time, that woman certainly didn't: although it could be explained that my mom's maternal side of the family is predisposed to GI diseases and even cancer. Two of her aunts died of pancreatic and liver cancer. Her own mother died of a liver disease; we never found out if it was cancer or not.

 

I suspect the grocer you mentioned may have had a similar genetic condition--unless it was in fact the pesticides which killed him. That is a strong possibility. (Not to mention all of our genetically modified foods.

 

It's funny that you mentioned dreams about tests: I still have them too--even though I'm now the one giving tests! In fact, I had one just a few months ago; I dreamt that I had only remembered the test in the nick of time and was rushing there, only to find that I was late. I remember trying to think what could have triggered off the dream, especially since I'd never gotten to a test late; was it a form that I needed to fill out? Was there something going on then that reminded me of my days in college?

 

Then I have dreams of places that are almost completely unfamiliar to me; where are these mysterious towns and houses, I keep wondering to myself? Sometimes they turn out to be a composite of several towns and cities where I've stayed. I seem to have more of those dreams than dreams about places I actually recall. 

 

Your story about your dad's Siamese cat brought a smile: the Siamese breed is probably the most excitable one--and loudest too. I once heard what I thought was a screaming baby when I was chatting with a friend on the phone and asked her if she was babysitting. She said "sort of--for a Siamese cat." My first cat was not a Siamese but had a similar temperament. If you tried to keep her out of a room, she would yowl and scratch at the door persistently, sometimes for an hour.

 

I want to hear more about the haunted cottage: was it already dilapidated when your dad moved in? How long had he lived there for?  Did he only move out when you inherited the main house? (I apologize if you've mentioned it and I happened to miss it.) And have you been inside the cottage recently? 

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MissionBlue and Silverkitties, I love to hear about ghost stories. I love watching them but, I will regret it later. No need to apologize, MissionBlue. I have a couple more stories to share.

 

We have an alter room in our house. We used our laundry room and turned it into an alter room. We have alters of our ancestors, grandparents, my mom and several Buddhist Gods. We have a couple of small dogs...a chihuahua mix (Coco) and Dachshund mix (Rufie). Occasionally, Rufie would sleep with my niece (her dog) on the couch. Every time at around 3 AM, Rufie wakes up and all his attention is towards the alter and he starts growling. 

 

One evening, I was home alone in the evening with Coco, the chihuahua, because the family went out for dinner. I was sitting on the couch watching TV when all of a sudden she turned to the alter room and started growling and barking. I got scared. Animals have that sixth sense 

 

It all happened way before mom passed. Ghosts and spirits normally come out around 3 AM. I think mom told me once.

 

We had a mom and pop store that was there since 1948. We just closed it a two years ago. I think that we were the last mom and pop store that was still standing. Anyways, my nephew found a small AM/FM radio at work. No one ever claimed it. So, he gave it to my brothers to listen to the NBA games. Before they go home for the day, of course, naturally, they turn off the radio. They always have it set on AM 1200 dial because that's the sports station. The next day when they go open up the store, they would hear the radio on. The first few times they didn't think anything of it. They thought they must've forgot to turn it off before they left work. The, later they notice that they did turn off the radio...and not only that, it was on a different station...salsa music. Get a load of that!!!! Later on, they threw the radio away. That radio is haunted.

 

I want to hear more. It's addicting!! lol

 

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MissionBlue

MayMW and Silverkitties, here's another ghost story from my cousin, the same cousin who challenged the cottage ghost.  A friend of his named Bob has long been retired from the postal service, but my cousin will never forget the story he told him about the time he was walking home after he got off the bus. Bob was walking down Silver Ave. in San Francisco at 3:00 in the mourning.  At that hour there was no one on the streets. Down the street he could scarcely make out the silhouette of a little girl bouncing a ball against a wall of a house. He thought it was very odd that the parents of the little girl let her play outside at 3:00 in mourning, in the dark, and in a neighborhood known for high crime.  As he got closer he could see the little girl was wearing a fancy dress. As he strarted to walk past her she stopped playing ball and blocked his path. She then said:  "Hey mister, you wanna play?"  That was creepy all by itself, but what scared the crap out of him most was the fact that this little girl had the face of a 10 or 12 year old but had the pale and wrinkled eyes of an old woman.  He walked past her about ten feet, then looked back over his shoulder and she was gone. Bob truly believes that the little girl was an apparition.

 

The haunted cottage was not so dilapidated back when my great uncle purchased it back in 1935.  The main house and the cottage are on the same parcel/lot.  The cottage does not face the street -- it faces the main house.  Back during the Great Depression a basic survival strategy was for relatives to live together and pool their resources.  This way family members could save money on rent until they had enough money to buy a house of their own.  Since my great uncle never married or had children of his own, he generously opened his home to his siblings and their families.  The cottage served as sleeping quarters for his many nieces and nephews.  During WWII, the cottage became a honeymoon cottage where nephews brought their brides.  One nephew had a war bride from England, another nephew married a girl from Mexico and two nieces lived with their local husbands and children until they could buy homes of their own.  Several families took turns living there and sometimes two couples would live there at the same time, one upstairs and the other downstairs.  With all these families living there for free, there wasn't much money to maintain the cottage, and eventually it got very rundown, but it's ok for storage.  The last time I was in the cottage was on Memorial Day weekend, when I had a little barbecue for three cousins who used to live in the cottage back in the 1960's.  They wanted to see the inside of the cottage for old times' sake.  They said it looked smaller than they remembered.  The cottage has not been occupied since 1983.   

