losing my dad

Lost & Found

~ Jenna ~ 1 Comment

If my body had a “presence” notification, like an iPhone does for weekly screen time, what percentage of the day would it show that I spend in my body versus lost in the ping-pong of my well-intentioned mind?

Stillness is illusive. For so long the present moment has felt scary, unproductive, unsafe, angsty and not stimulating enough. I am able to relax for a bit and then without consciousness, I am reacting on an impulse or a thought to text someone back or listen to a podcast or call or scroll or clean or…

Even the act of reading a book to my daughters can bring up some heaviness in my chest. Despite parts of me feeling unsafe in the present moment, stillness and embodiment are all I’m craving. 

I recently began looking at the experience of my dad’s death from a trauma perspective and suddenly so many of my “symptoms” and shame-inducing triggers have started making sense. As my trauma coach nodded in affirmation and explained the nervous system in full detail, I cried tears of relief.  She explained all about the different states, how we move up and down the ladder and how our bodies hold memories we don’t consciously understand. I am finally starting to pick apart and reframe the stale narrative that “something is wrong with me”. 

My protective parts are holding me close, working to keep me safe while I do things that used to be simple or less turbulent before my dad died – like going to the grocery store, feeling big feelings, working out, being in big crowds of people, traveling alone, being alone, Ryan leaving on a work trip and so on. 

Something about these experiences remind my protective self of a threatening time, an inkling of danger and she lights up my nervous system like a Christmas tree. She feels afraid, overwhelmed, helpless and out of control. 

This loving part of me, she is so good at her job. Her memory is as excellent as an elephant’s. She will lay herself down in the middle of the road, throwing an epic tantrum to protect me from going down a path she perceives as unsafe. 

She distracts me with fearful, looping thoughts or no words at all, only attention-grabbing sensations like dizziness, tingly hands, upset stomach, shallow breaths, tension, electric energy in my limbs, etc. 

Not always, not everyday, but sometimes always and sometimes everyday, she gets looped into these same cycles of anxiety and fear, edging grief into trauma and PTSD, a different category all of its own.

Rather than automatically confronting my protector with frustration and shame, pushing her away, I am working on honoring her, nurturing her, and regulating her with words and somatic embodiment tools. Showing her that we are safe and that I will never leave her side. Proving to her that we are resourceful and can handle whatever comes our way.  Giving her validation for how big she feels.

And without lingering or getting lost in the feelings for too long, I come back home to the present moment, to my body, to God. I try and fail and succeed all throughout the day. And I think that’s what it means to be healing. 

When she is resting and well cared for, when my protector has left her fighting hands to rest, I can so vividly see and feel my softer, true essence, like a ribbon of silk and love, patiently waiting to come out and play.  Everything flows. A grand canyon of peace, rivers, hot air balloons, blue skies and lush trees. An entire expanse of truth and beauty. 

Of all the places we could travel, through the depths of the Earth, the present moment is the place with all the answers, all the secrets, all the peace; the most mystical state of all.

The owl calling in the middle of the night tells me so. Answered prayers in the quiet meditation of a rosary. Song lyrics appearing during a contemplative shower: “Maybe it’s time to let the old ways die”. 

Thank you for protecting me. I have permission to live in the present moment and not figure it all out.  Everything is right with me. Right here and now. 

I pause for a moment as I write this. Here I am today. Sitting in my tiny office decorated with everything that I love,  looking out at the eucalyptus trees, my feet folded beneath me. I am remembering that while these words reflect my hardest and darkest points, I am still laughing, singing, dancing, running and connecting with friends. Depending on the moment or the day, these words about my suffering and challenges are either too much or not enough. This feels important to say.

“Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)” – Walt Whitman

Poppi Stories

~ Jenna ~ 3 Comments

Every night before bed, Maisley and Coura want to hear stories from when I was younger. I often tell Poppi stories because they make me happy and keep him alive in their tiny worlds. When this one came to me tonight, l desperately wanted to call him and reminisce, so instead I’m writing it here. 

I remember so vividly that winter in June when my Dadio came to Sydney “on holiday”. We had been planning and emailing and using my calling card (!) to schedule our time together. I was so happy to have him there after surviving my first two months alone in a new country. Being around my dad was like being around the best version of myself. Does that even make sense?

