My Life in the Slow Lane

Dear Pop,

It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. It feels like a decade; it’s been 3 years (and two months and four days) since you left. So much has happened in that time… I’m like a totally different person now… There’s so much I want to catch you up on: The Midnight Cat is now a permanent fixture in my home, I’m living with Janek now (and three others), I’ve resigned from one job and have another one now, and I’m having one of these blog posts published in a book in April.

So for a start, I turned twenty-six on Monday. I am now officially hurtling towards the outer edge of the “mid-twenties”. When you were twenty-six, it was 1940. You were married, had a daughter and another on the way, and (or so I thought when I was little) the world was eerily in black and white. You were working full-time, a fully qualified draftsman in a small firm in Martin Place in the city, living with your wife and daughter at your parents’ place in Hammond Ave. You were soon to leave for Port Moresby in the Royal Australian Air Force during the war. When my dad was twenty-six, it was 1981. He had already been married for three years, though I wasn’t to come onto the scene for another three. What is it about thinking of you and Dad as young men my age that makes me feel vaguely inadequate? The trippy thing is that the twenties are generally regarded as “the best years of your life”—full of parties, live bands, sex, drugs, alcohol, and very little responsibility—and that’s where I am (though without some of these features, admittedly). This is where you were in 1940!

So Janek and I took the plunge and moved in together. After The Proposal, it was kind of a foregone conclusion that we would eventually move somewhere together, since our respective leases ended at the same time. They were due to finish in November, but we were lucky enough to find a room in a sharehouse without really trying. We moved in during October. It was interesting. I suddenly had half as much space as I was used to, with twice as many things to cram into it. Janek, God bless him, has been incredibly patient with my messy tendencies and has even promised not to clean up my stuff because when he does I can never find anything. He has revoked this promise twice thus far, when it got too much for him to ignore.

We live with three other people: The Child, The Writer and The Clubber. The Child is gay, twenty, totally incompetent in that fresh-out-of-home way, and totally annoying on a daily basis. He doesn’t do the dishes without being asked, doesn’t clean the bathroom or kitchen at all, and his personality grates on me. The Clubber is the only girl in the house, so she has the bedroom with the ensuite. She’s a lot of fun and we really get on well together. The Writer is my favourite. He’s straight, my age, and works by day as an accountant. He’s like Clark Kent in that way: at night he is a party animal and a writer, working on a novel and writing short stories. He’s amazing and great to be around.

The fourth roomie is the queen of us all. I am referring, of course, to The Midnight Cat. After we moved I missed her terribly. I even cried on a few occasions because I missed her evening cuddles. Though by the time I moved she was spending most of her time either with me or Janek, technically she wasn’t ours so we had to make the difficult decision to leave her behind. One Saturday, I arrived home and was greeted by Janek’s enormous grin. “Guess what!” He said, beaming, “I have a surprise for you!” I was about to ask what it was when I saw a movement in the kitchen, just behind his left shoulder. I focused my vision. The Midnight Cat meowed and sauntered over to me. It turned out that Janek had been driving home, feeling miserable after spending the weekend with his family, when he decided to stop by the old place because he wanted to see her. She materialised at the sound of the car’s engine, Janek picked her up, chucked her into the back seat, and drove her here. We called the owners, of course, and were told they hadn’t seen her in three months, and had assumed she’d found a new home. She had. She now rules the house with an iron paw, which she swipes at The Child when he gets too close to her. You’d like her. I know that everyone thinks their cat is the best, but mine totally is.

I resigned from my job a month ago. After clashing heads with someone else in the organisation, Ada, my (former) manager resigned in November. I was determined not to resign on a knee-jerk, in perverse solidarity with Ada, although I did know deep down that my time there was numbered. Janek begged me to resign months before I actually did, always asking me “Did you resign today?” when I got home. It was starting to affect my health and I knew I couldn’t work there any further, which is very sad because until recently, it was my dream job. Ultimately, I clashed heads with the same person and resigned. That day was contacted by a lady at uni that I have worked with in a voluntary capacity and she offered me some casual work over the next few weeks. I have since got a little more, and though it’s all short-term contact work, so it likely won’t last, it’s a step in the right direction. The pay is better, the people are nicer, and I’m really enjoying it.

