Freedom Flight

Two years ago my life was radically different. I was married and enjoying family life and everything that comes with it; hard work, struggles, togetherness, traditions, laughter, and love. I built my life on a foundation that consisted of all of these things. It was rock solid and gave me the safety and security I needed to pursue the things I was passionate about. Nature, my animals, and my spirituality.

I’ve written about my dad’s fight with cancer and his loss. He’s been gone for 8 months now and the hurt is still fresh. When I close my eyes I can still hear his voice and his gentle laughter. I can still feel his arms around me and smell him. I laugh at his jokes and cry with his favorite music. But the gift I’m grateful for is that with the strength that he gave me, I was able to stand up and speak for him at his memorial. I was able to give a tribute to a great man.  

With this strength I was also able to endure a pain like no other I can describe; the end of my own family as I knew it. Everything is what it seems, until it’s not. What I thought was a rock began to erode and eventually washed away like a sandcastle after an evening storm comes in and everyone has left the beach. I experienced the ultimate betrayal in my marriage. What I had always imagined to be the worst thing I could possibly endure, I survived. It wasn’t pretty, it was far from pleasant, but I got through it. Plus I lost the gift of seeing my daughter Lillian every day. I wish I would have treasured each moment more.

Two years ago I had no idea what I could endure. And I didn’t know that I could endure them all at the same time. But everything must end, including this cycle of rough and relentless change. As the ink is drying on my divorce, I’m celebrating being alive. What I went through is NOT going to take me down.

So I am marking this time in my life by doing one thing I’ve always wanted to do. I’m jumping from a perfectly good airplane.

Because, if I can survive all that, this should be a piece of cake, right??

(for pics, video and an account of my experience, watch this space)

A Celebration of Daniel Edward Gutierrez 1943-2019

Good afternoon. My name is Veronica, or Ronnie to many of you including my dad, and we are gathered here today to say goodbye to my father, Daniel Gutierrez. I was the youngest of three, behind my big brother Daniel Jr, and my big sister Wendy.

Dan was a man that savored life. He was full of an infectious energy that seemed to never deplete. My earliest memories of my dad have him constantly busy.  I don’t remember him with idle hands. He had an iron-clad work ethic and used that not only to provide a very comfortable life for his family, but to pursue his passions. Whether it was designing and building a playhouse in the backyard for me and my sister, being active in the Y Indian Guides with my brother, or searching the grass for night crawlers before an early morning fishing trip.  He played 3^rd base in the softball league with his post office buddies for years.

Many times his passion was for helping people with their car troubles. I would sit next to the driveway in the grass while he would spend hours on his back under someone’s car. Lying there in in his coveralls, covered with grease and a cigarette in his lips he’d say, “Ronnie, tell me a story,” So I would entertain him with elaborate tales about my stuffed animals. He was my first support as a writer. Through him, I got my love of adventure and the written word. The only time I saw my dad sit still was to read the newspaper when he got home from work. I can still see him sitting in his chair with a cup of coffee and the smoke from his cigarette curling up toward the ceiling.

He also enjoyed novels and Gary Jennings was his favorite author. I learned from my dad that you can live a thousand lives if you develop a love of books. One day Dad told me, “Ronnie, I want you to write something. A story either for me, or about me.” I promised him I would and I’ve spent the better part of the next 40 years thinking about that.

My dad was a mountain man. He loved sitting in silence for hours with a fishing rod and the gorgeous rocky mountain scenery to gaze upon. Dad was a man of patience. Proven by the fact that he didn’t lose his cool when his little shadow couldn’t sit still or be quiet. He simply told me, “Shhh. You’re scaring the fish.”  His favorite fishing spot was Foxton and you could find him there nearly every day with my mom or my uncles. He loved that his work day ended early so he could rush home, change clothes, grab my mom and his tackle and go.

