A Moment In Time

When Dad died a few weeks ago, we found ourselves pouring over the old photo albums and searching through zip drives full of pictures to find the right ones for the photo boards at the funeral home. It's amazing how many memories come flooding back to you that were buried somewhere in the dark corners of your brain. Things you didn't even know you had forgotten come flying back to you. 

I would imagine that my Dad had his camera on timer, at this point. Because I don't remember Mom being there. But there he is. In all his terrible fashion don't glory. I immediately took a picture of this picture and made it my profile picture on Facebook. Because it encompasses so many things:

• Portage Aquatics (the logo on my dad really fashionable tank top) was the pet store that specialized in tropical fish my parents owned as I grew up. 
• We're at Woodland Park, which was one of my favorite places as a kid. I still go there, often. 
• I feel like this face I am making sums up how my family always made me feel, as a kid: I was allowed to question and marvel at anything and everything. It was not only accepted but encouraged.

It also has one of my favorite Dad (old and new) stories attached to it. 

Earlier last year I said to Dad, on a Saturday when we were home alone, "Remember when  you blew those big bubbles with me?"

Dad: You mean the time that you opened the package I told you not to?
Me: No. That's not what happened.
Dad: I should ground you again for that.
Me: You said don't take it out of the package. I didn't. I only opened it. 
Dad: You knew what I meant!
Me: I was like 4. I had no idea. 
Dad: No, you did. You were a smart-ass even back then. 
Me: Whatever. You said don't take it out of the package. I didn't take it out of the package.
Dad: I wasn't sure if we should be impressed at your listening skills or offended at your smart-alecness.

Here's some background:

Dad bought these amazing bubble wands. To blow huge bubbles with. He said he would take me when he was done doing something in the fish store. He explicitly said "Do not take those out of the package" and left me in the front of the building. Well, I didn't take them out of the package. But I removed all the wrapping. And probably spent a good twenty minutes or so petting the wands. I was so excited to go to the park. But I never removed them from their spot in the box. I just took the plastic off. When Dad came out to go to the park - well, he wasn't exactly "Hey, favorite kid! Let's go!" It was more "We aren't going, why did you not listen to me? Go to your room. *pause* And leave the bubbles here." 

Luckily, I had a Mom in my corner. Who made him take me. Not that day, but soon thereafter. Or we wouldn't have this documentation of what a tragic state of fashion the 80s really was. 

Before Dad even passed away I was telling Mom the story of Dad's conversation with me, about how I didn't listen, even as a kid. She stuck up for him. As usual.

Mom: You totally were being a smart-ass.
Me: No way! You have no idea what was going on in my head.
Mom: We knew you, even back then. And it was always smart-ass.
Me: I never took it out of the package.

A few days later I told Dad about how Mom and I had discussed it and Mom stuck up for him.

Dad: That's what married people do. It's in your vows.
Me: To lie to your children? 
Dad: We weren't lying. You were a total smart-ass. 
Me: Let it go. You're wrong, dude.
Dad: You're the one bringing it up. You let it go.
Me: No, I'm fighting for my rights.
Dad: Did I take you to blow the bubbles or not?
Me: No one can confirm or deny this. Maybe it was a dream I had that night. All alone in my room. You know, the room you sent me to because I was a "terrible" child.
Dad: I took you. Let it go.
Me: My heart was broken.
Dad: I see your mouth isn't.
Me: Never!
Dad: If I could ground you to the other room, away from me, right now. I would.

I guess he was right. Here's the photographic evidence. And for the record, I totally remember going a few days after the Great Bubble Incident. But I still stand by my story. I never removed it from the package. Which was exactly what he said. "Don't take that out of the package." 

...guess I get the last word on this one, pops. Bittersweet victory, to say the least. Thanks for letting me marvel at how big the world (and bubbles) is, always.  And for capturing this moment in time for me.
 

Beaver Fever

This morning I did as all red-blooded Americans do, when they first wake up. First, I checked my work phone and responded to missed emails. Then I ran through Facebook. I noticed a few posts about Justin Beiber being arrested. I thought nothing of it, until later I was sitting in my parents' living room and my mom was walking away from me and into the bathroom. Then this happened. 

Me: Justin Beiber got arrested, I guess.
Mom: Did they finally figure out he egged his neighbor's house?
Me: No. What? Why do you know that? 
Mom: Was it the drugs? 
Me: No. He got a DUI.
Mom (still yelling from the other room): Awww. No. Justin.
Me: Mom is very dissapointed, Beibs. Way to go.
Mom: You don't drink and drive. Ever. Even if you're Justin Beiber.

My sister and I were laughing. Because Dad wasn't the only comedian in our house. But then I remembered Dad's love of Justin Beiber Just kidding, Pops, don't turn the lights on and off on me tonight or anything. Seriously, dude. Don't.