 

My dad did not live in the cottage by himself.  He just slept there with his siblings.  They would spend most of their time in the main house here.  After my parents divorced, my father came home to live here with me, my grandmother and my great uncle.  Of all the many relatives who lived here, my father and I were the last to stay.  Now I am the last of the Mohicans.  That's why it feels so lonely here, because this used to be a house bustling with activity -- with laughter, music, dancing.....and now only tears.    

 

Well, I had tea with my neighbor this afternoon.  She told me her online dating horror story.  Since she started online dating about nine years ago, she has had over 200 first dates!  She never met her match, but everyone had been pleasant enough, so when this last fellow invited her to meet him at his house, she thought it would be ok.  As soon as she entered the house, the man locked the door with a deadbolt and key.  Immediately, she sensed that she might be in danger, but she remained calm, because sometimes violent men thrive on fear.  The decor of his home included large photos with a sadomasochistic theme, including a nude woman tied to a chair with a bag over her head and a severed female leg on a beach.  She tried not to act shocked, and said the prints must be worth a lot of money.  She thought they were going out to lunch, but he said he wanted to cook lunch for her.  He served her a cup of tea, but she did not drink it for fear it might be poisoned.  She only ate some salad that she prepared herself.  As he gave her a tour of the rest of his house, she noticed that there was a very steep embankment at the back of his property.  She thought that must be where he throws his victims' bodies.  She spotted other clues that this man had a very sick mind.  Finally, she said it was getting late and she needed to be on her way.  To her relief, he unlocked the door.  She thanked him and said she had a nice time.  He told her that if she wanted to get together again, she would have to call him.  He gave her a quick kiss and she left without incident.  That was the last time she ever went on another online date.  She considers herself lucky to be alive.   

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silverkitties

Forget trying to find work, Missionblue--write stories! And you can title one of them "3 o'clock in the Mourning." I can just picture the scene. A man walks down the empty sidewalk on a warm night. Normally, there's a whiff of chocolates from the factory nearby, but tonight feels a little different. He can't quite put his finger on it, but there's an unmistakable odor of rotting flesh. Oh, that's right. There's a new butcher in town. Somewhere in the distance, he thinks he hears the voice of a child singing offkey accompanied by the sound of a bouncing ball...Ring around the rosy--whack--a pocket of full of posies--whack. Strange. It's 3 am, who the hell would let a kid out at this time? Or maybe his ears were playing tricks on him; he'd been listening to too much music at the recording studio today, at least 5 different artists. Passing by the large, rundown Gree revivial--the one which kids dared each other to peek into--he shuddered. Wasn't this the house where the nasty Mildred Havsomespam used to live? The rumor was that she had hanged herself from the 3rd floor attic not long after the death of a niece. "Hey mister, do you want to play ball?" He did a double take as he sees a girl in lace ten feet away...she looked like one of those kids he'd seen in his grandmother's magazines, sort of like a miniature gibson girl. 

 

As she got closer, the smell of rotting flesh intensified until he felt suffocated. Strange....how could such a clean and well-srubbed little girl smell like that. And then he noticed the hooded eyes, the bloodied lips, the scraggly teeth. It was none other than Mildred Havsomespam.

 

LOL.

 

I do want to share a true story here. I used to have a recurring nightmare about a mirror, from the time I was seven. In the first one, I'm going down a hallway and looking into a mirror. At first, I think I see myself, but it is a beautiful girl who is obviously not me: she has very dark hair, pale skin, great big eyes--and almost perfect features. We look at each other and she slowly begins to laugh. Her face changes, looking more and more menacing until she becomes absolutely terrifying. Then I faint.

 

I had a variation on this dream a few years later with a slightly different setting; this time, it takes place in a public restroom. In yet another variation, I go into the attick of our house in Illinois, find a treasure of scrapbooks. Then as I pore through one, I see a similar face that begins to change right in the book. I scream and faint. And in yet another variation, I see it in a regular book.

 

Not surprisingly, I've been mystified by the meaning of this dream and the face. Was this an actual person? Had I seen too many movies? As I went through our photo albums trying to decide which pictures to display at the memorial service, I finally discovered who it may have been: most likely,  my mother.

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MissionBlue

Forget trying to find work, Missionblue--write stories! And you can title one of them "3 o'clock in the Mourning." I can just picture the scene. A man walks down the empty sidewalk on a warm night. Normally, there's a whiff of chocolates from the factory nearby, but tonight feels a little different. He can't quite put his finger on it, but there's an unmistakable odor of rotting flesh. Oh, that's right. There's a new butcher in town. Somewhere in the distance, he thinks he hears the voice of a child singing offkey accompanied by the sound of a bouncing ball...Ring around the rosy--whack--a pocket of full of posies--whack. Strange. It's 3 am, who the hell would let a kid out at this time? Or maybe his ears were playing tricks on him; he'd been listening to too much music at the recording studio today, at least 5 different artists. Passing by the large, rundown Gree revivial--the one which kids dared each other to peek into--he shuddered. Wasn't this the house where the nasty Mildred Havsomespam used to live? The rumor was that she had hanged herself from the 3rd floor attic not long after the death of a niece. "Hey mister, do you want to play ball?" He did a double take as he sees a girl in lace ten feet away...she looked like one of those kids he'd seen in his grandmother's magazines, sort of like a miniature gibson girl. 