Finally, I have some big news. I received an email in October from an editor at a publisher, asking if I would give permission to publish one of my blog posts—“Reality and Truth”—in an anthology. I said yes, if I could combine it with another post—“Retraction”—and it was accepted. I’m currently trying to write a short bio… It’s really, really hard! I can easily spurt out 1000 words, like this little letter, but for some reason I seem incapable of only 150.

I miss you. I love you. I still want to call you up and talk to you, tell you everything that’s been going on. I just tried your telephone number, in fact, and it rang. I want to know who has your phone number now, but I chickened out and hung up after one ring.

Well I should get to bed. Night.

May will be upon us in one week. With May comes the nine year anniversary of my various illnesses and trials. Last year I wrote a rather difficult post, Sick cycle carousel, documenting the progression of my various conditions, depression, and to a small extent my coming out journey. Below is the next part in the Sick cycle series. You might want to read parts one and two.

It seems that the ending of part two was a little bit too optimistic. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy (and I certainly was at the time I wrote that) but I can’t really say I’m all that content anymore. My back has been a lot of trouble lately, I’m downing drugs at an alarming rate, and I’m still kinda upset about Sister’s attitude in The Talk.

January 2007
After the loss of Pop, life was less sunny. I shepherded in the new year with Liz in a quiet ceremony with sparklers, champagne and Roger Rabbit. I spent most of January with The Beach Crew at Cal’s parents’ holiday house up north and on the Central Coast. My health waxed and waned, I was still popping pain killers left, right and centre, but for the most part I was excited at the prospect of starting at Sydney Uni in March.

February-April 2007
I turned 23 on the first and on the nineteenth we celebrated Pop’s birthday for the first time without him. Then I started uni and met a lot of really intelligent people who intimidated me very quickly. I had classes on three days a week, and as a general rule I was able to make the journey to Sydney at least twice a week. I did well in both subjects, gaining high distinctions in both. I enjoyed my time but the extra stress, walking, and sitting up took a toll on my already fragile health. Many nights I felt trapped, a youthful spirit caged up in an aching, ailing prison of a body.

I met Kate in March and we quickly formed a close bond. Within no time I began to refer to her as my sister, and her son, Lance, refered to me as Uncle Dan. Along with Liz, whom I consider my sister also, Kate is one of my best friends.

The day after St Patrick’s day I came out to Mum and Dad, which was, as you can imagine, a huge burden off my mind. After some initial teething problems, Mum came around; Dad didn’t give a shit from the start…finally I felt more myself in my own home.

May-August 2007
As the realisation that coming out to Sister was inevitable dawned on me, I suddenly suffered a bout of migraines at a rate of nearly two per week. Dr KHS, whom I started to believe was loosing his touch, advised cutting pain meds to see if they were the cause. Within a week or so I knew this wasn’t the case and went back to the normal dosage, however the migraines persisted.
As well as being migraine-prone, I found myself becoming depressed. The reason wasn’t clear at the time but with the benefit of hindsight I can see that it was all related to the intense sense of foreboding welling up inside me about Sister’s reaction. I sought shelter from the migraines and the depression in sleep. I was also struck at about this time that I forget how it feels to be totally healthy. Having been sick for eight years at this point, my last healthy memory was at the age of 14.

I came out to Sister on the 27th of May. We never spoke of it in any meaningful way for ten months. The migraines stopped soon after. The depression, on the other hand, continued. I felt trapped by illness and circumstance, hopeless, locked in a constant battle between my heart and my head.

September-October 2007
As the pain in my legs got worse and worse, Dr KHS switched the anti-convulsant (which I take as it blocks neural pain signals in the brain). I had every side-effect that the package warned against. I was nauseous, my knees were constantly inflamed, I was dizzy, spaced-out and all-in-all did a fabulous Anna Nicole Smith impression. I felt like a lab rat. The pain did go away after some time but the side-effects were way too much to bear. I couldn’t function at all and ultimately after a fortnight I switched back. The pain came back, followed by the vicious cycle of pain-drugs-nausea-sleep-pain. The high dose of pain killers left me in a perpetual haze. To add insult to injury I picked up gastro at some point.

I outed myself to the Family-at-Large by a rather cunning plan involving step cousins, the FAL’s natural propensity to gossip, and Facebook. Finally everyone knew and I didn’t have to lift more than a finger.

We sold Pop’s house. That was difficult.

