Memories Of My Dad...

The more that time passes, the more my dad seems like a myth. It's been so long since he existed here, yet he still does. I'm told I look and act like my dad, that my stride is his. I listen intensely to those comments as if I never knew him myself. I cling on to anything that acknowledges him being here at one time.

My dad was tall, dark, and handsome. He had a undeniable presence about him. If he walked into a room, everyone took notice. It was more than him being a police officer. When he smiled, the whole room lit up. He was smart, witty, and had an infectious laugh.

My sister and I had an 8 PM bedtime every school night, which being night owls at an early age was an awful thing. We had a tradition of sorts in which after lights out and after we were under the covers, we'd yell for dad: "Dad, come see us!" He'd come in and lay between us on his stomach and we'd have our nightly talks. He talked about what we were going to do at school the next day, or talk to us about our favorite band or movie star crush. Seemingly he understood it all; even though it must have been hard to relate to two little girls who said they were going to marry men with long hair who wore make-up, or who were going to move to New York or Paris without plans. We made him laugh and in turn he made us laugh. Only the nights that Dad worked until 11 did we not have our talks . Gina and I couldn't sleep until we saw the lights of his squad car on top of the hill, on the graveled road above our house, burst light into our dark room. Sleepiness settled in as we heard the door open and him in his room taking change out of his pockets and getting out of his uniform. I always felt safe when dad was near. I felt safe knowing he made it home and the bad guys didn't get him at work.

You take so much for granted when you're young. You expect your parents to die when you're middle aged, not at twenty.

I knew dad was larger than life. There are many lives that he saved, people who still live today because of him.

I watched him pull a family from a burning car once. We were coming back from St. Louis when a car flipped in front of us. Glass shattered, rugs flew out the windows; dirt, gravel, and confusion was everywhere. The car came to rest on it's roof and began to smolder. Dad calmly pulled over and said to my mother and me "stay here". He pulled a young couple from the wreckage and as more smoke poured out of the windows he crawled in only leaving the bottom of his feet exposed. He came out with a tiny crying baby. Minutes later the sirens and red and blue lights came. The car was completely engulfed in flames. My dad saved a whole family without hesitation. He was amazing! He did this several times even becoming an honorary Kentucky Colonel for lives saved on a bridge connecting Illinois and Kentucky.

I still can't help but ask who was my dad. I'd like to sit with him and ask him about his time in Europe or what dreams he had as a kid. I'd like to ask him if he is proud of me and if he thinks If I'm a good person. I'd like to just look at him to remember everything I've forgotten.

He told me I could do anything I wanted. When I was picked on at school and called names he knew the right thing to say. Went I felt like an ugly duckling and boys didn't like me he told me I'd be a model one day and made my first trip to New York possible. He told me to never settle for ordinary and he truly believed in me.

So many things I don't know about dad and I may never know. Maybe I have to look inside myself because my sis and I are all that's left of him here. Maybe that's why we had our talks and inspired our artistic nature; because there would be a night that he woud not be there to help us sleep, to calm our uneasiness, to send us in a direction.

I guess I'm still shocked that my dad was defeated. Cancer was the bad guy ( and not his job that would take him away).

You never get over loss like that. I'd rather feel my heartache than to never have had him as my dad though. I can't help to wonder if he were still here today what life would be like. What would he be like? Would I know him any better? I'm betting I would and that's what sucks! The more time passes, the more questions I have and the more the small things become cloudy.

I wanted to share a little bit more about him as I have in the past. It's my way of keeping his legacy alive, to tell stories like the ones I love to hear about him. It's my way to say I love my dad. I've been thinking about him today and the wreck that we saw so many years ago. I wonder if those strangers ever think of dad or wonder too, if he ever really existed.

On Memorial Day...

