Dad

My father was the best dancer.  He loved playing his Big Band albums on the hulking stereo system that lived in the living room.  He would grab me up and with patience and happiness he taught me how to be his dance partner.

I think he found freedom when he danced. To this day I am told by his friends from childhood what a great dancer he was.  As a teenager, to me weddings meant more than a couple's nuptials. They were when my father and I could spread out on the huge wooden dance floor and have fun.  I couldn't help but have a silly grin plastered on my face whenever we did that because he had one on his face, too.  The last time we danced at a wedding he took my hand as we walked out onto the dance floor and cautioned me that he could probably safely only manage one dance.  He had had a couple of heart attacks and heart surgery.  He was outliving the doctor's predictions but he was feeling his physical limitations more acutely.  

We got out on the floor and once again entered the world we created together with music and steps.  I knew when to turn, when to look for his hand, what he would do next.  The moments we danced together were golden.  My best memories are of those times.  I can still feel his cheek pressed against mine.  I can still smell his cologne.

Being his daughter was not always easy so when, after not making it out of his last surgery in 1992, he passed on, I didn't cry.

He is buried very close to where I live.  I drive past him every day commuting to and from work.  When I think about it I wave and turn my head in his direction and say, "Hi, Dad!"  This afternoon on my way to run errands, I visited his grave.

I parked, turned off the car, and reached for a stone of sorts that I had found at the beach a while back and was still located near the cup holder.  I was getting choked up as I swung the car door open and got out.  It had been a couple of years since I was last there and I meandered a bit as I headed in the direction I knew to be correct.  Tears were running down my face as I looked and when I saw his name I started sobbing.  As is Jewish custom, I crouched down and put the stone from the beach on his tombstone.  The sobbing and the tears kept coming.  Standing up, taking off my sunglasses, wiping my eyes, still crying.  It took 22 years but finally the anger was gone.  My heart could break for the father I lost way too soon.

Keep Calm

You can tell yourself everything is alright and that you're not stressed out.  You're handling everything just fine.  You're an expert at juggling and keeping everyone happy.

Nope.

You're sitting at your laptop and you feel your heart start banging around in your chest.  You have to take deep breaths.  Keep calm.  It's a panic attack.

I don't like the name panic attack because in my personal experience it happens when I am quiet, not panicking.  Heart disease runs in my family so when I had my first one many years ago my initial thought was heart attack.  A co-worker, who was a sympathetic soul, told me to lie down on the office couch because it was a panic attack.  We didn't need to call the paramedics just yet.

Periodically someone will post on Facebook a bare bones explanation of why people have panic attacks and that those that experience them should not be ashamed.  "They are signs of having tried to remain strong for too long."  I cannot argue with that as those are the times I experience them.

My heart and mind voted to have my body, the big mouth, do the talking for them.  "Take it easy.  Don't put so much pressure on us because you are freaking us out!"

Got it.  I'll make some changes.  Thanks.  And sorry.