When Dad passed away, people started leaving mass amounts of messages on my post about his death, or on my page. I was afraid we would miss or lose some of them. So we started printing them out, and even put together a book of the snippets for Dad's service. One in particular came to mind this morning. (Thanks for reminding me, Steph!) Here's her post:

I remember walking and raising money for Relay for Life in 2010. Stephanie Radloff Was there, and she was dealing with her tumor too. It was the only year I lived in NWI as a full-fledged adult and there were so many little moments that I'll never forget and mean a lot to me. Walking with your dad, you and Stephanie is one of those moments in my life where I got to pause and remember what is really so important. Later that night, I was talking about Justin Beiber (don't know why) but then Jim looked at me and said "Beaver Fever?" Hilarious. I'm pretty sure he wasn't referencing the kind of Beaver that builds wooden forts in a river!!!!!

Lucky for her, I remember even more of it. (and I have a picture to accompany said story of both Stephanies!...you're welcome!) 

I think Stephanie was professing her love for Justin Beiber. Okay maybe, just maybe, there were a lot of young children around playing his music on the track as they walked. And she said something about Beiber fever. Dad whipped around immediately.

Dad: Beaver Fever?
Us: Uh. No. Not exactly.
Dad: I have beaver fever. Heh. Heh.

It was one of those moments where you want to applaud having such a "hilarious" father. But you're also a bit wondering if you could melt into a puddle and slink away. Lucky for me, I have awesome friends who thought it was just as hilarious as I did. 

And she's right. He certainly wasn't discussing beavers building forts. But, since he used to watch the show Two Angry Beavers with me, I like to think he also could have been referencing the following clip from the show. (Ps, he wasn't.)




The Angry Beavers - Beaver Fever from Nivaldo Lemos on Vimeo.

I'm so glad that my friends got to experience not only how "funny" (read: crass) Dad could be. But also the great things my family did, like walking for Relay for Life. That year we had raised about $8,000 for the American Cancer Society. I couldn't ask for a better (or funnier) set of parents to teach me how to give back. And when to crack a good Justin Beiber joke.

Say Something

I've been hearing A Great Big World's "Say Something" song everywhere, lately. It plays in the car, at work, on my Spotify random list. And it always reminds me of a bit of my parents. 

There were months, as we were trying to find out what was going on with his seizures, where Dad was heavily medicated. He would have a seizure and doctors would freak out and double his seizure meds. Anyone who has ever taken a seizure medication can assure you that they are, most often, not without side effects. At some points he was taking 3 different medicines 4 times a day. When they were first altering all of these - he could "check out" for days (and sometimes longer) at a time. There would be almost no sign of Jim in those days. 

Sometimes he would open his eyes. Other times he would sleep for days on end. During those days, my mother never gave up on him. 

Say something, I'm giving up on you. 
I'll be the one, if you want me to. 
Anywhere I would have followed you.
Say something, I'm giving up on you.

I can only imagine the frustrations she felt, as his spouse. As a child there were days I wanted to throw my hands up and walk out - not give up, but just walk away and take a breather. It was like talking to a brick wall. Not a sound back. But we didn't. Mainly because my mom was a great influence. And she would have (and did) follow him anywhere he went. For his whole journey. During these times of silence, she would still talk to him. Hold his hand. Whisper to him how she was there. And beg him to talk. There were days that he would at least open his eyes. But sometimes, nothing. And there's a certain sense of helplessness that goes along with that. 

And I am feeling so small.
It was over my head
I know nothing at all.

We did know nothing. Nothing about his prognosis. Nothing about why he wouldn't speak to anyone. Nothing about why he was unresponsive. Doctors would shake him, people would yell at him, they would dress him, give him meds, feed him through a tube - without him batting an eye. He was sustaining his own life. No machines, no breathing assistance. He just wasn't THERE.

Say something, I'm giving up on you. 
I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you.
 
One time he had been close to months since he had really spoken to us.  And it was really starting to feel like we should be apologizing for not being able to get him to really talk to us. My mother had been begging the doctors to reevaluate what was going on. She had been talking to people about how his medications were too much. She never gave up on him. And she wouldn't have. But I always wonder when other people would have. When other families would have done what we always chased away - throwing your hands up and saying "I'm giving up on you." Luckily we didn't. Because this was over a year ago. And he had a lot of life left in him. In fact, after months, this happened. 

Mom: Seriously, Jimmy, just saying something. Anything. 
Me: You can even tell us how much you hate us. Or that I'm your favorite. I'm okay with that. 
Mom: I go home every day and pray to baby Jesus that you'll just open your mouth and say something to us.

There was silence, of course. And then, as Mom and I were sitting on the other side of the room, Dad spoke to us. Very softly. But very clearly.

Dad: Jesus came to me. 

At this point, we both jumped up to listen to him. I'm not sure what we were expecting. But he had been so absent from us for what felt like so long, we figured that he was going to say something profound. 

