What I Am Losing But Continue To Hang On To

Today, I was looking at old photos. This is one of my favorites:

The photo struck at that term "faith."
Sometimes, faith seems to fade. Like it did when I was a teen trudging through confirmation full of doubts.
Like it did when I was in college learning about that great big world - and a world of big ideas - outside of my hometown in Iowa.
Like it did when I saw my mom's health grow worse over the years.
Like it did when I got divorced after 6-1/2 years of marriage. And like it did when my ex-wife moved to Sweden with my son more than 2 years ago.
And like it has as my dad's health is compromised by a failing liver - a failing liver that also is compounded by the early stages of failing kidneys. He found out about that issue this month, just as his placement on the list for a liver transplant was secured.
Is there time? Time for my dad to get the treatment he needs? Time for him to know that my brother and I have appreciated all that he has sacrificed for us? Time for him to see his grandsons before they grow older, unrecognizable and into adults?
I'll never know. But the adage "You've got to have faith" came to mind.
"You've got to have faith"? No, I don't. Why should I? After what's happening now and in my past? Why would you? Why should you?
Because, sometimes, it's all you have.
My dad will get a transplant within six months, which, judging by what surgeons are telling him, is the average wait for the procedure. After having it, he will see my son and my brother's sons. And it may be for the last time.
And he will improve after having the transplant. He will be able to spend more time with my mom, and his wife of 44 years as of Feb. 22, 2013.
He will know that my brother and I love and respect him. And thank him for showing us what strength is.
Then again, maybe not.
I started working at The Evangelical Lutheran Good Samaritan Society in 2012. It's a not-for-profit organization that serves those ranging from assisted living to hospice care. My parents are moving into an independent living facility on the edge of Iowa City in early April. It's not a Good Samaritan property, but it is a place where they can feel valued and at peace.
It's comforting to know. And, along with the culture and environment tied to my work at the Good Samaritan Society, it's one of those mileposts in life that beg you to look inward, assess where you are and where you are going in life, and reevaluate faith.
Because, again, sometimes it's all you have.

A bittersweet holiday

My loved ones gathered in the living room at my parents' home to open Christmas gifts. Before Christmas as 2012 came to a close, my parents requested that my brother, Trent, and I make it to their home in Robins, Iowa, for a last holiday celebration as a family under a roof that they had put their blood, sweat and tears into shaping.

My dad's liver is failing. He takes care of my mom 24/7 because she is battling scleroderma. Because my dad needs a transplant, and the care my mother requires, my brother and I were told this would be the last Christmas as a family in our family home. Sometime in 2013 they will be moving to an independent living facility in Iowa City, Iowa.

Knowing this didn't curtail our joy or appreciation of being together. My girlfriend, Bretta, met my parents for the first time. My brother also brought his girlfriend Melanie, over for the first time and also my nephew so that his grandparents could feel like grandparents.

They haven't had that opportunity much. And it became a more fleeting feeling after my ex-wife, Jen, moved to Sweden with my only child, Gabriel, after we celebrated Christmas with them in 2010.

Unfortunately, my son couldn't join the celebration.

However, I was excited for my parents to open their gifts. I gave them framed photos of my brother and I and of myself and my son taken during my visit to Sweden at the end of summer in 2012. My mother opened the photo of my brother and myself. Smiles from my mom and dad appeared.

Then, all of us sat and watched as my dad opened the gift showing my son and I. This was his reaction:

It hurt. It continues to hurt. And it's a moment in my life I will never forget.

My dad was never one to show a ton of emotion in front of my brother and I, nor the people close to us. He broke down. He became more human to me -- not just a father who teaches, leads and works for his family.

God Knows No Distance

A devotion I delivered on Nov. 8, 2012, at The Good Samaritan Society in Sioux Falls, S.D.

Why I'm ranting against Delta Airlines

Knowing your son has moved overseas after a divorce is difficult enough. Visitation becomes expensive and stressful.

But when an opportunity arises to make a trip to see your child, you take it. That means putting your faith in a travel agency to get you there. And spending some hard-earned money.

Enter Delta Airlines.