November 2007-February 2008
I went to a neurologist; it was a waste of a morning. He was an odd little man and he told me nothing I didn’t already know. I did, however, get some stronger pain killers which made like a lot easier to deal with. I also changed anti-depressants from an SSRI (which I had been taking since the age of 17) to a tricyclic, which blocks pain signals as well as stabilising mood. I changed pain killers again and finally had a winner. CTs and X-rays revealed nothing. I started smoking weed to help with the stabbing pain in my back and shoulders. It helped too, it was a lot of fun in fact, but all in all no cause was found, nothing really helped in any permanent way… and so it continued. I struggled to get my head above water for a time but after I found my footing with the tricyclic antidepressant, my mood did eventually even out.

February 2008 onwards
I moved to Glebe into a house full of strangers. The Space Cadet makes life interesting. The Optimist and I are becoming good friends. The Guyanan and The Accountant I don’t have much to do with. Though my depression seemed to be under control, I was suddenly gripped with anxiety at having to fend for myself.

The pain in my back and shoulders continued to get worse; I continued popping pills (and have made a few faux-pas while under the influence…). As I write this, I am doped up and as soon as the effects wear off I will be writing again. Last night I got no sleep. I’m going to a chiropractor or physio on Monday. Someone has to be able to do something.

Life has to be better from this.

The last few days I’ve been working my through a mountain of letters and documents from Pop’s place. It’s a laborious and monotonous task, one that has not been kind on my back, but I’ve enjoyed learning more and more about this man whom I adored. I only wish I knew all this about him when he was alive. It makes no difference really; I love him still the same, but I feel that I missed out in not knowing all these little factoids about him while he was here with me.

Last night I scanned some letters of recommendation written when he was a young man, younger than I am in fact, and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I went outside for a smoke and was suddenly wracked with quiet (yet violent) sobs and burst into tears because my heart felt so heavy with loss. Most days the sharp pain of grief is a not-quite-distant memory, but I guess these things are bound to happen from time to time, especially considering it has only been a little over a year.

Below are some excerpts from the letters of recommendation. The photo is one of my favourites; it shows the cheeky grin that I loved so much.

1929 (aged 15), written by his headmaster from high school (which was a technical college more than a high school):
“He, by honest application to his studies, quickly achieved a position at the top section of this school. He has shown himself quick to apprehend, & honest in effort.”

1930 (aged 17), written by his college teacher/supervisor:
“It affords us pleasure in having the opportunity of saying a word in favour of R. Stanley. He has been a student at this school for the study of mechanical drawing and machine design, attending day classes for a period of twelve months, and has been regular, persevering and interested in his studies. We can recommend Mr Stanley to anyone requiring the services of a draftsman, and the drawings which he can produce will bear out all we can say of him.”

1931 (aged 18):
“It gives me great pleasure to testify to the exemplary character of Ronald Stanley. I have known Ronald for a period of about four years… Ronald possesses a very genial disposition, is thoroughly conscientious and reliable and has more than the ordinary initiative. I have no hesitation in recommending him to any who wish to employ an honest and trustworthy lad, and one who I believe will make good.”

1935 (aged 21):
“This is to certify that the bearer Ronald Stanley is personally known to me as an experienced and capable car driver. He is a very careful and reliable driver, takes interest in his car and I would have no hesitation in recommending him to any person or firm requiring services of a thoroughly reliable and competent driver.”

1936 (aged 22):
“The bearer, Ronald Stanley, was in my employ as a driver of my utility truck for six months ending 2nd January, 1936. I found him honest, capable and efficient in carrying out his duties.”

1937 (aged 23), Scouts Association:
“Holding positions of trust and responsibility, he has shown himself to be most obedient, punctual and honest, and with it a loyal and capable leader. I have no hesitation whatsoever, in recommending him for any position of trust for which he may apply, and will be only too please to give a personal reference on his behalf.”

1937 (aged 23):
“I have known Ronald Stanley for the past 15 years and have always found him to be a very honest trustworthy young man and would recommend him to any one as a truthful and outspoken employee.”

c1945 (aged 30 or so), written by his boss:
“I have always found Mr Stanley to be very dependable and accurate in his designing and drawing, and energetic and intelligent in all his duties, and I will be exceedingly sorry to loose his services.”