He took us camping nearly every weekend in the summers. And with our entire Gutierrez family, sledding in the winters. The harsh Colorado weather didn’t seem to matter to him, so it didn’t matter to us. He’d drive our little blue Toyota station wagon up to O’Fallon Park in the dead of winter. There we’d have a huge bonfire and go sliding down the mountains on inner tubes, sleds, or, in a pinch, the floor mats from the car.

Camping was another epic event full of aunts and uncles, and cousins by the dozens. Each day was capped off by the campfire singing, while Uncle Gerry and Cousin Terry, and Cousin Ralph played the guitar. My dad’s velvety voice stood out. Deep and rich and reminiscent of Nat King Cole. I’ll bet heaven sounds fantastic with all 4 of them now.  When we were very little he sang to us and one of his favorites was Harry Belafonte’s Jamaican Farewell. Wendy would pull on his arm and say, “Don’t sing that, Daddy! You know it makes me cry!”

Dan was a master of the grill, and barbeques were on the menu for the entire summer. He kept our freezer stocked with rainbow trout from our fishing trips and we enjoyed an un-ending flow of grilled fish with our extended family in the backyard and next to the house playing horse shoes.  This was a regular thing, birthdays, holidays, no reason at all. It felt good to be with family.                                                                                                                               

Through his example, I learned to connect to life through nature. With every lake, river, mountain, forest, rock, and animal, he taught me respect for the earth. He taught me to leave only footprints behind, and take the indelible memories with me. He gave me so many.

In preparation for this celebration of his life, my sister and I poured through photo albums and noticed, through the birthdays, holidays, and Disneyland vacations, there weren’t many pictures of my dad. And then I realized, he was the man behind the camera. Documenting 3 childhoods and ensuring they were idyllic.

Generous to a fault he would give whatever he had to help others. He gave money, belongings, advice, and most valuable of all, his time. But he wouldn’t be Dan if he were to have been selfish. And my dad was true to his own nature. Helping others made him a rich man. Rich in love of family, and the adoration of many friends.  

Like his mom, he had a wicked sense of humor. He teased people relentlessly. Sometimes you didn’t know what he was doing until he’d throw back his head and laugh. And by that time, he’d gotten the best of you and you’d be fighting mad. At his nursing home while everyone was in the dining room playing bingo, he’d roll by in his wheel chair real slow and yell, “Bingo!” Everyone would stop and clear their cards and he’d already be down the hall laughing.

The last 4 years of his life were lived at Wheatridge Manor. There he was cared for by a team of angels on earth. I didn’t ever worry about my dad because I knew what capable hands he was in. Everyone on staff from laundry to nursing to the kitchen, to the administration. They not only cared for him but they spoiled him rotten, even when he was being stubborn and frankly, sometimes a little mean.

Over the last year I spent most of my time with my dad and the angels of Wheatridge Manor. They’ve not only cared for him, but they’ve cared for me and my sister. We’ve gotten to know each other on a deep personal level. And I consider them not just a blessing, but my family.

Please forgive my limited view of my father. I know he was so much more than my words could express. And I am only one perspective of his nearly 77 years on this earth and the countless lives he’s touched. Even though I am my father’s daughter, I am but a facet of the jewel that was his life. A polished, crimson red garnet.

And 40 years later, Dad. I’ve fulfilled my promise to you. I’ve written a story about you, AND for you. And I know you’re here laughing and listening to every word.

Thank you.

One Year Sober

My personal relationship with alcohol lasted 36 years. I got drunk for the first time when I was eleven. I had a hangover on the day after Thanksgiving in 1982. My parents had no idea why I was sick and sluggish during Black Friday shopping. It continued off and on into middle school, with me getting drunk in the morning before typing class. High school started and I earned the name Hangover Helen.

By the time I was 21 and could drink legally, the novelty was well worn off and I didn't drink much anymore. I could go years without more than a drink or two with dinner, or a glass of wine now and then. But every now and then I would take things a little too far and have 2 martinis, which would lead to another, because why not? 

Like all of those who like to party, I would do foolish things that I could barely remember the next morning, if I remembered at all. There were catastrophic consequences and damages to personal relationships. But then I would lay off the booze for awhile and eventually resume my 2 drink maximum in social situations. That's fine and all, until it isn't.

