Thanks For Reminding Me of My Crappy Month, Facebook.

 That Facebook Year In Review is pretty killer. You get to see all your best moments from the year and revist them all over. I had done it earlier this month and it was cool. Then I just happened to look again after looking at another friend's - and mine has definitely changed since December took off.

Here's a recap of what mine looks like for the month of December:

• Picture of my mom and sister in an empty movie theater, from my birthday.
• Photo collage of Dad's dog Fred, who passed away. 
• Pictures of my sister graduating from college. 
• Story about how I cleaned off someone's car while visiting Dad at the hospital (where I added "We're all okay, no worries!")
• Photo collage of my father who passed away with a "Just so you know" 
• Picture of my mom and her sister playing the game Cootie the night of my dad's funeral services.

First, how did six of my main stories come from one month? Second, holy shit what a busy month.

I wanted to cry, then remembered I was sitting at my desk at work. Instead, I composed myself and thought about it. And you know what? I absolutely love it. Because it encompasses our life.

• We had a nurse hang out with Dad, at the house, so that we could go to the movies for my birthday. It was a terrible movie, really: Free Birds. I laughed. Because it was cute and funny. But it was a movie about cartoon turkeys that go back in time. Talking cartoon turkeys. I, for one, was stunned that the movie theater was as empty as it was. How could no one want to, on a few days after Thanksgiving, want to see that movie on a Monday evening? Come on. More than once my mother fell asleep. We texted through the movie. It was fabulous. It was a ridiculous celebration of a birthday. But it worked. And it was very "us". I wouldn't have had it any other way, save for having my Dad able to attend with us, that is. 

• My Dad's dog Fred was 15. A horrible little mean chihuahua. But we loved him. When Mom let him out that morning he had seemed fine. But then she woke me up screaming that he was outside dying. Dad was, luckily, at the hospital at that time. But only for his sodium levels being low. Not anything life threatening. He had just gone into the hospital the night before. I ran outside, scooped up Fred, waited for him to bite my face off as he usually would, and held him close while he died. I told him what a great dog he was, how he had given us all the love in the world even while being a total jerk. He had loved my Dad. And my Dad had loved him. That's why he was there. He had done his job and done it well. It was a terrible morning. I figured that things couldn't get much worse. 

• My Dad was still in the hospital due to them not being able to regulate his body chemistry levels, when my sister graduated from college. She graduated Magna Cum Laude (twice!) with two degrees and was chosen to give the student response after the graduates received their degrees. They livestreamed the event so my Dad got to watch. A friend sat with him and when (at the end of her speech) she said "Hi, Daddy!" Charla said that he smiled, and whispered "Good girl." What an amazing moment to witness on all ends: From my sister's, from ours in the audience, and from the chair next to my Dad's hospital bed. 

• Dad was going to come home on the 17th. I went the night before, from work. The snow earlier in the day had been ridiculous and there was a car trapped under a huge pile of it. I stopped, on my way out, and cleared off the car. Two employees of the hospital came out to help. When we finished I walked to my own car and they were confused. I explained I just thought that coming out of the hospital after being there all day with a loved one would be enough - they shouldn't have to dig their car out as well. I remember telling my Dad I was going to do it when I left his hospital room. And silently (too bad I didn't say it out loud, I say to myself now) thanking him for raising me in such a way that I had even thought of doing so. My parents made us a thoughtful set of children merely by their own actions. Not by forcing us to do a thing, ever, but by showing us what compassion looked like in action. 

• On the 18th, Dad came home. He was out of it, but usually he would groggy for a day or so. It was late when he got home. I slept downstairs with him. When I left for work on Thursday morning his eyes were open. I kissed him goodbye and I went to work. When I got home, I said: Hey, dude! And he wouldn't open his eyes. His wound care nurse had been by to care for the skin tears and wounds he received from being in the hospital and being in a bed. We figured he was tired. My mom got into the shower, after checking on him. My sister checked on him while she was in the shower. I ate a toasted bologna sandwich. Mom got out of the shower and immediately noticed Dad looked pale. She said "I don't think he's breathing" It had been maybe 3 minutes since my sister checked on him. We jumped up. We pulled out stethoscopes. We found no heartbeat. I remember yelling at my sister to call 911. I can remember the 911 lady walking me through how to do CPR. The only words I remember her saying, in that regards, are "nipples" because I giggled in my head. Even in my panic. She was calm and caring and counted compressions with me. When I went from 12 down again to 1 she said "You were on 12" I yelled back "I didn't know there was a test!" ....I get that from my Dad. Thanks, Dad. Even in the throws of "Holy shit, I think my dad is dead" there were laughs and smart retorts. We are and always will be, if nothing else, true to who we are. And that's amazing. It's not always politically correct - but it's real. And it's amazing that I was given the ability to be that. Thank you. 

