Namesake

Last week I was laying in bed scrolling through the morning’s news on Twitter.  I saw that Breakfast Television was asking Vancouverites to send in their fog pictures with the promise of airing their favourites.  After I tweeted my favourite shot,  I opened up my browser to stream the show. Immediately I heard  “I think we have a winner.  This one comes from Elizabeth Sawatzky.”

I was thrilled to see my photo (who doesn’t love validation? Especially the on-screen kind!) but also caught myself thinking, “Sawatzky?! Wait..who?”
I thought I would eventually get use to Sawatzky and it would start rolling off my tongue when I introduce myself. Well it has been 5 years and it still doesn’t feel natural to say or write.

Elizabeth Sawatzky just doesn't feel like me.  I want to call Elizabeth Sawatzky "she" or "her," as if I'm removed from that entity. Silly, right? It’s just a name.  But when I’m introducing myself Sawatzky doesn't seem to be a real representative of  the person I was for 25 years.  Like an identity eraser. Am I alone in feeling this way?

I had my signature analyzed at a party this summer and even the analyst exclaimed that my “Liz Sawatzky” signature wasn’t really mine.  So I quickly scribbled Liz Epp and whamo-blamo she started accurately listing off my personality traits like a shopping list. (such a fascinating experience that it’s worth an entire entry of itself)

I miss Liz Epp.

Epp also makes me feel connected to my dad. And as the one year mark of his passing creeps up on me, I cling to anything that can possibly make me feel closer to him.

A number of years ago I asked my mom how she came to the name Elizabeth. She told me to ask my father because she wanted to name me Rachel or Leah, but he insisted on Elizabeth. My dad told me about what it was like when he first moved to Canada as a young boy. The political climate after WWII didn’t exactly lend itself for a warm welcome to German immigrants.  My dad said he was horribly teased and excluded at school, as well as picked on by teachers.  “Though there was one girl who was always really friendly to me.  She made me feel welcome. Her name was Elizabeth.”   My namesake.

Hearing someone say Elizabeth Kathleen Epp evokes this image of my dad holding little 3.5lb me in the palm of his hand on the day I was born.  My cousin told me that she remembers looking through the glass in the preemie ward as my dad held me up to the window with joyful tears in his eyes.  

I’m planning on going back to my given name.  In part to honour my dad.  It will be slow process but may as well change the easy things like social media first. 

I’m sure people will think I’m being too much of a feminist or that I’m being hasty.  But  the reality is that I didn't give the subject enough thought when I got married. Going back to Epp certainly does not reflect any sort of rift or tensions in our marriage.  In fact, I feel it's quite the opposite.  My husband never wanted me to take on his last name and he is excited and supportive of this decision. He and I are equal partners, neither of us holding any sort of possession over the other. Sharing a last name can represent unity and I'm not trying to make light of that symbolism. But for me and my husband, our hope is that how we love and support each in action, is a truer reflection to society of our union and commitment than sharing a last name.

August 25

August 25 would have been Dad’s 68th birthday.  We decided to go camping as a family in his honour.

While he was still in the hospital and we were clinging to the hope that he would get better, we made plans to celebrate his birthday at his favourite spot - Hicks Lake.  His eyes lit up and despite his weakness, his excitement was obvious. 

The two weeks leading up to Dad’s birthday were extremely difficult.  To be expected, I know. Especially during the ‘year of firsts’ as all my grief books refer to it. Nights full of  tears and dreams recounting traumatic experiences at the hospital. Days consisting of cubicle breakdowns and overwhelming feelings of wanting to pick up the phone and call my dad.  To hear the voice I’ve known my whole life, but now fear I’ll forget.

I know it is important to let these ‘upsurges’ happen.  When I feel a wave of grief coming on, I let it come.  Experience the feelings and let the tears flow.  But there is a difference between remembering and reliving.  Thankfully, Lindsey taught me that when a memory brings you back to a painful experience and you feel like you’re experiencing it all over again, it can cause trauma (my hospital dreams, for example) and shared some methods to stop the spiral. 

It was important to spend this ‘first’ recognizing the grief and loss, but also making new happy memories.  It’s always sad when it takes something tragic to bring a family together, but I'm looking forward our new traditions for August 25.

I know my dad was with us at Hicks Lake.  Maybe we felt his presence because we did things he loved, like swimming at the Harrison Hot Springs pool. Or maybe it was all the sharing of childhood camping memories.  But the red canoe (so much like the one he had) that sat all weekend across the shore seemed like it was placed just to remind me that dad was there.

Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me…
Let my name be ever the
household word that it always was.
    - Henry Scott Holland

Be patient as you grieve

For Father's Day, my family gathered at the cemetery yesterday and saw the gravestone for the first time.  Seeing the words engraved on the plaque makes it all seem that much more permanent.  Final.

We stood silently.  We cried.  We prayed.

Afterwards we took my nieces swimming at my Mom's condo.  Something my dad faithfully and lovingly did with his own kids every Saturday night.
Later at dinner, my sister-in-law had a weird and unlikely craving to order a meatball sandwich off the menu.  We laughed and joked that clearly my dad was with us that day because without a doubt, he would have ordered it.

A hard first, this Father's Day, but there was still joy in the midst of the pain. I know there will be lots of tears today, releasing some of the tension and sadness inside.