Pop died early this morning in ward 11 of the aged care department at Concord Hospital amid the smell of shit and the cold hollow corridors. It is such an unjust end for such a brilliant man.

It’s been one year since I wrote those words. Today came and went like any other: I went to morning Mass, which was offered for Pop, then came home and had breakfast before cleaning my bedroom, culling my book collection in the process, and then I cooked dinner, ate. Nothing special happened. If anything, today was sublime for its banality. It wasn’t as hard as I expected.

There was a violent thunderstorm today. It was a bit of a catharsis to sit outside and just watch the rain fall on the ground, watching the complex system of rivers, ponds and tributaries form on the driveway. I saw the lightening flash majestically across the sky and jumped at the sound of thunder.

Maybe my problem is that I don’t want to let go, not so much not knowing how to?

Three hundred and sixty-eight days ago, I wrote this:

We went to see Pop tonight. He’s doing a little better. They’ve taken him off the drip, because it was filling his lungs with water. They’ve almost got the pneumonia under control with IV anti-biotics. He seemed a little cheerier although he could barely talk because his mouth and throat were filled with phlegm, which he had to cough up only he didn’t have the strength. But he was smiling…

Hopefully we can get him out of there at the end of the week, depending on the results of a chest X-ray and an ECG, and into a care facility. At least when we’re paying for the care we can make more of a fuss about things; in a public hospital there isn’t much we can do about it.

He died six days later. It’s funny how events look so different when viewed from the opposite direction.

Monday is the first anniversary of Pop’s passing. I hate that saying—passed away—it sounds so neat and yet so feeble. It conjures images of a tired old man dying in his sleep, too weary to fight for life any longer. It conjures up a tidy death. But death is always messy. It’s an accurate description of Pop in his last days, hours, but it doesn’t represent the rest of his life. Pop was not quiet, he did not easily relent. That is why I hate it. It just doesn’t fit.

I went to St Marys Cathedral on Thursday to pray for Pop. I lit a candle for him, and for other members of the family. I’m having a mass said for him at the cathedral on Monday in his memory. Many may see these actions as a vain attempt to assuage my guilt or diminish my grief, but they aren’t. Others still will be shocked to know I made a donation (or paid, depending on how one views it) for the mass to be said and for the candles I placed before the Virgin. I don’t care what people think my motivation is; I did it because I love him. I did it despite feeling guilty and grief-stricken, not because of them.

The truth is I don’t quite know how I feel at the moment. I feel guilty that I didn’t see him the night before he died, instead going to Liz’s for dinner. I feel his absence, keenly. I’m aware of it more and more as I look after the donation of furniture to Fr Chris O’Reilly’s Youth of the Streets, arranging lists and photographs, waiting for next Tuesday—Collection Day.

As I sat on the train on Thursday, on the way home from the Cathedral, I realised that I’m petrified of forgetting him. Materially, he is slipping away, the house is sold, the furniture promised to a worthy cause, boxes of books have been sold or given away. I have kept some things for myself—we all have—treasures that I’ll hold on to, but still this irrational fear persists. I’m not afraid of forgetting how he looks, I have photos for that; it’s the little things, the way he smelt, the sound of his laugh, the sound of his voice, the way he spoke, the way he was. The way he was before the hospital, the mental confusion and the incontinence.

The way it was before.

Tonight I feel miserable. My head pounds, my sinuses pulse, my neck, back and legs ache. I miss my Pop terribly, so much in fact that that it almost feels strangey physical. I need a hug. It probably won’t last beyond tonight, but for now, I’m miserable.

So, it’s been a shitty week. The pain has lessened, which is fantastic in a way, but on the other hand it just means things are back to “normal”, which is still no fun and still full of very real pain. I got the scan results back. No major problems, or minor ones really, just a few things pushing on other things in non-threatening ways. At least that is how it has been explained to me by a friend, who has surprised me with her knowledge of anatomy (and who I won’t persecute if she’s wrong). See, I may be miserable, but I still have a sense of humour about such things. But the point is that it isn’t showing much, except a “strawberry birthmark inside the bone itself” (again, these are my friend’s words, the report calls it something much more anatomical sounding). It also came with some pretty cool pictures.

