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).