The itinerary for my girlfriend and myself arranged by AAA required flying from Sioux Falls, SD, to Minneapolis, on to JFK in New York City and then on to Stockholm, Sweden.

Our trip began to sour while flying from Minneapolis on Aug. 28, 2012. Delta representatives told us aboard the flight that we would have to get off the plane in Chicago before continuing on to New York. Why? We were never told whether it might be a medical emergency, etc. --- only that our time at a gate in Chicago would last about an hour.

Fortunately, the redirection didn't throw off our travel schedule. But it was during our stop in Chicago when Delta's ineptness began to hamper our trip.

We arrived at Stockholm's Arlanda Airport around 7:45 a.m. on Aug. 29 after 14 hours in the air. Exhausted, but excited, we moved to get our bags and get started on making our way to our hotel. Bag after bag was spit out on the luggage carousel. Then, the carousel finally stopped and our fellow travelers began to disappear with their belongings. Ours weren't there.

A little panic set in. How did this happen? How could this happen? We would soon come to find out that while in Chicago, somehow our bags had been removed and not returned to the plane. At least, that was the explanation we were given.

We went to get our rental car after setting up a lost\delayed bag account through Delta at the airport. After expressing our dismay about our bags at the desk for Hertz, a woman kindly upgraded our vehicle from a manual to automatic transmission for no additional charge.

That, friends, is customer service.

Our next few days involved time hunting down toothpaste and other toiletries, clothing and making calls where our bags might be and when they might arrive in Stockholm. Time that could have -- and should have -- been spent enjoying our trip. The phone calls to Delta's baggage tracking folks was amusing and frustrating in itself. We were told our bags were in Chicago -- no wait, Paris -- no, Stockholm; our bags would be at our hotel tonight -- no, tomorrow -- we'll let you know.

Luckily, I didn't have any diabetic supplies in my bag. But there was medication in my girlfriend's bag. Less important, but equally aggravating, was her curling iron was in it. Silly on the surface, but we basically limited where we went and what we did because we didn't want to stroll in high-end restaurants or tourist attractions looking like we just rolled out of bed and off the plane.

My bag arrived after two nights. A report from the airport courier showed that my girlfriend's bag had been found. Not mine. Time to make more calls to Delta's baggage trackers to clarify.

My girlfriend got her bag on the fifth night of our weeklong trip -- after spending $400 on emergency clothing. Good thing we had travel insurance. It covered $250 of that amount. Thanks, Delta.

So, the trip ended on a good note. Or, it seemed to. We got our bags to end our trip. But we had to return home.

Our return to the U.S. came through Minneapolis. Clearing customs, we grabbed our bags and placed them together to go onto a conveyor belt for our return to Sioux Falls. Pretty easy.

We arrived in Sioux Falls around 8:30 p.m. Sept. 4. My girlfriend and I made our way to the baggage carousel, hoping to get our bags and get home quickly. My girlfriend had to travel to Pierre the next day for work. Looking her best was important for her meetings.

My bag came out on the carousel. Hers didn't.

Keep in mind there are no agents behind a Delta ticket counter in Sioux Falls at this time of night. We tracked down an agent from Frontier Airlines and a baggage handler who were able to tell us the bag was scheduled to come on the final flight out of Minneapolis that night. That meant an hour wait.

Before heading home, we made contact with a Delta agent on the phone and thought we had scheduled a courier to deliver the bag to our home when it arrived.

An hour passed. No one showed up.

We decided to drive back up to the Sioux Falls airport to see if the bag could be claimed.

It was claimed all right -- sitting alone out in the open behind the Delta counter.

Since the trip, we wrote a letter to Delta describing the disappointment and aggravation suffered because of the airlines sloppiness and disregard for customer service. This past week, we each were offered a $100 credit voucher.

I'll repeat that: A $100 credit voucher. For a trip that we each spent thousands on.

That's why Delta sucks. And that's why I will keep spreading this message until Delta decides to step it up with that thing once known as customer service.

Aging parents and anxiety

My dad needs a liver transplant.

He is the caregiver to my mom, who is battling the degenerative muscle and tissue disease scleroderma.

I'm watching it all unfold, helpless.

