Boreal Witch

I read an article yesterday which I've spent most of today processing. The US population, apparently, is declining and the tone was very much doom and gloom. 

Millennials aren't having kids! They need to have kids! WHY ARE THEY NOT HAVING KIDS???

Please. Calm the fuck down. 

First of all, good. The population should be going down. There's way too many of us as it is and it is tearing the planet (and our society) apart. Why are people having more kids when so many parents can't take care of the kids they already have? It's irresponsible. If you aren't going to take care of your kids, then don't have them. For the love of all things holy, JUST DON'T. 

Secondly, why would anyone want to spend $250,000 on raising a child when they have (college) debt and work a minimum wage job? You can barely take care of you. Why add to the misery?

Third, there is an expectation from everyone around you to have kids, but I'm giving you permission to not have kids, okay? No one says you have to do things exactly like your parents or grandparents. If you enjoy your freedom, have your freedom. Travel. Live your life the way you want to, not the way someone says you should. Guess what? They'll deal. 

And finally, I've had lots of people tell me I need to have more kids because I'm such an amazing parent. I always tell them if I had more than two kids I'd go crazy. Then I laugh and they laugh and because we're laughing, it's just silly nonsense. Honestly, deep down, I know I cannot handle more than two kids. I would lose my shit constantly. In fact, someday, when my kids are wrestling with how many kids they want (or don't want) to have, I'll tell them the truth. That decision is yours. Not an economist's. Not the cashier at the grocery store. Not mine. 

It's up to you to do what's right for you. Kids don't ever have to play a role in that decision.

A few days ago, I texted Dad a silly question, not really expecting an answer. After all, Dad had never been a small talk kind of person. He speaks plainly, but he doesn't speak about trivial matters. I thought it might be fun to get bits of his personal history and background.

So I asked: What were your favorite games growing up? 

A couple hours later, Dad texted back: Monopoly, chess. Sheepshead. 

The next day, I asked: What were your favorite toys when you were a kid and why?

Teddy bears. I don't know why. I'm thinking of one more. Lincoln logs. I liked building things. 

And today, there was this gem; simple, but traditional: What's your favorite color?

Blue.

Tomorrow there will be another text. I don't what it will say exactly - just another question and another answer which will provide another glimmer into my dad's life. These questions aren't much, but I hope someday they'll lead to bigger ones. Perhaps - if his treatment progresses - the questions will become that interview I've always wanted to do. But right now, I'll have to settle for these little Questions of the Day. 

It's not easy getting back into the thick of things. I'm not even really back, not technically. I have to quarantine for at least 10 days, which means no trips to the store, no running errands, and no taking my kids to and from their activities. 

So, I'm back. At least in the physical sense. 

Today, I deep cleaned the kitchen, as I always do on Wednesdays. I took a walk with Robinson. I caught up on a few emails. I built a moss farm in Terraria. I finished Hillbilly Elegy. It wasn't what I expected. I started to plan out the next Star Wars RPG for the kiddos. Josh called me, saying he hadn't talked to me in a while. That was a welcome surprise. I called my mom to remind her to put the custard in the freezer so that I could use it up on my next visit. Dad answered instead and rushed me off the phone. It's 5:45 there. Time for The Closer. 

Yes, things are back to normal, or as normal as they can be.

I'm still worried, of course, but I'm back. 

And life goes on. 

It's natural to leave a few activities undone when you travel home. After all, there's a priority list - taxes, for example, in this last visit - in which certain things will always take precedence. 

We operated under the assumption that Dad would be getting his second treatment Monday and so I left, the outlook good. Then came the news: his white blood cell count was too low to receive his second treatment. It would have to wait until next week. 

Now I doubt my decision. Should I have stayed? Would it have mattered if I had? Would my being there offer another solution? The rhetorical questions and non-answers are absolute hell. There's nothing I can do to fix anything. I have no control over this situation. It all rests on Dad's shoulders. 

Am I selfish to want my father around for a few more years? What if he's ready to go? How do I make peace with his decision, horrible as it may be?

There are so many things I have yet to do with him. My sisters and I were going to interview him. That didn't happen, even though we wanted it to be a priority. Another thing undone. There are the unplanned trips to Germany, to the birthplace of most of my ancestors. Undone. And there are the boxes upon boxes of books and stamps filling every available square foot of my dad's house, waiting to be processed, or posted, or sold. All undone. 

We only have so much time to finish everything we want to, a limited amount of time to express our joys and live our passions. There's so much my dad hasn't seen yet and to see him back away without a fight is upsetting. Maybe there's a wisdom here I don't see yet. After all, I'm still (reasonably) young and want so much out of the next forty years. Dad's nearing the end. Would another ten years really make a difference?

I suppose it would for the rest of us. We don't want things with him to end. We don't want his life to end undone and unfinished. We want a chance for him to complete what he starts in a way where nothing is left behind. 

In the end, though, does it matter? Does any of it really matter?

"Boy," Dad said, tipping his head in a sideways glance. "You must really like garlic."

"I do," I answered, smiling. We'd had this conversation already - a few weeks ago when he and I were sitting shoulder to shoulder at his desk, working on taxes. Talk about deja vu. 

"Or I'm just smelling garlic," he said. 

"Your nose could be broken," I offered. "After all, the nurse said chemo was going to affect your taste and smell."

A long pause. 

"You think my nose is broken?" Dad asked. 

"No," I laughed. "I just really like garlic."

Then he laughed, too. 

Last Will and Testament

DECLARATION. I, Boreal Witch, a legal adult being of competent and sound mind, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament.

Firstly, I promise to discard or distribute all of all of my personal belongings before I die. 

Second, I promise to never bequeath a large, heavy, or cumbersome item to someone more than 100 miles away. If, for whatever reason, I insist upon doing so, I will pay the moving costs and fees associated with said item.

Third, I promise to find special homes for my fabric and quilting items unless arrangements have already been made for my children, nieces, or nephew to have them. 

Fourth, I promise to not leave the next generation of family members with piles of my stuff, my parents' stuff, and/or my grandparents' stuff. Exceptions will be made for specific family items, to be determined before I die (see #1).

Lastly, I promise to never expect my children, nieces, or nephew to feel obligated to have any of my physical items. In fact, if they don't ask for it, I will assume they don't want it. 

Signed, 

Boreal Witch

2/25/21