This weekend is Memorial Day weekend. It's an event my family always observes because we have lost many in our family- two in particular who lost their lives while serving our country. They were both cousins and both named Troy. Because of these two and the fact most men in my family were military men, I have a huge amount of love and respect for veterans.
I have to say that I find it utterly ridiculous that the majority of people in this proclaiming they are something else; Irish, Dutch, Russian, German...not American. I guess everyone wants an identity and saying you're from someplace else seems cool. Granted, the majority of my dad's family are still in Germany. Dad, however, was born here and served this country and risked his life like so many others. His family came here with the dream that anything is possible once you reach the shores of this great country.
My cousin's were from my mom's side. Troy Partain, my Great-Aunt Lula's son, was killed during World War II. Troy Ralph, my mom's nephew died in 1969 in Vietnam.
My Aunt Lula had an only child and loved him dearly. She was in her seventies when I was born and lived down the road with her sister, Callie. She was a tiny, frail little lady, who was absolutely one of the sweetest ladies I will ever meet. Troy joined the army when the US entered the war. To her protest, he left Hardin County and went off to basic training. Later he ended up in Alaska, where the US was rebuilding forces after Pearl Harbor was destroyed. In October of 1942, Troy was killed. Aunt Lula was later told there was a truck accident and he died a few days later from the injuries at only 24-years- old. Due to wartime restrictions, he had to be buried in Alaska. Aunt Lulie never got to say goodbye (like so many other mothers who's sons are buried on foreign ground). She mourned the rest of her life and I will never forget her tears. Many evenings, she sat on her front porch swing looking out towards the road. She once told me she used to sit there for hours watching and hoping that Troy would come walking down the road from the war. Even though a gold star hung in her window she never wanted to fully accept he was gone. Years later, a soldier visited the Sitka National Cemetery where Troy was buried and took pictures of his grave. He sent them to Aunt Lulie. This was all she had. It was her only closure. I can remember her clutching the photos and sobbing over him. I wanted to comfort her, but even at an early age, I knew no words could heal her heart. When Aunt Lulie died, Callie bought Troy a headstone that sits next to Aunt Lulie's. There's an empty plot at our family cemetery to honor him. Every year the local American Legion places a flag there for him. Sadly, no one in our family has ever been able to visit his grave site. Only in fiction does that exist. When I was in college I wrote a story called "He Sleeps In Alaska" after my mom's suggestion. I created a story in which Mom, Callie and Aunt Lula took a trip in 1976 to Alaska. It was one of the most emotionally draining pieces I have ever written. I hope one day that I can actually travel to the hillside where he's buried. I'll place flowers on his grave for Aunt Lulie and see the mountains that keep watch over him with my very own eyes.
It's ironic that his cousin, who was named after him, served in Vietnam. Troy Ralph was a handsome 21-year-old when he was drafted. He wrote my Aunt Callie often telling her his plans to buy a new car when he came home, or about the girls who were writing him from home. He always tried to be reassuring and brave. He had many hopes and dreams and was full of life. Who knows what he could have accomplished had he lived. He was killed on May 21, 1969 en route to Hamburger Hill. There were many stories as to how he died, but a few years ago my sister found a book written by one of his platoon members. He recalled Troy searching for a missing buddy and found him dead- and wired with explosives that killed Troy when he tried to move his friend. He survived only 6 months in Vietnam and thankfully his remains were sent home. Soon, Life Magazine came out with one of it's most famous issues; "One Week's Toll" an issue dedicated to all the soldiers killed the week of Memorial Day. Inside was Troy's picture. My Aunt Callie kept two copies carefully preserved and now my sister and I have them. A memorial bench sits outside of the Hardin County Courthouse dedicated to him as well. We gave his letters that Callie kept to his brother, who said he felt as if he found a missing piece of the puzzle who was his older brother.
These losses are something that my family has carried with them ever since. It was such a scary time and then to have lost someone you loved so brutally. These men (and women), like all who serve are more brave than I could ever fathom. I don't think I have the guts to leave home as they did to face war. In reality they are still kids, with hopes and dreams, some that never reach fruition. Even as I write this, there are those serving in Iraq who face the same dangers and so many who have already died.
The two Troy's are heroes to our family and this country. Although I never met them, I am proud to say they are family. I hope they know how much they are loved and cherished.
Even though we can go on and on about the problems with our country, it still is the greatest country in the world. We should be proud of where we are and that we are AMERICAN! We have freedom than only most can dream of. We take so much for granted in everyday life. Those who served saw the other side of life; horror, injustice, death and destruction. They paid with their lives or came home forever haunted. We owe them... everything.