Reality sunk in on Thanksgiving Day.

Scents of sweet potatoes and turkey breasts filled my parents' home, carrying on as business as usual. I can't help but admire them, knowing our life as family is going to change greatly and continues to change rapidly.

But this feeling of bleak days ahead, mixed with touches of their personalities and the memories of togetherness during the holidays, is something I couldn't shake.

It was a pair of jackets my dad gave me. Shoes I was asked to try on and keep if I wanted. Scrapbooks of my brother, Trent, and myself as students, athletes, confirmands, a writer, a soldier -- sons -- were handed off. Paintings of my mom, brother and myself that were composed by a Korean artist my grandfather had hired while he was in the military after lending him photos of us as infants sent by my beautiful young mother were let go.

Scaling down to make way to move into an independent living complex. That's the reason behind my parents' reduction of most of the things tied to our family history -- a history that made me and defines me.

It's difficult to say what's next. My parents' offer their ever-present stiff upper lips. I selfishly sense more anxiety. Worry can't be tossed off when you're hugging your dad when he cries thinking about the possibility of dying too soon. Worry also doesn't go away when your mom says things such as "It wasn't supposed to be like this" through tears.

Strength needs to replace the anxiety, worry and fear. That's what defines us as a family and what I'm probably most thankful for this Thanksgiving.

My first visit to my son, who now lives in Sweden

It was an amazing trip, and one that shows me the impact my son has on my life and how this move also has affected his.

First, his move to Lidingo, Sweden, with my ex at the end of 2010 scared and angered me. How would I see him? Why is it OK for my ex to move to 4,500 miles away and I have no say in that? Would he be OK?

After seeing him during this past week, I can say I am a proud father. Proud that he is smart, appears to be doing well, and most importantly, that I was able to see him.

During my time with him, I was able to watch him enjoy a big dinner of barbecue ribs, listen to him tell a waitress in Swedish that he did not want dijon or cole slaw with a burger, have him lead me through Stockholm's subway system, explode with the excitement of a 10-year-old boy at an aquarium and explain to me the history of the Vasa ship at a museum dedicated to the vessel. But it was even the smaller things -- the hugs, the smiles, listening to him sing a song from "The Lorax" film while walking ahead of me that made me so happy, and alternately so sad.

I think about what I've missed -- and will miss -- while he lives here. Fortunately, on a long walk in Stockholm, he pulled out a loose tooth he had been wrestling with for the better part of a day. It was the third tooth he had lost in the week. It was a tiny moment that as a dad I was grateful to witness.

He didn't seem all that excited that I had brought him gifts representing the Sioux Falls Fighting Pheasants minor league baseball team. A cap? A T-shirt? A baseball signed by the mascot? Baseball isn't popular in Sweden. They were given to him on one of the first nights during my time here. But when I hugged him after dropping him off at his apartment, he patted my back softly and slowly. I did do good.

Can I keep doing good? That's what I wrestle with now. It was an expensive trip. It's expensive to do things here. I don't make enough to come here frequently. And because of my vocalization about my unhappiness about the move here, knowing the cost and distance would strain an already difficult situation, I'm honestly not sure when I will see him again. I will work at it, that I am promising myself. But will it be frequent enough for me, for him, for us, to be good? I don't know. But I am doing all I can do, and that's the best I can do.

And it's not good enough. Just not good enough. And despite the cooperation of my ex and the times I enjoyed with Gabriel this week and the efforts I put forth in the future, the whole situation hurts and it's going to keep on hurting no matter what I do. I'll have to live with it the best that I can.

