I Am SUCH An Idiot

I don't know if it's because I chose to send the email about the photos I posted of me and my dad during his last days to my flickr page, or if it's because I actually posted them. But I did, and now I feel...ashamed, embarrassed, horrible, and even more excluded from my family than before. Everyone grieves differently...

Though that was not apparently a good enough reason for my little sister, who called me to give me a verbal beating for publishing all of the photos that I did: ["you think that putting pictures of the sores on Dad's feet on the Internet was okay? That's so disrespectful to him and to our family...to the way he lived..."]. Apparently it isn't, in the world of being Twenty-Three And Right About Everything. It's funny, that's the same thing she accused me of when I was 23.

So consider me shamed, my head hung, my attempt to participate in the family grieving process cut short. And thanks so much Em, your subjectivity has been noted and filed for future reference.

Ten Things To Do To Feel Better

1. Put on "Such A Lovely Thing" from DeVotchKa's How It Ends and dance around to it. Or "Just A Ride" by Jem, or "Sing Sing Sing" by the Benny Goodman Orchestra, or "Skokiaan" by Louis Armstrong off of his All-Time Greatest Hits CD. Just be sure to dance.

2. Mass-text all of your friends and tell them that you love them. Then watch the replies roll in.

3. Get out! Go for a walk, a run, a bicycle ride, a hike, whatever, but get out of your little enclosed space.

4. Write a card or a letter (by hand) to someone you haven't heard from in a long time, and mail it to them. Be sure to let them know they're in your thoughts, especially if it's been awhile.

5. Bring flowers to someone. Especially a stranger or someone who could really use a lift in their day.

6. Make an online donation to a conservation trust. A few really good ones:
http://www.lionconservation.org
http://www.wildlifedirect.org
http://www.SaveOurSeas.org
http://www.seashepherd.org

Alternately, offset your carbon footprint by calculating it and donating automatically here:
http://www.nature.org/initiatives/climatechange/calculator/

7. Make amends...with yourself, with others, with whatever higher power you feel exists, with whatever you need to. Unload some of that guilt you've been hauling around, however you can.

8. Organize a "Free Hugs" campaign with friends (see the original video that spawned the Free Hugs movement on YouTube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vr3x_RRJdd4) and/or family members, community members, for no reason. Just go do it. Nothing has ever made me feel better than the Free Hugs campaign my friends and I staged last year at the Boulder Fall Festival.

9. When you're at the gas station, offer to fill someone else's car up for them. While it's filling, wash their front and rear windshields. They'll be blown away, and you'll feel uplifted.

10. Smile. Smiling makes everything better, no matter what.














Poppa, Joshua Taggart, Aunt Dondi

Just Another Day In October

It's shaping up to be another beautiful October evening in Boulder, CO. My apartment needs some straightening and vacuuming but otherwise has assumed its usual adjustable-chaos atmosphere. The dishwasher is pounding my pots and pans and plates and such fromt he past few days with quantitative amounts of hot, frothy, soapy water. My cat is out on the balcony, trying again--and as futilely as each time before--to communicate with the birds that crowd the bird feeder. I really think she's just eager for someone to talk to, but they know better, and scold her from their lofty perches. By all accounts, it's just another normal evening in Boulder.

Except my dad died two days ago. My father is dead. My friend, my ally, my hero, my first love, my supporter, my mentor, my coach, my dear old wonderful dad, is gone. The news is so big that it's utterly incomprehensible, although it hit me so hard at work today that I was sent home and spent the rest of the day in bed sleeping, avoiding the world, using "Nature's Prozac", as Jack calls substantial amounts of sleep, to my advantage. Phones rang. People went about their days. Mine stopped. It seems like mine has stopped a lot in the past couple of days, this fact that continually resides in the back of my mind--accept it Dondi your father is dead--is unaaceptable. I just don't fucking get it. I saw him three weeks ago and he was progressing, and now he's just gone. He's just gone. Accept it Dondi your father is dead...

I think for the time being, I'll head back to bed thoughm while I'm capable of thinking semi-rationally about this, hope that my father is in a better place now.

Rest in peace, William Richard Barrowclough, "Bill" to his friends and loved ones, "Dad" to his children, "Poppa" to his grandchildren. August 5, 1940 - October 7, 2007. When I get up the courage, or am maybe able to write on this for longer than a quarter of an hour without tears sliding down my cheeks, obscuring thoughts and vision, I'll write about how he became "Poppa". That's a neat story. For now...thanks for reading.

~Dondi

It's won't be long now, hands can't stop holding...

....it's a line from a song my friend Ramaya wrote and performed with his band A. Ballad Nightly. The "It won't be long now..." part is very true. It won't be long now. From the tone of my sister's very quiet, very subdued voice I knew that. Her telling me that they were taking him off of life support, basically, that they were stopping the feeding tube, the respirator, the fluids, seemed impossible, too far away. But it won't be long now. The doctors aren't giving a time frame but they are giving him morphine to keep him comfortable. A few hours. A few days. Not much longer.

The second part is also true, though, "...hands can't stop holding..." This song in particular has nothing to do with my circumstances, certainly, or my father, or my family, but it is befitting. We are a strong, close, ferociously loving family. Our grasp won't break, our hands won't stop holding, even in the absence of our father, grandfather, brother, friend, mentor, lover, companion, "Daddy", "Poppa", "Dad", "Bill". Our hands can't stop holding...

I love you, Daddy.

Keep on keeping on...

You keep smiling.

When your brother calls you on the first day of work at your new job to tell you your father has acute liver failure and is getting worse, you smile. You try to think about something else. Because if not the wall around your heart will crumble into oblivion and you will become like so many wailing worshipers begging God for anything. Another chance. A turnaround. A better prognosis.

Oh God, what am I going to do?