Not only am I in pain but I’m feeling zonked and tired and really beginning to wonder how life will pan out when I can’t really do much because of pain, fatigue, nausea, or combinations of the three. How will I fare at uni next year if I get a place at the uni housing? Will I be able to cope? The logical side of my head says “of course you fucking will, quit your worrying!” but the emotional side wonders… Depression is like that: a constant battle between head and heart. In my case the head was never loud enough for the heart that steadfastly sticks its fingers in its ears and goes lalala while it wallows in its own melodramatic despair.

I’m sure that tomorrow I will feel better, I may even look back on this feeling and laugh, but for now the randomness of fate and inequality of life are weighing heavily upon my already pulsating brow. It’s an acute case of “why me?” I never get an answer, so with that somewhat mixed metaphor, I will go to sleep and try not to think of it.

Tomorrow will surely be a better day.

In amongst all the end-of-semester madness, this Saturday we sold Pop’s house. There were something like 150 inspections of the property, 17 contracts handed out and countless enquiries. It went for auction at a very nice price at 11am on Saturday.

It was, predictably, difficult for all concerned.

Dad and I arrived at the house at a little after 9am, after dropping Sister at the local church for morning mass, and realised there was nothing much we could do so we drove to a local coffee shop where Dad’s old school friend works for a free coffee and a quick chat in the kitchen. After picking Sister up we returned to the house, where two of my aunts and one of my uncles were there waiting. By 10.30, punters had began to arrive for a final inspection so we locked our valuables in a cupboard and stood in the backyard, keeping out of people’s way as Jimmy (the realtor, another old school friend of Dad’s) worked his magic on the cloud.

More family arrived, another aunt and uncle, two cousin, and two children-of-cousins. We assembled in the front yard as the auctioneer started his spiel, explaining legislative requirements and giving a rundown on the house: five bedrooms, potential for city views if a second story added (subject to council approval), generous lounge room, detached lock up garage, detached purpose built workshop. Rah rah rah. Dad and I were crouched beside the veranda watching the crowd of fifty odd people, trying to work out how many were “ours” and how many were sticky-beaks, so that we could gauge how many were actually there to buy the house.

The auctioneer asked for an opening bid. Silence. Dad and I exchanged significant looks. “Six-fifty” someone shouted. “Fuck off” I whispered to Dad. He nodded his agreement. The auctioneer, who was impressively on-the-ball said “I’m sorry sir, I respect your bid, but I can’t accept it, it’s a little too low for this wonderful turn of the century federation style home with original fixtures…” and on the spiel went until “so, ladies and gentlemen, do I hear an opening bid?” A slightly shorter silence followed before someone called out “Seven-fifty!” Dad and I said to each other, almost in unison: “that’s more like it”.

After getting to around the 820 mark, the auction began to stall. “Ladies and gentlemen I have eight-twenty going once…” silence “eight-twenty going twice…” silence. I looked askance at Dad, this was well below the reserve, why was he doing the going once, going twice thing? “Eight-twenty going—” then another bid: eight thirty. “What the fuck are all these people doing here if no one wants to bid?” I said to no one in particular, perhaps a little too loudly.

This game continued until we hit the reserve. Jimmy came over and consulted with us, asking if we accepted the bid and were prepared to put the house on the market. Dad nodded and motioned a thumbs-up to the auctioneer and he announced “ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been informed the house is now on the market, we’re bidding for this beautiful federation property…” etc etc. Dad hung his head slightly. Although he had sunglasses on, I knew his eyes were welling up with tears.

It hit me then too. This was really happening. From this point on, bids came thick and fast between two bidders, going up in $5000 increments. Finally the winner was declared and Dad was visibly upset. I stood up, awkwardly as my legs were not being co-operative at all, to give him a hug but I was beat by the gaggle of aunts and neighbours who were suddenly upon him saying both “congratulations” and “I’m sorry”.

It hit me, in six weeks this will no longer be ours. Already the house is so empty and has lost the ambience it once had when it was cluttered and distinctively Pop’s.

It turns out that the buyers, Judy and her husband, hadn’t even considered the suburb at all and it was just happenstance that she saw the listing online and drove over to have a look from the street. She was so impressed she called Jimmy on the spot and asked if she could have a look inside. He raced over, she fell in love, and the rest is history.