How one S.D. father is losing the battle to see his son (Part 1)

blogonordo:
How One South Dakota Dad Is Losing The Battle To See His Son (Part 1)I don’t know where to turn anymore or what to do. But I guess it’s all my fault. Again.I turned to this blog to get how I feel off my chest. This is better than alcohol and other self-destructive behaviors. That almost ruined me in the past — and almost claimed my life. Those details I will share in a later post.For now, the turn of events this weekend is what tears me up inside. And, like I said, I don’t know what to do anymore.This spring, I learned that my 10-year-old son, Gabriel, would be visiting the U.S. from mid-June to mid-August. My window of time to visit, or so I thought, would be in mid-July. It’s not happening. Why? My ex-wife said so on Saturday, July 7. Why does she get to decide? She’s the primary custodial parent. South Dakota said so.Here’s the summary: My son will be staying with my ex-wife’s father in a little town outside Council Bluffs, Iowa. Drive time: About 150 minutes.My ex-wife’s father also paid for the trip for him to visit — not my ex. Or, at least that’s what she said. She moved to Sweden with my son in December 2010 to take a job teaching. Did I try to stop it? I sure did. But a judge did not find in my favor because she is permitted to find work. It doesn’t matter whether a father expresses concern about the difficulties and expenses that a greater distance a father would have in an effort to see hi boy would have nor, apparently, whether that job is in Europe or Orange City, Iowa. I use Orange City as an example because while I was working as a copy editor for the Argus Leader, I would look at the classifieds for education jobs near Sioux Falls. There was at least one position I remember seeing that she would have been qualified for. That was during a time when my ex-wife had been unemployed for two years while living in Des Moines with our son.That also was a time when my child support was at a level double what it is now. That also was shortly after my ex-wife decided to leave for Sweden. That also was a time when, according to her, it was important that I was more of a father in his life. More on that also later.So, in keeping with that theme and as a father who wants and is fighting to have a relationship with our son, I made plans to bring him to Sioux Falls to spend time with him. I knew he would be in Iowa in mid-July after talking to Gabriel on the phone. He gave me a generic window of when he would be there. It wasn’t my ex, Jen, so much. I get vague details, so it’s left up to me to guess. And plan around guesses. I should ask more questions, I guess. I’m a horrible father.I was told in late March-early April about the trip in an e-mail. I had asked about a summer visit. I thought I had better ask about a summer visit because I was told 11 days before Christmas last year that Gabriel wouldn’t be able to make it to the States for Christmas. Jen couldn’t afford it. More on that in a later post.I sent an e-mail to Jen’s father on June 28 asking when I would be able to see our son. Nothing. Crickets. No reply.So, on July 7, I called my ex’s phone, her dad’s phone and her stepmom’s phone. A short time later, I got a text message from Jen saying I should’ve planned better. I can’t expect to see my son on short notice and should’ve called her father earlier. Besides, her father paid for the trip. And my ex-wife is not my son’s “social secretary.”I told her that South Dakota visitation guidelines do not allow her to forbid me from seeing my son. Especially in a situation such as ours. I also told her that I did indeed intentionally wait until the last minute because of what happened in the summer of 2011. At that time I had scheduled two weekends to see him and told Jen so before my time off was officially approved. Shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t get the one weekend. My following weekend was approved and I enjoyed my time with Gabriel. I was able to get the weekend after that off and told Jen upon my return with him.Too late. I was informed he would be spending that time with her boyfriend in Des Moines before flying back to the East Coast to return home to Sweden.I did not want to get jerked around again this time. But I am now, even though I tried to hold off making plans until I could pin down a time that was guaranteed. But that’s hard to do when you’re given vague details, are fed lies and deception and “it’s not about you.”The quote is part of the last e-mail I received this weekend before deciding to launch this post. I will be writing more about this saga. This isn’t intended to be a sob story. It’s life. A very difficult life.For now, I just want all fathers out there who sincerely are interested in having a relationship with their sons but struggle because of legal, financial or other reasons that are worthy of merit to know that I’m in a losing battle, too. I also want the mothers out there who are primary custodians of children in a divorce to respect those fathers who sincerely are interested in having a relationship with the child or children to honor and respect that. It shouldn’t take a guideline, memo or legal action to generate an act of decency and mutual respect on your end.I’m not perfect. There are reasons why we divorced. More on that in a later post, too. But I’m not behind on child support payments, nor am I a monster, felon, child molester or some other type of cretin who would deserve this type of treatment, either. I’m just a father trying to see his son.So, for now, I will go to bed and continue stewing over what transpired this weekend. Because my brain hurts. My heart hurts, too.
(The photo is of myself and my son in Des Moines about four years ago)