Troy F. Partian
August 28, 1918- October 3, 1942

James Troy Ralph
November 13, 1947-May 21, 1969

** Re-post from 2008**

Who's with me?

Over the past year and a half, I managed to gain 15 pounds and get as out of shape as I could possibly get. Granted, a large factor was my heart issues. The other factor was how I dealt with all the issues in my life: eating- poorly I might add. I should know better! How many hours have I spent on a treadmill? An agonizing half hour in which I'm huffing and puffing burns off maybe one cupcake. Somehow, when I'm recovered from my workout, I'd quickly downplay the agony of the gym. I'm not proud that I have bouts in which I'm a ravenous hog. I guess it could be worse. Some people deal with stress in other ways: they smoke, drink or pop pills. Thankfully my metabolism is decent enough. And thankfully I have enough vanity and sense to know it's mind over Cheetos. We all use food as a crutch, a pacifier, a way to pass the time. We really don't need all the crap we eat, so we should stop lying to ourselves!
Even when my heart was having issues and my right ventricle wasn't fully functioning, I worked out. Imagine taking a 3 mile walk- through water. That's what it felt like. My arms and legs felt as heavy as lead! I still did it, and I didn't die. As a matter of fact, it's why I bounced back so quickly in ICU after my surgery. If I can do it, anyone can do it! I don't let myself get away with a pity party for too long and nobody else should. I might add that I have several CHD friends who have either had a heart transplant, are awaiting a heart transplant, have a pacemaker or have some sort of heart failure that require taking a lot of meds. Guess what? They get out and exercise just about every day!
Ultimately, it's a choice. Sure, genetics play a small factor and certain health conditions, but that's only to a point. When I don't like how I look, I know it's was mainly my choice to eat unhealthy.
Recovery from surgery is no easy task. Something about facing death that makes you want to take care of yourself. I've been walking and doing light weights for 45-60 minutes a day. Sometimes I wake up tired and remain that way all day. I know it will pass and by the first day of summer, I want to be close to my goals.
I'm just as human as the next person, but I can't sympathize with those who go on and on about being unhappy with their weight if they don't even try.
I'm determined to get out of my bad habits and make the changes I want to see. I know how it's done. We all know how it's done! Who's with me? Oh, and as I write this, I'd like a cupcake. But tonight the cupcake loses!

What is beauty anyways?