I want to leave you with the prayer we read at the gravesite yesterday:

Do not hurry as your walk with grief;
it does not help the journey.
Walk slowly, pausing often.
Do not hurry as you walk with grief.
Be not disturbed by memories that come unbidden.
Swiftly forgive, and let Christ speak for your unspoken words.
Unfinished conversation will be resolved in him.
Be not disturbed.

Be gentle with the one who walks with grief.
If it is you, be gentle with yourself.
Swiftly forgive; walk slowly, pausing often.
Take time; be gentle as you walk with grief.

~ Common Prayer, a Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals

in the land of the living

I remain confident of this:

I will see the goodness of the Lord

in the land of the living.

Wait for the Lord;

be strong and take heart

and wait for the Lord.
~Psalm 27

At times it's already been said so perfectly, you wonder what you could possibly add.

But I talk a lot :)

For months the 'goodness' I waited for was my dad to get better.
For my dad to come home.  More hugs, more cheesy dad jokes, more time.

Even though that didn't happen, I'm being surprised by good things.  Incredible things! Changes that I'll admit I had given up praying for since time and time again I was slammed with disappointment, setbacks, and feelings of defeat. But right now, situations that had seemed impossible have hope. 
And I'm not afraid to pray about them anymore.

Even though my dad is not here, I feel he is watching every bit of it.
With that smile that always said all that was needed.  He longed to see these things too.

It's hard.

Writing about this grieving process is difficult.  So that's why this blog may be sparse for a while. It’s not just that the emotions are painful, it’s also because I don’t always know what the emotions I’m feeling are.  Or if I even want to talk about them. Not wanting to talk about how I’m feeling? Trust me, I'm just as surprised as those of you who know me.

I read that when you lose a parent, it feels like you’re saying goodbye to your past (a spouse: your present, a child: your future). I don't want to close the chapter on my dad.

There are those wise words again, "I will grow up, but I will never outgrow my dad".
  
I know that when we share memories about my dad, it will create his legacy.  I experienced that at his funeral.  Yet, sometimes I fear that when I share a memory about my dad, I’m releasing it to the universe – no longer able to hold it in my heart and reach for it when I want to feel him close. So I've decided there will always be some warm and wonderful stories that I will keep for myself.  For when I recollect them privately, it’s almost as if for a brief tender moment I can feel him holding my hand. 

But too quickly the feeling vanishes and my dad isn’t here.

It’s hard.

Dad.

I dreaded what it was going to be like to write this post.  Not that I am forced to share with the webisphere about this, but it seems strange to skip over this chapter.  My dad will forever impact my life and I'm sure many future posts will include nuggets of life lessons I've learned from him, or what I've learned out of this experience.  So...here it goes.

On January 25, there was a meeting with my dad's doctors and my family.  They explained that dialysis was no longer able to remove fluid from my father's body.  It was suggested that we stop treatment and place him in palliative care.

Not easy news to swallow.  We felt blindsided to say the least.  The two weeks prior seemed to be full of improvement.  My dad was very cognitive and we were able to have short conversations.  We made summer plans, including going to his favourite lake for his birthday. 

On January 27, we told  his doctor to stop treatment.  He teared up a bit too and told us he knew we made the right decision.  "Too much suffering" he said.

Our final week with my dad is a blur.  Long days and nights of driving back and forth to Abbotsford hospital while trying to fit in half days of work. 

One of the last days my dad was cognitive, I felt like I no longer had any words.  So I asked him if I could crawl in bed next to him.  As I lay there, I listened to him breathe and his heart beat as I did so often as a child needing the comfort of her father.

On February 1, 2013 my family and I gathered by my dad's side as he peacefully took his final breath.

Feelings of grief and devastation come and go in waves. 
And today is a particularly hard day. 
But I do have reason to be thankful.  My dad got well enough that I had the chance to say goodbye.  To say all the things on my heart that he needed to hear.  To ask for my dad's forgiveness for times I hurt him. I wouldn't necessarily call it closure, but no lingering I wish I said's.

 The above picture is a comfort to me because this represents so much of how I will remember my dad.  A quiet tender moment where each other's presence is enough.

But what happens when I am older and I don't look like that girl in the picture?  It will remind me of all the years that will eventually pass and all the life chapters my dad is going to miss.
But a wonderful woman reminded me of something yesterday...

I will grow up, but I will never outgrow my dad. 
He will forever be with me, watching over me. 
I feel my dad's presence when I encounter a person in need.  Whether it's a hungry person on the street, or that annoying co-worker, he's there reminding me to walk the extra mile for those that are hurting. 

Hope to make you proud, Dad.

"Don't let me into this year with an empty heart"

Those Josh Ritter lyrics come to my mind often at this time of year.  This January they feel especially relevant. 

In December we nearly lost my dad from complications due to internal bleeding.  Twice the doctors pulled him back from falling off the cliff of life.  Their words, not mine.

The past 30 days have been a roller coaster of every emotion imaginable. 
My dad seems to be slowly recovering, but he's far from out of the woods.  Now we wait. And wait.

I know I'm supposed to be thankful for the progress he's made, but truth be told I'm terrified.  I'm exhausted.  When I think about what 2013 will look like and all the unknowns with his recovery, I just want to fast forward to 2014. 

So that's why I keep praying "Don't let me into this year with an empty heart." 
Hope it makes Josh's set list in March.