We traveled seamlessly together; always on the same page. Happy and carefree vacation life suited my hardworking and responsible Dad.  I loved the way he would kick back in his chair with a beer in his hand and say, “It doesn’t get much better than this, huh Jen?”

The day he arrived we promptly hit the thrift shop after he saw my TV sitting on the floor. He also wondered how I heated up my food. We found a small TV stand and a white microwave, shoved them into a cab and suddenly my little studio felt more like a home. Such a classic Dad move. 

We had a lot of memories from our time together, but one of my favorites was our trip to the Blue Mountains. Dadio and I both loved mountain biking so I figured a personalized biking excursion would be the perfect outing. We sat three across in an old pickup style truck for the 2.5 hour ride west of Sydney, with a real genuine Aussie mate named Steve, as our driver and tour guide. I just remember he talked a lot while my dad and I mostly asked questions and looked out the window or at each other for a funny side smile. 

When we arrived at our trail, our legs were already a little stiff from the long drive. We jumped on to test out our joy rides and immediately felt the weight of the extra heavy aluminum frames. The trail that Steve chose was this irritating up and down path that was just hard enough to not be enjoyable. Plus, we didn’t even see the Blue Mountains? Ice had unexpectedly accumulated throughout the trail and the temperature was far below comfortable. Needless to say we were exhausted after our two hour ride. Good thing Steve promised and raved about a delicious lunch he would be providing! Steve, a robust Aussie man, brought us each a single, measly spring roll from his favorite Vietnamese place. I feel stuffed just thinking about it.

Read the room, Steve! 

We headed back to Sydney feeling cold, hungry and with miles of memories stashed away to laugh about later.    

To this day, I can’t help, but smile. We laughed about that little trek a hundred times over (once it was over). Sometimes the “worst” moments are our best memories. 

In Loving Memory

~ Jenna ~ 3 Comments

The sting of seeing your photo still hits at odd times
How did that frame become the closest my eyes will get to seeing you again?
How did your name become something to memorialize rather than someone to call when my B.O.B. tire goes flat?

We read the names and tributes on the benches at the beach:
An awesome guy, friend and brother
A gentle soul
Save some waves for me

Maisley asks what the dates mean.
She always asks questions about Heaven and, “Will you go?”
I tell her not for a long time and meagerly convince both of us that I’m in control.
“Do they wear masks in heaven?” she asks.

I was setting up some essentials for baby Orkie in the casita of our 672-square foot Airbnb and felt a deep longing for you. A remembering that this tiny soul is in the “after you” part of our timeline.
I cried because I missed you. I cried because I’m so tired from carrying a human, and trying to be a human, and also raising other humans.
Every time I cry, Maisley and Coura sweetly ask, “Mommy, do you miss Poppi?”
Even when it’s not about you, it’s about you.
Every triumph and every sadness is layered in you.

Meesh got a beautiful tattoo that included your classic handwritten sign off – love ya.
I kept imagining you saying, “Had I known it would be on your body forever I probably would have tried a little harder!”
Even your chicken scratch is worthy of a permanent place with us.

Your very own bench is coming soon. Overlooking the golf course that holds our post-dinner frisbee and football throws. Much to your humble dismay, we’d cover every inch of that bench in your praise if we could, but they capped us at 24 characters.

In loving memory of Jeff Loftus
Husband, Dadio, Poppi, Friend
Loving soul, humble heart

To you, Dadio

~ Jenna ~ 2 Comments

Where are you?

When I’m angry at you for leaving. When a shit-storm is passing through our family and the world. When the comfort of home is far out of reach. When I look through hundreds of recent photos and you’re not in one. When nothing makes sense, nothing goes right and grief rages on. When a beautiful baby boy is born.

Where are you?

The answer to my vocal doubt has never not been – I’m right here. I’m wherever you are. 

I rubbed my cracked heels together the other night, the same way you used to while sitting on your big brown chair in the family room, talking about sports or politics or something. When Maisley yelled, “I’m hungry!”, I pulled an old trick from your playbook and replied with, “Hi Hungry, I’m Jenna”. 

I see you in me. 