When I was a teenager, and as trite as it seems, I hoped to one day become a supermodel. I was tall and skinny, but I could walk into a room unnoticed. I wasn't asked to prom nor did I ever have a boyfriend in high school. A couple of years later, I was wondering around the streets of New York going to open calls at some of the most prominent modeling agencies in the world: Ford, Elite, Wilhelmina, IMG, Click, to name a few. Sometimes I only got as far as the receptionist, who took my photos and promptly returned with a "you're just not what we're looking for." It could have been much worse! I saw hundreds of girls have their dreams squashed right before my eyes. They were the probably popular girls at home: the prom queen, the cheerleader, or the daughter of wealth who got everything she ever wanted. In New York, they found that life can be extremely harsh. These were the type of girls who wouldn't hesitate to point out my flaws. There, they had thick thighs, bulging eyes and whatever perceived flaw an agent would detect on a short glance. Mostly, these girls didn't get past the height issue, even though they tired to strut in 5-inch heels, everyone knew they were 5'4. If you didn't win the genetic lottery and have at least a 5'9 stature, you could not be a model. The standards of beauty are ever changing but they are getting harsher. Tall, young and thin will always be in fashion, but the boundaries are puzzling.
Somehow, I dodged harsh criticism in those agencies (and sometimes I received positive feedback and callbacks). Perhaps I had already paid those dues. In the end, I was awkward looking at home, but apparently not awkward enough in New York. There are times I regret that I gave up on the modeling idea. I was encouraged to keep at it. Over the past few years, I wonder if I could have survived the harsh criticism any female receives if they have any notoriety. My weight has fluctuated at times and I am past 30. There are things I don't like about my face, but I could only imagine how it would be pointed out and repeatedly scrutinized in public.
This past week, I was in L.A. visiting friends. We happened to get into a taping of The Jimmy Kimmel Live Show. Courteney Cox was a guest. She was absolutely stunning in person! I couldn't stop staring at her perfect legs! When I logged on Jimmy Kimmel's Facebook page afterwards, I was disgusted and horrified at what I read. Courteney's looks (and age) were ripped to shreds from head to toe. Granted, I think whatever filler she had put in her face was unnecessary and excessive, but can one blame her for getting a little desperate? I thought Heidi Montag was crazy for having the 10 plastic surgeries she had, but if you read any article about her online there's a multitude of biting criticisms about her looks to follow in the user comments section. I always though she was kinda cute! She has an elongated face and the popular slam was calling her a "horse face!" OUCH! I mean, I have an elongated face. Perhaps I've been called that on several occasion myself? How can those barbs not cut into anyone's soul? At least Heidi is in her 20's. Courteney is in her 40's and somehow, in today's society, anyone over a day past 35 is not only considered "old" but can't be "hot". What planet do we live on that this concept has not only become mainstream, but is OK? When did it become socially acceptable to evaluate anyone and everyone head to toe? 99.9% of us a imperfect, but we forget that when someone else comes onto the screen- or walks into a room. Women can be horrible and catty and we contribute greatly to our own demise. I wish there was a movement in which that kind of behavior is no longer tolerated or acceptable among our gender. I can dream, can't I? We seem to forget however, for ever criticism or insult you throw out about someone, two come back at you. We all do it. It usually starts with a "I'm sorry, but (fill in the blank about how one is aging, how big their butt looks or what is wrong with their face)...
I still think Courteney Cox is breathtaking. If I look even half as good as her at 46, I'd be very happy. I am going to try to be the best I can be. Perhaps if I go unnoticed, it could be a blessing. What is beauty anyways? Can anyone put their finger on the formula today?

Aftermath

It's been a little over 5 weeks since my surgery. It's seems like it was a long time ago, yet I'm suspended in a dreamlike disbelief. For over a year, my heart surgery was my whole life. I had to plan, deal, have daily break-downs, have several medical tests, meet doctors and surgeons and get past the holidays. My Caringbridge site took up what little writing energy I had.
It's impossible to get back to normal. Life will never be the same and that's a good thing. I made it through something in which I could not foresee my survival. God was good and I'm blessed! Now, I will express my gratitude by how I live each day. With my body still healing, my mind is open to all the possibilities again. For the first time in my life, I can tell myself that I deserve good things and I deserve to be happy.
Besides the impending surgery, last year was difficult. My mom's health has been steadily going downhill and well as my step-father's. I could not continue grad school with my own health issues. My Aunt Ruth began losing her battle with her health and Alzheimer's. It's still a difficult time for my family and I know this year we will face more hard times. I hope my strength and all the blessings will persevere for all of us.
I am going to try to get back to writing. It's been a long time since I've been actively writing. I missed it! Hope I can write about all sorts of things on this blog now! Life goes on and guess what? I'm still standing!

February 17 is quickly approaching!

I've set up a Caring Bridge Website for my surgery. It will be updated often throughout my surgery and recovery. Please go to http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/lenamorsch
You have to register for the Caring Bridge site (sorry) but I figured this is the best way to keep everyone posted. I hope to be writing more about things other than my health on my blog.
Thanks!