Stress is a good excuse for drinking, right? Last fall my dad was diagnosed with terminal throat cancer. That news was particularly difficult for me. My world had just been rocked by a seismic event. My dad has everything to do with who I am. Facing the prospect of losing him wasn't something I could cope with easily. So I had a glass of wine, then another, then another. I don't remember anything after that. The next morning I was faced with the news of how poorly I behaved. I felt a shame like no other binge before. Not only was my slovenly drinking a bad decision, but alcohol was the main cause of my dad's throat cancer. I felt like such an idiot. 

Then I made a decision that has always eluded me before. I would never drink again. That was 365 days ago today. I have been sober for a full calendar year. That is something that I've never done. I didn't make a plan or attend any meetings, even though I know those things are helpful to a lot of people. I simply didn't want my daughter to ever see me like that again. And I felt it was a poor way to honor my father who is suffering from years of drinking.

Those two things alone were a solid base. But what helped me the most was my spiritual practice of self-healing through shamanism. Later that month, I participated a shamanic workshop in Death and Dying. One of the shamanic journeys we did was a shamanic dismemberment. In this journey you ask your power animal to take you apart down to the bone, then put you back together leaving out that which no longer serves you. I asked my power animal to rebuild me, and leave out the desire for alcohol. He most certainly did.

I've made it through holidays, birthdays, celebrations of all kinds, and certainly some of the most stressful trials of my life. And I've made it through with no alcohol. My power animal and my guides have helped, but the truth is that I've done the work. I've chosen healthier coping skills, and healthier expressions of celebration.

I can still be present when others are having a drink and that's totally fine with me. I really thought it would be harder than it is, but I've realized that I've gained so much more than I've lost.

Happy sobriety to me! <lifts a glass of Pellegrino> Here's to the rest of my life!

(For more information on shamanism and the shamanic journey, see previous posts)

Time, life, breath.

I’ve been absent in writing and posting this blog and I missed you, but I’m not completely sorry. I’ve been spending most of my time with my dad. And it has been good time. His pain and comfort have been managed very well by his hospice nurse and the nursing staff at Wheatridge Manor.

Sunday I got to celebrate Father’s Day with him. If this is your first visit to my blog, my father has throat cancer and is in a nursing home on hospice care. When he stopped treatment in December we thought his time was very limited and we came close to losing him shortly after. But that man defines resilience and decided he wasn’t done with the land of the living.

I also have to say that he hasn’t looked this good in years! He’s gained 20 lbs. since his lowest weight and his hair is growing back thick and black. Best of all, he feels good; good enough to share his wit and humor with anyone he sees.

“Move it or lose it!” He yells at anyone in the hall who may or may not be blocking his path. As old as that line is, he still uses it and it’s still received with a chuckle or a wise crack by the other residents.

Yesterday we had a visit from Winn, the Lutheran hospice chaplain. I hadn’t met this man and we had a short time to visit while Dad was still in the restroom.  I found myself being rather open and honest with him. I’ve met all kinds of clergy in the nursing home, and I’ve had my beefs with some in particular. But Winn carries a light that I haven’t seen in any of the others. We discussed gratitude for life and each breath we take.  I told him how I have been blessed with each day that I have my father to hold and squeeze and kiss on the top of his full head of black hair. I enjoyed our conversation very much.

Today I’m home getting some things done and dusting off the blog. Dad is on an excursion to Blackhawk with some of the other residents and the lovely ladies from activities. I know he’s enjoying himself. 

Let’s wish him luck!

Love Full Circle

When I was 6 years old I was hospitalized for a few days because of a bad reaction to some medication. I was scared to death to stay overnight. My parents stayed as long as they could but when it was time for them to leave, they kissed me goodbye and walked out of my dark room into the bright hallway. They waved again and walked out of sight to the left. I sobbed even harder and stared at the door frame through my tear soaked face.