 

As she got closer, the smell of rotting flesh intensified until he felt suffocated. Strange....how could such a clean and well-srubbed little girl smell like that. And then he noticed the hooded eyes, the bloodied lips, the scraggly teeth. It was none other than Mildred Havsomespam.

 

LOL.

 

I do want to share a true story here. I used to have a recurring nightmare about a mirror, from the time I was seven. In the first one, I'm going down a hallway and looking into a mirror. At first, I think I see myself, but it is a beautiful girl who is obviously not me: she has very dark hair, pale skin, great big eyes--and almost perfect features. We look at each other and she slowly begins to laugh. Her face changes, looking more and more menacing until she becomes absolutely terrifying. Then I faint.

 

I had a variation on this dream a few years later with a slightly different setting; this time, it takes place in a public restroom. In yet another variation, I go into the attick of our house in Illinois, find a treasure of scrapbooks. Then as I pore through one, I see a similar face that begins to change right in the book. I scream and faint. And in yet another variation, I see it in a regular book.

 

Not surprisingly, I've been mystified by the meaning of this dream and the face. Was this an actual person? Had I seen too many movies? As I went through our photo albums trying to decide which pictures to display at the memorial service, I finally discovered who it may have been: most likely,  my mother.

 

I hadn't even noticed I typed 3 in the "mourning" -- pardon my Freudian slip was showing.  OK, I've got another one for ya.  When my father was boxing in the army, he was resting before a bout when he had a dream that he had died in the ring.  The dream was so vivid, that as he awoke he bolted upright in bed.  When he got to the arena, he noticed that they had changed the order of fighters who would be boxing that evening.  The programs had already been printed up, showing that he would fight first, but the new schedule showed that he had been moved to a later fight.  As fate would have it, a boxer who fought in the first bout, in my dad's original time slot, died from injuries sustained in his fight while on the way to the hospital.  Cue the Twilight Zone theme......Had my dad escaped the Grim Reaper when they changed the fight schedule so that the other boxer died in his place?

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silverkitties

Another excellent story, Missionblue!

 

About the house and cottage: I've noticed in the northeast--more so than in the midwest--that there are lots of houses with cottages and/or small barns on the property. I think some of them probably used to be for "the help," especially if the house was large. Today, of course, they're called "in-law" cottages. 

 

Do you have any secret passageways? They are part of the charm--along with the oddly shaped rooms. So wonderful and inspiring for ghost stories! Conversely, part of the appeal of ghost stories is the house itself. I have to admit I'm somewhat less likely to watch a horror movie if the setting is modern or takes place in a contemporary house. Maybe that's why Paranormal Activity bored me to tears while The Conjuring had me hooked. (My absolute faves are The Changeling, The Shining, and Burnt Offerings....good and creepy! They don't make them like they used to...)

 

Re the dating story: it almost sounds like something out of a movie! I think this is the reason why I've never really wanted to join any dating service; although I suppose one could meet such types anywhere. Yes, inteed, your friend must have breathed a huge sigh of relief!

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MissionBlue

Another excellent story, Missionblue!

 

About the house and cottage: I've noticed in the northeast--more so than in the midwest--that there are lots of houses with cottages and/or small barns on the property. I think some of them probably used to be for "the help," especially if the house was large. Today, of course, they're called "in-law" cottages. 

 

Do you have any secret passageways? They are part of the charm--along with the oddly shaped rooms. So wonderful and inspiring for ghost stories! Conversely, part of the appeal of ghost stories is the house itself. I have to admit I'm somewhat less likely to watch a horror movie if the setting is modern or takes place in a contemporary house. Maybe that's why Paranormal Activity bored me to tears while The Conjuring had me hooked. (My absolute faves are The Changeling, The Shining, and Burnt Offerings....good and creepy! They don't make them like they used to...)

 

Re the dating story: it almost sounds like something out of a movie! I think this is the reason why I've never really wanted to join any dating service; although I suppose one could meet such types anywhere. Yes, inteed, your friend must have breathed a huge sigh of relief!

Thanks, Silverkitties.  You're a geat storyteller yourself!  The original house and the cottage are both so small, I have no idea why the builders didn't just make one normal size house, instead of two dinky ones.  My great uncle had to double the size of the original house to make it more livable.   Not enough room for any secret passages, but since the property is on a hill, we have a sunken garden, lower than street level with a high retaining wall which my great uncle and grandfather built themselves.  At the front of the house is a wooden deck instead of a sidewalk, which is unusual in the city here, and under the deck is a dark, narrow passageway that leads from one side of the house to the other.  As kids, my cousins and I got a kick out of using this tunnel of sorts.  Because the front lower level of the house is lower than the street, it is often ten degrees cooler down there than upstairs. 

 

My favorite horror film is "The Haunting" (1963) with Julie Harris.  I also like "The Exorcist" (1973).  Incidentally, the priest who presided at my father's rosary and funeral is the chief exorcist for San Francisco.  Father William also was a good friend of St. Padre Pio, the Capuchin friar who experienced the stigmata.  Father William is so diminutive and soft spoken you would never think that he has cast out demons. He's in his late 80's now.

 

My neighbor has warned me not to go sailing with my new online dating friend right away.  She has a point there, when you think about people like Scott Peterson who killed his pregnant wife on Christmas Day and dumped her body into San Francisco Bay.