I see you in Nicole the way she stands up for what she believes in and how she says it with conviction. I see you in Linny in her carefree moments, the way she tells a sly joke and laughs with every tooth God gave her.  I see you in Meesh, the way she says yes to spontaneous happenings while navigating her days by always doing the next right thing. I see you in mom with her overly generous heart and the way she walks us out to our cars, offering to help us carry our bags. 

I see you in Brandon’s calm, intentional demeanor and in James’ inventive projects. And of course, I see you in Ryan, the way he has grown into his sarcasm game towards mom, the joy he gets from sweeping the side yard, and the way he never tires of working to create the best life for his family.

You’ve missed so much according to my human mind, a lifetime in two years. 

I desperately want to tell you about our air conditioning leak and the ins and outs of our escrow deal. The tone of Coura’s voice as she sings, Take Me Out To The Ball Game. The way Maisley pauses every time she hears a cricket and says, “Hi Poppi!”

But whenever I have that recurring dream about you coming back home after living in San Francisco or somewhere else far away, the only thing I end up saying profusely is, “I love you, I’m so thankful for you, I miss you.”

I hope you never wonder. I hope you can see the corners of my healing heart and know that they are yours.

I love you, I’m so thankful for you, I miss you.

A Second Chance

~ Jenna ~ 2 Comments

A babbling brook of whys and what ifs.
Where’s his second chance? His saving grace?
That miracle lying in wait.

So tied to our illusion of control,
we beg and plead:
he’s one of the good ones,
please use it on him.

In a single moment,
our road map diverged from His.
Propelling us off course,
no turn-by-turn directions home.

Eight months later,
some footing found.
Hints of knowing,
silver linings and signs of God all around.

And still, some days, anger interrupts again:
why didn’t he get a second chance?
This time,
A quick and knowing all-heart reply:

His first chance taken,
a life well lived.
A family, his humble heart,
full to the brim.

Why didn’t he get a second chance?
Because he didn’t need one.

I Found My Heart in San Francisco

~ Jenna ~ 1 Comment

This land is your land, this land is my land…

Pandora just happened to settle on these words chirped by Elizabeth Mitchell as we drove from Sausalito to San Francisco. The Golden Gate Bridge catches my breath every time I see it. At first just peeking over Victorian rooftops and then, in plain, awe-inspiring site. We rented a convertible, because why not on a 24-hour surprise birthday trip to San Francisco with no kids?

Looking up to see nothing but blue sky and “international orange” felt like a mix between Full House dreams and a rollercoaster to freedom. Ryan reached cruising speed and my hands caught the wind above. I was completely overcome by the near perfection of the moment.

The extreme joy I felt, coalesced with an extreme fullness of my dad. Then, a deep longing to have him there with me. To experience joy with him one more time.

If I closed my eyes under the warm sun, I could almost feel him right there next to me. He always said yes to a spontaneous trip. No questions asked, other than, “When are we going?”. Windows down, one hand on the steering wheel and his elbow resting on the side of the car. A baseball cap, Oakley sunglasses, chewing Trident gum, while giving me a half smile that perfectly said, “It doesn’t get much better than this.”

I felt my dad the whole trip. Ryan said he did too. On the flights as my calming voice: “It’s going to be okay. Just enjoy it”. In the butterfly that greeted us halfway up a long hill on our hike in Marin. In the solo mountain biker cruising amidst the expanse of empty trails. In a juicy orange. In the fog horn and the ocean bell.

It’s amazing that my dad was in San Francisco. It confirmed that inkling, that he’s in me. He’s in all of us. He’s everywhere.

So, listen to the songs he loved.
Go to the places he loved to go.
Travel 500 miles away and feel him.
But also, just be. He’s right here.

Wish You Were Here

~ Jenna ~ 1 Comment

As we sat eating dinner at Panama 66 in Balboa Park, the sun had just settled in for the night and the iconic Museum of Man tower was illuminated with purple and blue lights set against the dusky sky. The kids were happy and we were happy. It was one of those beautiful moments where you sink a little deeper in your chair and let out a full exhale.

In the midst of so many fun-beautiful-exciting-adventurous moments in my life, even when he was alive, I would think, I’ve got to take my dad here. He would really love and appreciate this! We shared a passion for so many of life’s greatest, simplest pleasures.