Then I saw my dad carefully peak around the door, trying to look in on me without me noticing. Fat chance of that. I cried harder, “DADDY!”  He hurried back in and leaned down to pick me up and hold me. I must have drenched his neck and shirt. “Please don’t leave me!”  Mom and Dad held me close and promised they’d be back in the morning when I woke up.  It did nothing to console me. The stiff nurse in her starched white dress and hat explained to my parents that it would be better if they left and didn’t look back.  I’d fall asleep before I knew it. So we repeated this again until they did leave for the night.

Other than feeling alone in the world for the first time, I was ok but the following night my mom slept in the chair next to my bed.

Forty-one years later I remember this in vivid detail, down to the stuffed Kermit the Frog they brought me the next day.

This is what I thought about as I sat there in a chair next to my Dad, sleeping in his bed, dreaming and fighting throat cancer. Now I know the anguish he felt at the prospect of having to leave me, scared and alone and sick.

“You should go home and get some rest.” They tell me, the angels at Wheatridge Manor. “Get a good night’s sleep.” 

“I know.  I will.  I just don’t want him to wake up alone.” 

“I’ll take good care of him.” His nurse Jessica promised me. I have no doubts about that. She’s taken care of us both.

Please understand, I know he’s getting the best care he could get, not just medically, but emotionally. I don’t have to worry about his care when I’m not there.

These people love my dad. They tell me every day.  They tell him every day. But they don’t have to. I feel it. It’s like having the arms of heaven wrapped around him.  …and me.

Christmas Gifts

Our Christmas tree is up, the lights outside are hung and our neighborhood is decked out like I’ve never seen it before. It’s evident to me that my community is in the holiday spirit. On the other hand, I haven’t felt much like celebrating. My dad is suffering from throat cancer. He was diagnosed in early autumn and even though it was rapidly progressing, his prognosis was pretty good. If he could soldier through the daily, intense radiation treatments and several weeks of chemo therapy, there’s a damn good chance he could beat this thing. But treatment is not easy and it takes a toll.

Dad lives at Wheatridge Manor and I couldn’t be more grateful for the people there. He’s not just another resident, but he’s family to them. They don’t say it, but I know it.  I see it and feel it in the way they go above and beyond to care for him. They are competent medical professionals, yes, but more significantly they are some of the warmest, most self-less human beings.
His nurse, Jessica, treats him like her own dad. She brings him things and asks him what he wants or needs to make him more comfortable. She says he’s her ‘special guy’. She talks to me privately when she’s concerned about him for whatever reason. She even let me cry on her shoulder when it got too much for me.
His pain is managed pretty well by his medical staff and he didn’t have a lot of problems swallowing for the first few weeks.  But the flavor of his food was affected and everything tasted like metal. Dad would take a bite and say, “There goes two quarters and a dime.”  Then he’d take another bite, “Four pennies and a nickel.”  So I told his nurses that we should yank on his arm like a slot machine and maybe he’d pay off.” Then we’d all laugh, at him and with him. The kitchen staff have always made him his own pancakes from scratch on Friday, so he could have them all weekend.
Dad couldn’t eat the ribs that were served for dinner one night. Liz, the cook at Wheatridge, made him something else. He couldn’t eat that either, so she tried again. She made him some chopped beef roast and gravy and served it to him with rice. Yes! He could eat that. She was so pleased that he ate it, she was thanking him! The following day I was visiting Dad and we were talking to Liz’s husband while he waited for her to get off work. He offered to make a special batch of chili for my dad.
Time went on and Dad didn’t want to eat. The weight dropped off him. At about a 40 lb. loss, he’s in great danger. Today he had a feeding tube placed directly into his stomach. Maybe if the pressure of eating is taken off of him, he can just rest and focus on getting better. These are the things that were discussed with me by Betsy, his Nurse Practitioner. Betsy is another heavenly soul placed here on this earth to ease the suffering of the sick. What I love about Betsy is that she doesn’t sugar-coat a thing. She calls me and is straight-up with me about him. She doesn’t give me a line of bullshit or feed me false hope. She called today to talk about her concerns and then to ask how I’m feeling about everything. I try to be strong, but I cried like a baby and she cried a little with me.
His nursing home is small and it isn’t fancy, but I can’t imagine any place I’d rather have him.  From Denise at the front desk, who always gives him a healthy rash of shit when he needs it, to Michelle the driver, and her husband Eric, the maintenance man who spend their own hard-earned money to get him little things for his comfort.
The gifts I have this Christmas aren’t under my tree, they are from the unsuspecting angels at Wheatridge Manor. By loving my Dad, who heaven knows isn’t easy to handle, they have given me everything.
Maybe I am in the Christmas spirit after all. How could I be so blessed and not be?