 

Tomorrow is Father's Day and i wish so much I could go to the cemetery to put flowers on my father's grave.  No one has offered to take me, so I'm thinking of taking a cab.  I've never gone to the cemetery by myself before.  I've always liked cemeteries, but now that my father is there, it's not so peaceful going there anymore.  I'm afraid if I go by myself, I'm going to feel lonelier than ever before.  Maybe I'll ask my dad's best friend to take me.  He's Chinese and he is very good about paying respects to the dead.  As I'm sure you know, the Chinese believe that honoring the dead brings them prosperity.  On Easter Sunday was the traditional Chinese festival called Tomb-Sweeping Day.  He and his friend were in charge of lighting the fireworks in the cemetery.  Some of the streamers fell onto a tree and the wind blew them onto my friend.  He said that that was an auspicious sign of blessings for the coming year.   

 

He remembers when he was a kid living in Chinatown, his family was so poor that on his birthday his mother would give him a chicken drumstick and divide it five ways to share with his brothers.  His mother raised five boys by herself.,  Luckily, she had relatives in China who loaned her money to buy a small grocery store.  After much scrimping and saving, she eventually bought an apartment building.  Now in memory of his late mother, on her birthday he is going to cook a chicken drumstick and divide it five ways with his brothers, all successful men now with apartment buildings of their own, to remind them of their mother's sacrifices for them. 

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Notice how I wrote "we" have a sunken garden....I'm still not used to talking like my father is dead even though I'm all by myself now.  I just remembered my friend is a father and he probably won't be available tomorrow -- he'll be with his family.  I may have to go to the cemetery by myself after all. 

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MissionBlue, your friend Bob had a very good story. I can't imagine if I was in Bob's position. I'd probably get so freaked out and pass out. I don't think it's a 'probably' but, I know I will pass out. I hope that I will never encounter a ghost. 

 

Is Silver Ave near Chinatown? I was there, I think in the later 80s early 90s, visiting my brother-in-law's relative. We stayed in Chinatown. It's hard to sleep at night because people don't sleep. It's a lot of teenagers that hang out at night. Drunk people that sing and talk loud. But, for the most part, I love visiting San Francisco. We didn't really get to go anywhere just around Chinatown. We had lunch with the relative who's 101 years old. She was petite walked faster than I can. She looked good. She looked as if she's in her late 80s.

 

Yes, I think your neighbor is very lucky to be alive. If it was me, my first meeting date would be in a public place. I wouldn't go the guy's house. That could've been my last date.

 

Retz, I experienced the radio during the weekend when I went to work with my brothers. My brothers didn't tell me about the radio. When I went in, I heard a faint noise. As I got closer to the register area I see the radio. I said, "Hey, you guys forgot to turn off the radio last night." By brother said, "We didn't forget to turn it off. We think the radio is haunted." That radio left my hands faster than you can blink. 

 

Silverkitties, maybe you should write stories, too. You wrote the story so well. Well, you are writing a textbook. Hey, you could write another book. lol

 

Lately, I've been having some scary dreams. I don't remember it at all. All I remember is I hear myself cry and then I wake up. I don't know if the dream has something to do with mom...like missing her.

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Missionblue, I liked your story about your father's childhood in Chinatown--and the idea of cherishing that old memory of dividing a chicken drumstick in 5 pieces. Yes, they've come a long way. Btw, that would make an excellent story or essay in a collection of stories on immigration too!

 

Which part of China are your folks from originally? Mine are from Taiwan and May's, I believe, are from Hong Kong. It's kind of interesting comparing notes on beliefs. I have to admit I'm not too familiar with tomb-sweeping day--or the belief that honoring the dead brings prosperity; although I do know that the Chinese worship their ancestors. Hence, those miniature shrines one sees in Asian groceries. (Funny story: I wanted to buy a small one for our first silver kitty when he died and my mom said, ARE YOU CRAZY? I guess I'd have to put a small dish of Fancy Feast in front of it!) Or perhaps my mother told me about these customs and I plain forgot? I had never heard about the moths either as described by May. But it was interesting to hear from her that 4 is also considered an unlucky # by the Cantonese.

 

I wish I could get my hands on some Chinese horror movies; although I'm not sure how many have English subtitles. I have seen only one--and that was in Taiwan back in the '80s. It was actually quite good and one of the few that managed to combine horror and comedy skillfully too.

 

I couldn't agree more with you when you said any man you pick must speak English. I second that for myself too! LOL, as it is, I sometimes already feel my language skills slipping away...my mom used to joke that if my Taiwanese was improving rapidly, it must mean my English is going down the tubes. Something's gotta give, right? Oy vey. But whoever I find must enjoy 18th and 19th c. literature. Must be willing to read through academic writing (i.e., mine) and comment on it. Must enjoy classical music, film, and fashion.  Architecture,  especially older houses. Must enjoy politics. Must appreciate cities AND rustic scenery. And yes--a good sunset. I guess I'm looking for an educated male version of my mom.

 

The only problem with that, I've discovered, is that there aren't too many Asian men like that. And if they are like that, they probably only want white women. Ditto other men in their belief that non-white women are not sufficiently sophisticated when it comes to the liberal and fine arts. Not only that, but it's been my general impression that men who are at all sensitive to literary and/or any sort of aesthetic beauty tend to  prefer women who are conventionally attractive or "hawt," regardless of race: probably because they still subscribe to the insipid idea that beauty on the outside signals beauty on the inside.   Charlotte Bronte had this problem back in the 1840s and I dare say we have not moved far beyond that, however "feminist" we call ourselves in the 21st century. (Which is not very when you think about it.)  Or is it that these days, most such men are gay?

