Tuesday in Texas

One Photo At A Time

by Kris B.

When you take a photograph every day, you never know what meaning or memory those photos will hold for you or others months or years down the road. 

Exactly a year ago today it was a gorgeous spring day in Texas.  Like now, we were on spring break.  I had dedicated the week to some serious spring cleaning in anticipation of my dad coming to visit at the end of the month.  He and my youngest daughter are avid baseball fans, though they root for different teams.  It just so happened that the Texas Rangers were playing their opening day game against my dad's beloved Philadelphia Phillies.  My daughter got her granddad tickets to the game as a Christmas gift.  They both were excited to be spending that time together at the ballpark.  At least one of them would come away happy with the game results.   And come to find out that at age 76, and as a lifelong Phillies fan, my dad had never been to a live Phillies game; he always watched on TV.

About 2:30 on that Tuesday afternoon the phone call came.  "Hey kid, I'm not going to be able to make it to Texas.  I've got cancer and it's not good."  In that moment everything changed.  My frantic spring cleaning changed to quickly figuring out how to get to Delaware to visit him.  Though both Weber and I are teachers and were in the middle of the semester, our bosses were sympathetic and accommodating.

We made several trips back and forth between Dallas and Lewes, Delaware between this Tuesday in March and dad’s death on October 17.  In the midst of stressful, and bordering on chaotic, times, I continued to take a photo a day.  Looking back on those photos, I now have a visual journal of my experience with my dad's humble and dignified journey with cancer.  They are the images that reflect my thoughts and feelings during these seven months, the emotions of an only child who is losing her last parent.

Yes, there is a huge hole in my life today, but I am so thankful for the times I had with my dad and for these photos to remind me of moments that often felt like a blur.

If ever you wonder why you take a photo a day or photos at all, this is why...

This is my photo from one year ago, the day of my dad's diagnosis.  The CY365 prompt of the day was "looking up."  On that day, that prompt meant so many things.  As I look at this now, it really is the synopsis of the story - the path, the shadows, the arch, the light.

At the end of March, we traveled to Delaware.  We arrived the day after my dad finished his first round of chemo. He tolerated the chemo well, thankfully, but he looked so thin and tired.

That evening I walked the mile or so to the beach, a place I have been coming literally my entire life.  It should have been so familiar, yet everything felt different, felt new, felt scary.  I stood there for awhile in the chilly breeze listening to the seagulls squawk and the crash of the waves on the shore; the feeling of familiarity of place started to return just a little. This uneasy feeling stemmed from seeing my dad, the strong  Navy captain, in a state that was as unfamiliar to him as it was me.

When we got ready to head back to Texas, my dad gave me his wedding ring and his Naval Academy class ring.  He said that his class ring was too big and heavy for him to wear now.  He always wore his ring.  With this, I knew things were really changing.  Ironically, the CY365 photo prompt for the day that I used this photo was "tight."

We returned to Lewes again toward the end of April.  Spring was in full bloom.  Lewes is the first town in the first state.  It is full of historic homes and buildings and churches.  The cemeteries on the church grounds have markers with dates back to the 1600's. 

I found this scene of the local Presbyterian church to be comforting.  It looked like an opening to such a peaceful place.  I now think that my feelings around this photo were my first step to accepting that I was going to have to let my dad go sooner rather than later.

Once school was out in June, we spent two weeks with dad.  At that point he seemed a little stronger, but I knew deep in my heart that this was going to be our last Father's Day together.  He knew it too.  We had a quiet day, acknowledging the day, but not overdoing it.  Somehow it didn't seem right to make a big deal over the day.  I was even uncomfortable asking him for a posed picture.  Finally, as night was falling, I took a "shoot from the hip" photo.  Technically there is so much wrong with it, but I love it because it is how I want to remember my dad - sitting in his chair, his Sudoku puzzle on his clipboard, with the Phillies game reflected in his glasses.

In July, we celebrated my dad's last birthday, his 77th.  I took no pictures of that day.  I didn't want a collection of "last" photos.   Not taking photos also allowed me to be fully present for the celebration.  That was more important.  Even now, I don't regret that choice.  Our birthday visit was another extended stay before we headed home for the start of another school year.

It was Early October when we returned to Delaware; this time things really were not good.  Dad was in the hospital.  The only way that we could have him discharged was to bring him home on hospice.  And we did.

What we thought was going to be a long weekend visit became a week - long in some ways and very short in others, our final week together on earth.  During that time I took this photo titled, "Past, Present, Future."

I saw all the blooms in different stages.  I wasn't even sure which one was which as far as my title was concerned.  It just seemed to fit.  I now believe that this image gave me the strength to journey through those last few days.

When I mustered the courage to ask the funeral director if it would be acceptable to take photographs during the burial, I realized how important my photography journey had become.  Though this is a sad moment, the photo may be my lifetime favorite.

I can hear "Taps" every time I look at it.

And the twenty-one gun salute.

In honor of her granddad, my youngest traded herTexas Ranger baseball cap for his Phillies cap.

I shared this journey not in sadness, but with joy.  Stories are written one word, one sentence, one paragraph, one chapter, or one photo at a time.  We don't know the plot twists and turns until the last word is written or image revealed.  My photos, taken one day at a time, tell a story for me, a story that I would not have known with each of these individual photos.

Keep shooting.  Let the story write itself.

The irony of this being my first Tuesday in Texas post is that we are actually in Delaware right now having my dad's taxes done and meeting with the realtor about putting the house on the market.  As I hit "publish" on this post, I am sitting in the very chair where Dad sat exactly one year ago today when he said, "Hey kid..."