Walking in Gratitude

When I was a child I was always connected to nature. I spent most of my time outside talking to any animals I could find or even talking to the trees. The smell of rain and rich earth lit up my soul. My brother and sister could be found inside where it was warm, but I was in the snowy back yard with runny nose and my dog Dusty right beside me. I would tell her stories I'd both read and had written.

In the summer you could find me barefoot with my dad at any of the gorgeous Colorado lakes or rivers standing in the water with a fishing pole in hand. I was home.

Today, and for the last couple of years I've heard the calling of home again. I hear the chattering of the trees and the murmuring of flowing water. I read the clouds. I spend time in my backyard with my chickens under my apricot tree. It's a much different message this time. I feel the sadness of our Earth Mother. Political unrest and divide have upended the natural processes that allow her to sustain humankind. Greed-driven power is damaging her. But I believe I've found a way that will help.

What I’ve found is my path. I can't really call it a new path, because like nature, it's always been there, waiting for me to come back. It's the shamanic path of the wounded healer. Through nature and my own healing of trauma and pain, I found I could help others with the guidance of my helping spirits.

I've spent time studying through books and learning about others who have followed a similar path and now use it to heal others. Like most fields of study, books will only take you so far. The most important wisdom I've gained comes through the shamanic journey. It is a practice that involves reaching an altered state of consciousness through drumming so that I may access and interact with the world of spirit.  I do this for my own guidance, and I do it on behalf of others to help guide them in their own healing.

It sounds pretty "out there". I know it did to me when I first learned about it. All I know is that it works. I tend to come at things from an academic approach. I like the tangible, the practical. I started from that point but it didn't pop for me until I tried it. I went on my first shamanic journey and then the world opened up to me like it never had before. It was there that I met my power animal. From him, I've had loving guidance and advice that I can always depend on. It may not always be what I want to hear, but it is always what I need to hear. Our relationship is the result of a mutual trust that we’ve built together. Now I’ve been guided and encouraged by spirit to help others and I’m answering that call by becoming a shamanic practitioner.

It isn’t through my own abilities that I can accomplish any type of spiritual work. It is through the wisdom of my helping spirits and power animals. In them lies the ability and the power. I am merely a conduit through which the information flows. In the shamanic world we call it a “hollow bone”.  I serve as a hollow bone through which information can pass from the spiritual world to my client.

You may be wondering, is this a religion? No. “Shamanism is a methodology, not a religion.” – Michael Harner PhD.  It’s nothing more than an avenue to access the world of spirit. It is a spiritual practice compatible with any religion, or no religion at all.

Shamanism is the thread that connects all original peoples of this planet. It can be traced back tens of thousands of years on opposite ends of the globe. Our ancestors’ survival depended on the shaman of the community journeying to the land of spirit to find out where the food was, where they could find water, or how to heal their people.

I don’t think anyone can argue the fact that our world today feels tired and burned out both literally and figuratively. I believe in hope and the power of change. The beautiful thing is that when we heal ourselves, we create a ripple effect. If we focus on healing our negative thoughts and break our self-damaging patterns, we will see healing start to happen on our planet. Like the age old saying goes, “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

With that wisdom in mind and the encouragement of many, I begin my practice. The possibilities are limitless.