 

I think it is great that your dad enjoyed classic movies and music, if only because I know so few men of my dad's generation and culture who do. My dad is the sort who considers anything popular "junk" even though he knew so little about literature, art, and classical music himself (except for Music 101 type selections). My mom, on the other hand, was one of the few Asians of her generation I know who could enjoy Mozart and Michael Jackson. Leontyne Price and Whitney Houston. She'd tell me all about why she admired Katherine Hepburn more than Audrey Hepburn and why Ingmar Bergman was great: always placing emphasis on character and intelligence over looks and always making a distinction between "women" and "dolls."  She even knew how to read literature: when my editions of two pre-20th-century horror novels were published, my mom not only read my 30+ page critical introductions, but the entire novels as well. She said only then could she fully appreciate my criticism and scholarship. My dad, on the other hand, confined himself to my intros. This is what I meant when I said my mom had far more intellectual curiosity, despite having less formal education. 

 

Sigh. I need a man like Mom. Someone who will share all of my tastes. Someone who will make me feel special. I crave a kindred soul so badly--and that's partly why i am so lonely and grieving. 

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MissionBlue

Silverkitties, I'm so sorry what I wrote was confusing.  My father was not Chinese, he was Mexican American.  My mother was German, Irish, Danish and French,  I was talking about my dad's best friend who is Chinese and how I thought he would be willing to take me to the cemetery, because he understands the value of honoring the dead.  But then I realized that as a father, he probably wouldn't be available today on Father's Day.  And when I said I need a man who can speak English, I said that because some people are suggesting I get a dog or a cat.   I love animals, but I want someone with me who can talk to me in English.  I tend to get carried off on tangents.  Anyway my father's friend (now my friend) is from Guangdong Province.  One of my favorite neighbors was from Taiwan but she sold her house last year and moved back to Taiwan.

 

Your discussion about what men find attractive is interesting.  There was recently a similar discussion on the Catholic Match dating site forum.  The following question was posed to the group:

"Does size (weight) and physical appearance matter for you?"  The basic consensus was that for most men, size and physical appearance does matter a great deal, because sexual attractiveness is important when choosing a romantic partner.  These preferences are very much culturally influenced.  I don't think men necessarily associate sexual attractiveness with inner beauty.  However, instinctually they associate attractiveness with youth and fertility.  Then they make their selection according to a woman's inner qualities to determine whether she would make a good wife and mother.  If a man is just looking for a friend, then appearance doesn't matter as much, but it still matters, because human beings like being around attractive people, because of their herd instinct or need for conformity.

 

You were so lucky to have such a highly intelligent and cultured mother. I can surely understand what you mean about wanting to find a man like your mom.  I want to find a man like my father, but it's going to be like searching for a needle in the haystack.  There are many intelligent, educated men out there, but most don't have the same tastes and values that our parents had.  Even many doctors and nurses seem to lack compassion and kindness these days.  I also crave a kindred soul very badly and that's why I feel so lonely and depressed.  My father wasn't very educated but he was very cultured.  Unfortunately, many good men, like my father, are shy, and probably can't be found on the dating sites.

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silverkitties

May, believe it or not, I've never really been able to write horror. Every time I try, it turns into parody.  The trouble is, I have a kooky sense of humor--and see the ridiculous in everything. But then again, my mom did too.

 

I have had accidents with the radio: mostly because either my mom or I had switched it to standby. (Fodder for a horror story: it's been turned off; ther are no batteries--and the radio plays a tune from the deceased person's music box. Whhoooooo.)

 

Missionblue, this is what happens when I sit up too late at night and am frazzled....I went and read over those last two paragraphs in your post, and now see you were indeed talking about his friend. And here I was sitting totally puzzled in partial wonder, thinking I'd never heard of a Chinese man who loved Western movies and music from the 20s and 30s! WOWWWWWW! Although there's probably one out there somewhere--

 

What you read on the Catholic dating site is familiar: how often do we see informal surveys showing that whereas women most prize a sense of humor in men, men prefer good looks? Alas, it's been true all through the centuries; in the 18th century, Lord Chesterfield had, after all, written to his son that whereas women don't care about physical appearance so much, men do. (He himself was actually not as obsessed with physical looks as manners and even mentions that a woman who is pretty but stupid and ignorant can only be appealing for so long~) And yes, even we women are not as immune to looks either. I will be honest and say that there are certain looks that turn me on--and some that just don't. 

 

Sometimes, though, I wonder if we have become even more superficial given the rise of visual stimuli over the last 30 years--you know, the rise of cable, MTV, and now the internet and social media. There's an increased need to impress others: which means overlooking anyone who is not deemed "hawt" something to which educated men, ironically enough, are even more prone since they've been taught to compete since childhood. I have a degree from a prestigious university, a presitgious job, why shouldn't I have a trophy wife? So the reasoning goes. They go from one "hot" woman and then wonder why they don't feel "fulfilled." As long as she's arm candy, she's good enough--for now.  All this, despite overestimated fears of "feminism."

 

I think this emphasis on competition also helps explain the doctors and nurses who lack compassion as you mention: so many, particularly the former, are out there only for the $$$. Unfortunately, education nowadays is construed as a means rather than an end in itself--and as such, they view education as only one more accomplishment. They are people I consider superficially educated. Although they may have read Shakespeare and Wordsworth and maybe even gotten A's in their English 101 classes, they have never read them thoroughly enough to understand the heart. They lack understanding of empathy. They could care less about compassion--unless the patient is rich, famous, or pretty. And unfortunately, it is a problem that I find particularly prevalent in the US where any sense of community we might have is rapidly disappearing.

