Mail doesn't stop

Do you realize how many phone calls it takes to erase someone from a consumer existence on earth? Canceling credit cards, bank accounts, memberships, subscriptions, utilities. I don't know how many times I've had to say, in response to why is this being canceled, "He died February 23." or "He's deceased." I haven't come close to crying during these calls because they feel so superficial, but I've felt angry. Many people on the other end of the phone have offered condolences. Some have not. Some have been rude and questioned Dad's death. I suppose they're used to scam artists. One person asked if my Dad would take a survey and I said, "He can't because he's dead and as far as I know, dead people cannot take surveys."

I've also had Dad's mail forwarded to my house.

Now, every day I'm reminded of Bill. I see an older guy quickly walking down the sidewalk -- think of him exercising. See a red sports car -- Bill. Hear a certain song -- Bill. Eat a meal I know he'd love -- Bill. It's constant. And most of these reminders bring slight sadness but also a smile to my face.

However, the mail ... sitting down and opening all the stuff Dad would have touched just a short time ago ... This is a stab in the heart. Bill had a love/hate relationship with mail. He'd complain endlessly about junk mail and charity requests he'd get (because he gave to just about everyone who asked!). But he'd also spend a few hours a day going through every piece of mail, unlike many of us who recycle half before even opening it. So as I go through all the letters/bills/notices with William or Bill Beecheler on the front, I'm brought to tears. I picture him sitting at the kitchen table, facing his woods, opening letters to the tune of the Today Show in the background on TV. He'd probably have his walking or working clothes on, ready for the next part of his day. Or he'd be in his chair in the evening, half asleep, quietly cursing his third letter in as many weeks from the World Wildlife Fund.

As I went through his mail the other day, one particular parcel really tore me apart. Dad got his 2011 membership cards for Boat U.S. This is a boat owners association offering services and discounts. The card is blue and white with a red curvy stripe and lighthouse buoy at the top. "William C. Beecheler, Member since 1991." The accompanying letter says, "Welcome Aboard!" It rips me up, thinking about the upcoming boating season without the Beach Buoy and Captain Bill on Lake Erie. Truth be told, I'm writing this with tears streaming down my cheeks.

But I'm doing okay, as are Heather and Linda. Grieving is about tears and sorrow and pain but also about moments void of suffering. In the midst of tears, you don't think you'll even get those moments, but they come and you enjoy them all the more.

I've downloaded new tunes on my iPod (check out Vampire Weekend!), watched the kids scooter and bike outside as snow melts and spring actually makes it way to Madison, spent lunches and evenings laughing with friends, attended an environmental film festival, watched the kids faces light up at the school Fun Fair, began planning family vacations in northern Wisconsin and at national parks, planned for a raised gardening bed in my backyard, and signed up to be a chicken care coordinator as our church builds a coop and adopts 10 laying hens! (Mary Jane was begging to get chickens in our backyard. I thought the neighbors might frown upon that, so this was our second option. MJ has never been so excited.)

My Dad would want nothing less for Heather and for me than for us to live full, happy lives. That's what I'm focused on, during those non-suffering moments.

I've also started to go back and read all the entries from this blog, which I started way back in May 2009. I'll be wrapping up Twelve Footers soon.