As we were walking back across the string-lit bridge, I was telling Ryan how much I wish my dad was here to do things like this. To have a beer and enjoy the best of this life. To see his admiration and share in his well-deserved happiness. To return his love for me by sharing in life with him. I miss him so much.

In perfect synchronicity, Ryan looked down to see that someone had etched the words “wish you were here” into the concrete. I love when the universe matches on the outside how I feel on the inside. It makes me feel like everything is going to be okay.

The Story of Poppi

~ Jenna ~ 2 Comments

I sweetly overheard Ryan the other night telling Maisley the story of “A Boy Named Poppi”. It gave me the idea to write my own bedtime story about Poppi’s life for the girls to always have. Unlike our other made-up stories about “Sammie the Kangaroo dog” and “Wolf Girl” on her flying scooter, this one is as real as I can remember. 

A few moons and many stars ago, a little boy named Poppi was born amongst the strawberry fields at the crossroads of America. His mom first said, “He looks like a little bird!”. Other people would later say, “He was just born good”. He was second in what would become a family of six kids. Three boys, three girls. His tiny school was shaped like a house. He never showed up late and always followed the rules.

One day, his family decided to pile into their station wagon and head west. All the way west; across Kansas and Colorado, through Nevada and into California. They eventually settled at 521 Mountain View Place, a small home with a bigger front yard than back. All six kids shared one small room. Gigantic avocado and grapefruit trees lined the grass while rose bushes and birds of paradise colored in the edges of the lawn.

They had a neighbor named Henry who would periodically peak his head over the fence and bring them handmade wooden toys. And a scrappy dog named Dino (pronounced deeno) who was infamous for sending the family on treasure hunts for missing belongings.

Poppi’s first job was riding his bike around the neighborhood, throwing newspapers onto front porch mats. Getting an extra scoop of mint chocolate chip Thrifty ice cream for his beautiful baby blue eyes made him the envy of every kid on the block. Poppi had an arm for baseball and fingers for the piano. Family vacations were mostly spent around a campfire, telling stories and making memories he would live to tell later. Life was simple.

One time, on his 13th birthday, Poppi shot his new bow and arrow up into the sky, struck a cloud, and as luck would have it, rain fell out of the sky! Another time, he had to walk up hill both ways in the snow to school. Only one of those stories turned out to be true. 

Poppi was 5’1 and 105 pounds of wiry grit when he started high school. His strawberry blonde hair flipped up at the end like the lip of a wave. He grew into his strength and eventually became a wrestler whose name appeared in the local newspaper a few times.

Poppi graduated from high school and continued to learn at Cal State Fullerton. Outside of the classroom he was a craftsman; helping to construct things around the house like a new garage and a finished attic. He was a quiet leader, loved planning a good party and always raised his hand to help someone.

In his early 20s, while Poppi was playing baseball one night, a wild Italian named Nonni was serendipitously sitting in the stands. She looked out onto the field and to her surprise, thought, “I’m going to marry him someday.” And she did. It was a match made of teamwork, hard work, sarcasm, adventure, fun and unconditional love.

Also around that time, Poppi, Uncle Chris and Popster opened the doors to Aliso Heating and Air Conditioning. Poppi was a bootstrapping entrepreneur who modestly made it to the big leagues. He loved sales and getting to know people. Poppi and Uncle Chris were the first people in and the last ones out, every single day.

Nonni and Poppi had four daughters. He was such a proud dad. When other people would ask if he had wanted a son, he would kindly reply, “I always wanted four daughters!” Poppi lived for soccer games, track and swim meets. His feet traveled all over the world; to the wildlife jungles of Africa, the cobblestone streets of Italy, the glaciers of Chile and the Remarkables of New Zealand, to name a few. 

But do you know what Poppi loved even more than all the wonders of the world? The tiny souls that gave him the name, that made his heart “Poppi”.

When all of his work here on Earth was done, Poppi took off into the sky to join God and the rest of his family waiting for him. When you look up at night, he is the brightest star shining right near the big dipper. You can pop open the door to Heaven and talk to him any time, anywhere.

Good night, Poppi, we love you!