 

I've never had many dates--or at least, virtually none of the type I've wanted: well bred, well read, and well dressed--tho' not necessarily in that order. Probably because the men who are like that assume that an Asian woman with a round face and a flat nose will not be sufficiently cultivated: not when angles and contours are associated with "refinement."  I did have a "dream man" for several years, but broke that off when I realized he really had no desire to commit. (Incidentally, he's still single, LOL.) He was something apart--looked like a clone of King Ludwig (Wagner's patron)--and loved to discuss music and literature. There was a certain hauteur about him that made him seem even more desirable. That break-up felt almost devastating to me for a year: and not least because another man started becoming interested in me. Yet, what a contrast. Even though he was highly intelligent as well--also enjoyed music and literature, had perfect scores on his GRE (according to others)--he always had something off about him, partly because of his constant wearing of a raincoat and sneakers and the fact that he seemed to be so strangely quiet, unassertive, and unassuming. The fact that he didn't know how to match or coordinate clothes didn't help either. (A red turtleneck, vest, and pants, hello?) I remember him asking me to make a stop in his office as he had to pick up stuff enroute to a lecture we were attending and feeling a bit creeped out as the university building was completely dark and quiet. Anything could happen, I thought; he could just rape me here and now. (It didn't help that one of my male friends also pointed out that he looked like a "flasher" in his raincoat!) Sometimes you can never tell about those quiet guys.  Nothing did; I suppose my imagination got the better of me. Two years later, he asked me out again--this time much better coordinated, but I still was not interested. My mom was ready to kick me--he's a nice man, he's got degrees from U Chicago and Michigan, what can you complain about?

 

Maybe he could have been the one. But then again, Jane Austen gave some great advice to her niece two hundred years ago. If someone is not right, don't marry. Because you'll kick yourself if you find someone better and more suitable. She knew from personal experience because a very wealthy squire had once proposed to her: she initially accepted and mulled over it that night--before deciding to dump him. (It is believed that she was still in love with a much poorer man who later went on to become one of the leading statesmen of Ireland.) She knew he could never excite her.

 

It seems like we will each be searching for a while, Missionblue. People today seem to lack the combination of intellectual curiosity and empathy that we crave.

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May, believe it or not, I've never really been able to write horror. Every time I try, it turns into parody.  The trouble is, I have a kooky sense of humor--and see the ridiculous in everything. But then again, my mom did too.

 

I have had accidents with the radio: mostly because either my mom or I had switched it to standby. (Fodder for a horror story: it's been turned off; ther are no batteries--and the radio plays a tune from the deceased person's music box. Whhoooooo.)

 

Missionblue, this is what happens when I sit up too late at night and am frazzled....I went and read over those last two paragraphs in your post, and now see you were indeed talking about his friend. And here I was sitting totally puzzled in partial wonder, thinking I'd never heard of a Chinese man who loved Western movies and music from the 20s and 30s! WOWWWWWW! Although there's probably one out there somewhere--

 

What you read on the Catholic dating site is familiar: how often do we see informal surveys showing that whereas women most prize a sense of humor in men, men prefer good looks? Alas, it's been true all through the centuries; in the 18th century, Lord Chesterfield had, after all, written to his son that whereas women don't care about physical appearance so much, men do. (He himself was actually not as obsessed with physical looks as manners and even mentions that a woman who is pretty but stupid and ignorant can only be appealing for so long~) And yes, even we women are not as immune to looks either. I will be honest and say that there are certain looks that turn me on--and some that just don't. 

 

Sometimes, though, I wonder if we have become even more superficial given the rise of visual stimuli over the last 30 years--you know, the rise of cable, MTV, and now the internet and social media. There's an increased need to impress others: which means overlooking anyone who is not deemed "hawt" something to which educated men, ironically enough, are even more prone since they've been taught to compete since childhood. I have a degree from a prestigious university, a presitgious job, why shouldn't I have a trophy wife? So the reasoning goes. They go from one "hot" woman and then wonder why they don't feel "fulfilled." As long as she's arm candy, she's good enough--for now.  All this, despite overestimated fears of "feminism."

 

I think this emphasis on competition also helps explain the doctors and nurses who lack compassion as you mention: so many, particularly the former, are out there only for the $$$. Unfortunately, education nowadays is construed as a means rather than an end in itself--and as such, they view education as only one more accomplishment. They are people I consider superficially educated. Although they may have read Shakespeare and Wordsworth and maybe even gotten A's in their English 101 classes, they have never read them thoroughly enough to understand the heart. They lack understanding of empathy. They could care less about compassion--unless the patient is rich, famous, or pretty. And unfortunately, it is a problem that I find particularly prevalent in the US where any sense of community we might have is rapidly disappearing.