Dad and the winning couple sat at the dining room table with Jimmy to sign the preliminary paperwork. One of the buyers, Judy, introduced herself to us all saying that they are going to do the house up, not tear it down and rebuild. That made everyone feel much better. She added: “and you are all welcome to come by and have a look if you’d like”. I for one was really happy it won’t be torn down; it does need a lot of work, but it is a great house with a lot of memories for us all.

So in six weeks we will no longer own the house that has been the home-base for our large family for the last 70 years. The date of settlement is a few days after the anniversary of Pop’s passing. That’s going to be a fun week!

Pop’s house is going to be auctioned on the 27th of October. It’s almost empty, save for a few pieces of furniture that will eventually be donated to a charity, and a few bits and pieces that we are yet to take. For the past two weeks Dad and my aunt have been down there organising box upon box of “stuff”, deciding which “stuff” to keep (and who should keep it), which “stuff” to throw out, which “stuff” to sell, which “stuff” to donate.

Pop was a hoarder. His home was always full of things, quirky little oddments that made it unique, things that made it his. But slowly, slowly, we’ve dismantled a home, with its 60-odd years of history, leaving an empty house, a shell of its former glory ready to be sold and carved up. I understand that this is how things work, and that ultimately the money my Dad inherits will benefit me, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I went down on Wednesday and Thursday afternoon this week, after uni, to help out. Though I knew perfectly well what was happening, and what had been happening since my last visit (which was well before the drug debacle), still I wasn’t prepared for such an empty house—a home no longer. The joy and warmth had gone, replaced by a cold austerity that was not Pop at all. It felt so strange. I felt his absence so keenly on Wednesday I had to excuse myself and sit for a moment to think and try to process what I was seeing and feeling.

The back room: once the hub of the house with its formica breakfast table, Pop’s armchair and tape player for his recorded book, a pile of newspapers (already read but not ready to be thrown out yet). Now it’s empty. All that remains is an end table with a vase of flowers. It doesn’t even smell like Pop’s place anymore.

The kitchen: once a room of warmth and delicious smells, cupboards full of plates, utensils, Tupperware; the benches covered in jars of coffee, tea and sugar—ready for afternoon tea or Pop’s night-time cocoa. The room held the sun’s heat well into the night, making it the warmest in the house. Now it’s empty. The cupboards are bare, the drawers barren, the tea long since packed away.

Pop’s bedroom: once full of “stuff” ranging from old engineering and mechanics magazines to his collection of maps, a wardrobe full of clothes, a dresser full of his most prized possessions and other assorted miscellanea—war memorabilia from his service in the RAAF in WW2, old coins, spark plugs, double adapters and every telephone the house had ever had. Now it’s empty. All that remains is his bed and bedside light, mounted on the wall above it.

Pop’s workshop: once full of dazzling machinery, two metal cabinets full of assorted chuck keys, drill bits, screw drivers, imperial callipers, belt sanders, scraps of metal and the occasional porno shoved in the back. Now it’s empty. Totally empty. There’s nothing left.

Yesterday was father’s day. Usually a celebration, yesterday was somewhat subdued by the conspicuous absence of Pop. So far we have done the first Christmas without him, the first new year’s day without him, my first birthday without his calling me, his birthday without my calling him, Easter, winter break, and now father’s day.

Dad and I went to the cemetery where his ashes are to say hello. I thought it would be harder, but I was pleasantly surprised to see that while it was difficult it wasn’t as insurmountable as I had expected. We arrived at Rookwood, the largest cemetery in Sydney, at about 130pm. It seems the rest of the city had the same idea because the traffic on the small lanes inside the 700 acre cemetery was gridlocked. Small vendors set up flower stalls and took the mourner’s money hand over fist. It was a little sad to see such crass commercialisation. We brought our own flowers—a small bunch of violets from our garden.

We parked the car near his plaque at the crematorium. He and grandma were both cremated; their remains now resting side by side with twin plaques. Together forever. As we rounded the corner, scenes from the funeral came flooding back to me. We sat down on the garden bed opposite their plaques—Dad took out his hankie and cleaned them as I contemplated. “Happy father’s day, Dad” he said, as he put the flowers in the small vase in the wall. We sat in silence for a little bit, I sighed deeply, and then we left.

It was cathartic, very cathartic. The last nine months have felt so intangible, but yesterday I had something to touch as I said happy father’s day, something real to look at and interact with—not a photograph of the real thing; something tangible, real, there.