 

Out of the Grey

~ Jenna ~ 1 Comment

As I continue to find my footing, my voice and my self in this transformative season of motherhood, I’ve been mostly comfortable living in the middle. Extremes haven’t really been my thing. I’ve been taking in all sides of the story and experiencing a little bit of everything, all from the safety of my moderate mind.

The girl who once jumped out of an airplane and another time yelled at the mailman was a different Jenna who existed in a life I sometimes can’t recall.

When death came marching along on September 29th, it swept the grey right out from under my feet.

Everything is mostly black and white now. No cruising decibels, no cruising – period.

He was here and now he’s gone. I love my daughters, but damn I need a break. I want to be grounded and also free. I wake up in either vivid hope or with anxiety wrapped around me like a girdle.

The comfort of grey is no longer. The luxury of never having received “that” phone call is gone.

How long have I been scooting by in the in between? Now sitting on the edges, is this where I am made to be?

I think everyone feels the magnetic duality of life. We choose one path, but often are half in, half out because of the luster of another way of life. Something feels missing.

Sometimes I resist motherhood, I resist being a homemaker, I resist working, I resist working out, all because I want everything, I want the opposite thing. If we don’t fully embody one of the selves we desire, where does that leave us? Overwhelmed? Stuck? Maybe committing to one of our selves actually creates more mental space and time to embody pieces of our other self. 

Unlocked by death, the outlier in me is seeking the winding edges of my path. An undefined, yet seemingly more concrete way of life.

32: Into the Wild

~ Jenna ~ 1 Comment

I turned 32 last week.  How does it feel? As my dad used to say, “It feels just like 31!”

Many things are the same.

Instead of perfume, I still rub “chill pill” essential oil balm onto my wrists and neck. The first time I look at my hair in the morning is typically in the rear view mirror of my car. I’m still getting comfortable crying in public and I’m still 97% afraid of the dark.

But one big thing is different. 32 officially marks my first age without my dad. 

Everything I wear or see has this “before dad died” and “after dad died” essence. I will see a shirt and think, the last time I wore this dad was still alive. I will watch a movie and think, the last time I watched this, dad was still here.

32 feels like that too. A transformative year. Before I was 32 and after.

This year is wrapped tightly in a big question mark. I don’t feel entitled to anything anymore; I’m not entitled to people or days or my health. I just damn well know to appreciate those things.

My friend Nicole said that God doesn’t waste anything. I love that sentiment and will continue to be on high alert as He uncovers the silver lining. I’m picking up the scraps of a shitty couple months, doing my best to make sense and make good out of them. I know I will be different, I hope mostly better.

Less fearful, more daring. Less anxious, more at peace. Less stuck, more in the flow.

It’s weird to think I’ve only been a mom for two years and some change. Of my 32, it feels like so many more have been in the motherhood. To my future forgetful self, this is what your family is like right now:

Maisley walked up to me while I was feeding Coura last night and casually stated: “What the fuck.” Just as breezy and matter of fact as if she were asking for a snack. I immediately called Ryan and told him we needed to implement that cussing jar ASAP.

Maisley. How do I put that girl into words. She’s more of a feeling, a motion, a dance move, a splatter of paint. I remember when she was a baby thinking that I could never be mad at her because she was too sweet and perfect. As it turns out, that wasn’t true, but I do love her even more than I did in that blissfully ignorant moment. She is whip smart and remembers everything, even the things I hope skip in one ear and out the other.

Ryan told me that Coura is the most optimistic person he knows. I’m oddly obsessed with her contagious joy right now. Her smile is so big that it looks like someone is pulling on her cheeks to stretch them as wide as they’ll go. When I pick her up, she leans slowly into my chest and if I’m lucky, brings my face close for open mouth kisses. She is already trying to crawl because as Jordan says: it’s survival of the fittest around here.

Ryan is the most optimistic person that I know. He hasn’t once complained about doing double the work right now; around the house and on the job. He is my safe place for processing grief and never lets me dip too far into never-land. He has mastered the art of Elf on the Shelf and is fired up on projects around the house. Rightfully so, his fuse with two kids can be as short as the colored Christmas lights we just strung, but his frustration leaves as quickly as it came. He is home to me, always has been, always will be.

32; into the wild we go.