 

I've never had many dates--or at least, virtually none of the type I've wanted: well bred, well read, and well dressed--tho' not necessarily in that order. Probably because the men who are like that assume that an Asian woman with a round face and a flat nose will not be sufficiently cultivated: not when angles and contours are associated with "refinement."  I did have a "dream man" for several years, but broke that off when I realized he really had no desire to commit. (Incidentally, he's still single, LOL.) He was something apart--looked like a clone of King Ludwig (Wagner's patron)--and loved to discuss music and literature. There was a certain hauteur about him that made him seem even more desirable. That break-up felt almost devastating to me for a year: and not least because another man started becoming interested in me. Yet, what a contrast. Even though he was highly intelligent as well--also enjoyed music and literature, had perfect scores on his GRE (according to others)--he always had something off about him, partly because of his constant wearing of a raincoat and sneakers and the fact that he seemed to be so strangely quiet, unassertive, and unassuming. The fact that he didn't know how to match or coordinate clothes didn't help either. (A red turtleneck, vest, and pants, hello?) I remember him asking me to make a stop in his office as he had to pick up stuff enroute to a lecture we were attending and feeling a bit creeped out as the university building was completely dark and quiet. Anything could happen, I thought; he could just rape me here and now. (It didn't help that one of my male friends also pointed out that he looked like a "flasher" in his raincoat!) Sometimes you can never tell about those quiet guys.  Nothing did; I suppose my imagination got the better of me. Two years later, he asked me out again--this time much better coordinated, but I still was not interested. My mom was ready to kick me--he's a nice man, he's got degrees from U Chicago and Michigan, what can you complain about?

 

Maybe he could have been the one. But then again, Jane Austen gave some great advice to her niece two hundred years ago. If someone is not right, don't marry. Because you'll kick yourself if you find someone better and more suitable. She knew from personal experience because a very wealthy squire had once proposed to her: she initially accepted and mulled over it that night--before deciding to dump him. (It is believed that she was still in love with a much poorer man who later went on to become one of the leading statesmen of Ireland.) She knew he could never excite her.

 

It seems like we will each be searching for a while, Missionblue. People today seem to lack the combination of intellectual curiosity and empathy that we crave.

Silverkitties, most of the confusion is from my not using proper names of my friends and relatives, because of privacy issues.  Actually my father's friend is one Chinese man who loves western movies and some music of the 20's and 30's.  I'll call him R just to clarify things.  My father turned R onto classic films when he showed him "The Hatchet Man" (1932) with Edward G. Robinson and Loretta Young.   The film is about a Tong hatchet man in San Francisco.   R had not watched many classic Hollywood films in his youth, because he was always studying. Now, thanks to my dad's influence,  he is a big classic film collector.  Unfortunately, his Chinese wife doesn't share his passion for old movies or spending money, so he comes over here so I can order films for him without her knowing.  He also collects many Chinese films.  Not that much horror, I don't think, but if there's a certain film you are looking for, I could ask him if he knows anybody who sells it.

 

We have so much in common, Silverkitties.  My father and I both loved Jane Austen.  I guess my ideal man would be Mr. Darcy.  lol  Wow, you had a boyfriend who reminded you of King Ludwig?!  He's another of my favorites!  I know what you mean about how hard it is to choose who will be "the one".  I don't think I could ever settle for someone I wasn't head over heels in love with.  Although I'd prefer a hottie, like everyone else, I think I could fall in love with someone who isn't too attractive if he shared my intellectual and cultural interests.  I even signed up for a celibate dating site, but there's only one man in my age range within 40 miles and only two within 100 miles.  San Francisco is a very sexually-oriented city with a large gay population, of course.  I have been hit on by more lesbians and married men than by single men.  One bisexual woman tried to kiss me after just minutes of knowing me.  She said she could love me forever but she can't be faithful.  At least, she was honest.  I'm not into the queer lifestyle so I could never go that way.  I'm too romantic and traditional.

 

Well, I have to get ready to go to the cemetery.  I'm going to take a cab, because if the people I know wanted to take me, they would offer.  It will probably cost over a $100 round trip, but it will make me feel better to pay my respects to my dad on Father's Day.

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Yes, Retz. Then this came to my head after I wrote it; I felt the mansion needed some description. Here's for you, May, and Missionblue--

 

The Havsomspam [take off on Havisham from Dickens' Great Expectations] mansion sat at the end of the block, secluded, as it were, from the other large houses and mansions on the block. In fact, it occupied a block of its own, not unlike an island that had drifted off from the mainland. Surrounded by high retaining walls, here was always something a little off about it, something that made people put away their phones and quicken their pace as they passed the house. It was cursed, they said. Even the local bums avoided it, despite the ease with which one could slip under the iron gates and take up abode in one of the scattered cottages on the property--if not the main house itself.

 

Maybe it was the unsavory history. After all, the older folks who had lived in Spamville for some 50 years could recall some of the strange reports they had heard over the years. Built by a steel magnate, the first victim was his own wife, who had hanged herself in one of the maid's rooms after she'd caught her husband in bed with her. Their daughter, the tall but homely Mildred Havsomspam, was said to have been bitter for much of her youth and adulthood as she was spurned by the rich, handsome men of Spamville. Having run out of the family fortune--much of which had already been spent her father--she was forced to take in a young, pretty ward, a younger distant cousin named Emma. Then suddenly a miracle took place, it seemed. A handsome, dashing gentleman only a few years older than herself, a younger son of one of her father's business associates, confessed his love for Mildred. He wanted none other than her: no woman came close, not even her pretty, young ward. That, however, turned into another disappointment. There were rumors that the man, of course, desired Emma and was only courting Mildred so she'd let down her guard. Whatever happened, Mildred's wedding was suddenly cancelled. No one knew what happened to Emma or the suitor as neither ever appeared in town.  Some claimed they had seen a couple run and drive off. But the neighbors who lived closest to the house said they had never seen anyone emerge--not even Mildred herself. 