• We held funeral services after Christmas. Dad's body wasn't released until after Friday began, as he passed away late at night with us at home. So Christmas was Tuesday and Wednesday. There wasn't enough time to make arrangements and let family come in. So we had a visitation on the day after Christmas and his funeral service on the 27th of December. After a bit of a nap, we ended up with numerous family members around the kitchen table. At some point my mom got up, stood in the doorway and yelled out: First four hands up! Then she left and came back a few moments later with a Hungry Hungry Hippo game. We played that for almost an hour. The losers rotating out. And then began the game of Cootie. It was a good lesson. Life is sad. But it goes on. And there's nothing like helping you hang on and live through things than to be surrounded by those who love you more than anything else. And it doesn't hurt if you can laugh. And we did. Imagine a bunch of adults playing the game Cootie. I captured my Mom rolling the last 6 she needed to win the game. And her sister  looking offended. It may have just been a game of Cootie - you know, the ones for ages 3 and up. But it was a victory much larger than building a plastic bug. We breathed, we laughed, we talked, we loved. And we built plastic bugs with tennis shoes on their feet. And Dad wouldn't have wanted it any other way. 

....so maybe I really should thank Facebook for reminding me of this. Yes. Thank you, Facebook. For reminding me that life is fluid and it moves on and you either go with it or you don't. And sometimes you just need to roll a 6.

I'm a tumor, I'm a tumor.

Let me do a quick introduction here: 

I just turned 32. My father was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer in 2005. Earlier this year, he turned 56. Earlier this month? He passed away. I spent the last two and a half years going from hospital to hospital and sleeping in their living room next to his hospital bed to help my mom and family as much as I could. When this journey started, the last part at least, we had no idea that it would last as long as it did. Nor did we think it would end with him passing away at a young age. Our biggest regret was not documenting more of it. 

Anyone who has been a caregiver of someone who is severely ill will tell you that there is not an extra second in any day, however. And it's true. My dad passed away on December 19th, 2013. It was sudden, it was unexpected. And it was devastating. I'm saddened to have lost a father, but even more upset that the world has been robbed of a good person - a funny and kind and giving and wonderful person. 

As I walked through the grocery store last week I found myself thinking about how it was the first time I had been to the store since my father died. When I made chocolate chip cookies for my mom a day or two later I reminded myself, without meaning to, that it was the first time I had baked since my dad had died. 

Dad died almost on the 20th. Which was a Friday. This means that funeral arrangements and then the holiday made it nearly impossible to do anything before Christmas. And who wants to bury anyone on Christmas, right? So the funeral services were on the 26th and the 27th. This means we then started over more firsts. First time I had showered since we buried my dad (it was the same day, promise) and the first time I drove a car after we buried my Dad. I was, to say the least, letting my own brain overwhelm myself. 

Then yesterday (2 days after we buried my father, since I like to count it apparently) on a long drive alone I heard a song on the radio. I turned it up. I danced. I sang along. And then I laughed. And reminded myself it was the first time I had laughed for no reason other than because I was happy for that second. Because I owned that moment. And because that was my dad - dancing and singing (both of us very off key) in the car. And it occurred to me that our journey hadn't been sad. Even up until the very end. It was full of fun and light and laughter. There were terrible moments. There were scary and heart breaking and "I didn't sign up for this" moments. But our family has always handled things with the "It is what it is" attitude. And above and beyond anything else - we have embraced our humor and laughter. 

It really is the best medicine. For the patient and for everyone around them. You can't forget to laugh. I can't promise that you'll always laugh reading this, because I do imagine that there will be sad moments I feel I want to "get out." But Tumor Humor really sums up how we handled all of this, all this years - every curveball that cancer or hospitals or insurance threw at us? Tumor Humor. 

When Dad had been cancer free for years and suddenly had a seizure, alerting us to the tumor that was in his brain, Dad sent me a link to download a new ringtone - which we used for each other. I will leave you with a little glimpse of just how we handled it. (Starting at :07 of the following video).