 

Then there was the story of a distant family member who moved into the house. Rumor had it that while the young parents had left their young 8 year old daughter under the care of the babysitter one evening, she disappeared. No trace of her could be found in the sprawling 15-bedroom house or any of the cottages. Disturbed by the memories, the couple moved, leaving the house in the hands of a caretaker and attorney. Only then did horrifying stories began to fly. It was said that the staid housekeeper, Mrs. Doris, as she was called, heard scratchy 20s music playing from a radio. Strange, as she didn't recall seeing one in the laundry room the day before As she tried to turn it off, she realized it was already off. Not only that, but there were no batteries. The attorney, who had stopped by with his two dogs, was bewildered when both started to whine and howl. One day, when a visiting maid was looking in the mirror, she thought she caught the shadowy reflection of a woman hanging from the beams above.     

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Missionblue, I'm so glad you've heard of King Ludwig! And nice to know there's someone who likes Darcy too: although I know that after the Jennifer Ehle/Colin Firth version of Pride and Prejudice, there's been a real frenzy for him. One of my faves is Bronte's Rochester--a man who used to like hot chicks, but settles for plain Jane, cos she's so wickedly witty and passionate. Has a taste for literature and humor too.  And is willing to spoil Jane all the way. There is still no other love scene that strikes me than the one in the garden where Jane declares her love for him. (This was pretty daring in the 19th century too....a woman making the first move!)

 

I wish you peace at the cemetery. Seeing your Dad's grave is worth every penny.  

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Thank you, Retz! I used to enjoy writing stories when I was much younger: in fact, there were a few times up through high school that the teachers thought I'd copied my stories. Or they thought my parents wrote them for me. But after having met them, they realized that wasn't the case since neither my mom nor dad spoke English that fluently even if they could read it. They always used to tell my folks at those parent-teacher conferences that I needed to become a writer. Mom believed it, but dad disagreed. He thought beng a doctor or engineer was the be-all and end-all of life. 

 

At this point, I'm probably too self-critical to ever write fiction: except for parodies.

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Missionblue, I'm so glad you've heard of King Ludwig! And nice to know there's someone who likes Darcy too: although I know that after the Jennifer Ehle/Colin Firth version of Pride and Prejudice, there's been a real frenzy for him. One of my faves is Bronte's Rochester--a man who used to like hot chicks, but settles for plain Jane, cos she's so wickedly witty and passionate. Has a taste for literature and humor too.  And is willing to spoil Jane all the way. There is still no other love scene that strikes me than the one in the garden where Jane declares her love for him. (This was pretty daring in the 19th century too....a woman making the first move!)

 

I wish you peace at the cemetery. Seeing your Dad's grave is worth every penny.  

Thank you, Silverkitties.  I had some good luck, because the cab driver was willing to wait for me while I bought flowers and he waited again while I placed them on my dad's grave.  It was more rushed than it would have been if he had dropped me off, but at least my dear dad and my great uncle got three dozen roses, red and multi-colored.  Now I'm feeling blue again.  Just got through crying, because I miss my dad.  The idea that I'll never get to watch any more Jane Austen or Bronte adaptations with him is just another of the thousand natural heart-aches I've inherited.  My father and I preferred David Rintoul's Darcy from the 1980 BBC version.   I liked Toby Stephens as Rochester.

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silverkitties, Gravo! Gravo! The crowd goes wild. And, the award goes to...............

 

You are awesome! Do you just write as it comes to your head? Seems like you're a NATURAL. You can make extra $ writing mystery books. I'll be the first in line to buy it.

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May, thank you--everyone has played a role in the story, from Missionblue's original story to your radio and the barking dogs!

 

Missionblue, I know only too well how you're feeling. I'm glad you splurged on the roses and the cab ride. I know it must have been worth every cent--and more. The whole experience was bound to make you--or anyone else--cry.

 

We had mom's ashes placed in several urns, including a large one (and a very tiny one in my room) because quite honestly, we're not sure where we'll all end up. I know I want our some of our ashes intermingled and scattered in several places: although I'm not exactly where yet. They will mostly likely include NYC and CT but maybe Chicago too since my mom loved the latter. It was probably her favorite city.

 

Missionblue, how will we able watch film or TV again without our loved ones? I almost wish I could knock on your door and say, let's watch and have a good cry together. I used to watch Downton Abbey with my mom too--although I think I missed last year's and this year's seasons. How will I ever watch a classic Sophia Loren without her? And I do regret not ever having shown Mom Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakdown, The Full Monty, Wilde, and Disney's Fantasia. I was hoping to show her the last but never got around to it. I know she would have enjoyed it since it combines classical music with the most beautiful animation.

 

I have never really found a film version of Jane Eyre that I truly liked: but then again, it's so hard to find a truly fathful film adaptation for a favorite novel if only because we have our own vision of what we'd like.   The last adaptation, released in 2012 (Fukunaga), looked so visually splendid but turned out to be lacking in passion. (Even my students noticed it.) Did you know the guy who played Rochester had never even read JE?!  The 2006 BBC production was much better; it's really hard to condense JE into a 2 and 1/2 hr movie for the theater. 

 

I have not seen the 1980 version of Pride and Prejudice: I will have to check that out one day. I wish they'd adapt Persuasion and Northanger Abbey: although they will probably be no better than the ones made in the '80s.  I found the PP with Keira Knightley just plain tedious: again, like in Jane Eyre, visually splendid but flat.

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