Mom: And what did he say?
Dad: He said to stop calling him baby Jesus. 

A minor let down, as I was expecting him to tell me Jesus gave him a quick tour of Heaven and that it looks something akin to Willy Wonka's factory. But a win in my book. 

We didn't give up on him, thankfully. But I still call him baby Jesus ... and sometimes teenage Jesus. Just for fun.

Tell Me I'm The Most Beautiful Girl

Tomorrow is my mom's birthday. It will her first birthday since Dad passed away on the 19th of last month. I imagine that tomorrow will be hard for her. My mom and dad were together for 37 years when he died. 

• They grew up together - they were only 16 and 19 when they met. 
• They owned a business together - I grew up with parents with a pet store. How awesome is that?
• They had two children together - I'm totally the favorite though. True story. Don't tell my sister. It will crush her.
• They coached softball teams together - And more than once took them to the World Series. 

But more than all of that? They were and still are an amazing example of unconditional love. The things that my mother has done for my father continue to astound me every day. There were days that my mother had to be a therapist, a nurse, a CNA, a massage therapist, the maid, the cook, a wound care specialist, a patient advocate, and a wife. Some of these would overlap, sometimes they all came on in a span of an hour or two. All at once. 

Loving someone isn't easy when you're faced with a terminal illness or a life-altering change. My mother has done both of these things for my father. And I couldn't be more grateful. There were so many times I realized that if my mother wasn't as strong (and strong-willed!) as she continues to be - things would have been different. 

I saw my mother fight for the best health care possible for my father. This means she battled nurses, doctors, certified nursing assistants, nursing home directors, rehab facility social workers, and insurance companies. 

I saw her sit patiently by his bedside, helping him eat half of a hamburger. One that she probably jumped up to go purchase late at night because he said he was hungry, finally. Although, I won't lie - I also saw her sneak some of his fries. Don't tell him. 

I saw her, when his legs stopped functioning properly, spend time every day moving this legs for him - insuring that the blood flow wouldn't stop and telling him all the time about how he was going to get up and walk down the hall with her again. She really tried to trick him into some ballroom dancing lessons. But he was too quick to fall for all that. 

I saw her get out of bed at 2 a.m. to help move and clean him when it was necessary. And she still got up at 6 a.m. the next morning to make sure he had his meds. And that I had mine - an IV of coffee. 

I saw her administer IV medications in their living room. All the while chatting about how she was not a nurse. She may not have been a nurse, but she was better at it than some of the professionals we encountered. Although, she didn't have as readily an access to drugs to give me. So that was slightly a bummer. 

I saw her hunting down people in a nursing home Dad was at for rehab, making sure they knew that he needed something. Never taking no for an answer, and picking up the slack where she could - since it was pretty apparent that they were not lazy but just understaffed many times. I think I may have seen her cheat once at Bingo. That blue-haired lady she beat will be really mad when she reads this, I think. 

My main point is - my mom wore so many hats through my dad's journey. And she did them all because she loved him. And she believed in him. Many times people would try to convince us that maybe sending him to a facility would be the best idea. Mom would tell them (not so) politely that this was not an option for us. And when we'd get him home? He'd perk up. He'd start to talk again, he'd be his old self. That's what love can do for you. Love can heal. And my mom may not have been a nurse - but she had never ending love. Up until the day that Dad passed and for all the years to come - she has loved him more strongly than I have ever seen another human being care for someone. I feel priviliged to have been born into a family like this. I feel lucky to see what unconditional love looks like. Even in the worst of times. Even when days were bad and Dad was unresponsive or overmedicated - she would lean down and whisper in his ear that he was the strongest man she knew. She's right. But she's also a bit of a superhero herself. 

Once, a speech therapist was working with Dad. He had recently been intubated and had to work on his swallowing and recovering from having the tube removed. The speech therapist said "Just say anything." 

Mom replied by telling him "tell me I'm the most beautiful girl in the world." 

Slowly Dad said "You are the most beautiful girl," then there was a pause, "that I ever married." 

You were a lucky dude, dad. And not just because Mom didn't knock you out after saying that. But she gave you everything she had. And when you're running for two-plus-years on empty - it's hard to give everything you did. But there she was. Every day after work. Rushing home to take care of Dad. Or running to whatever hospital or facility he was getting treated at. Telling him he was the strongest man she knew. And besides? She's still the prettiest girl you ever married. (Like I said, you were a lucky man.) 

I think that the way Dad is looking at Mom in this picture from a few years ago really sums it up. He may not have said it as often as he would have liked. But he knew how lucky he really was.
 

I also know he would have loved nothing more than to be here and wish her a happy birthday. And he really would have wanted to give her a pony for her birthday. Okay, maybe the pony is for me. You can't blame a girl for trying, though.

 

Death Doesn't Take a Break

We received word, earlier this morning, that our friend passed away. She was doing better, even just a few minutes before her passing. The flu! Who dies of the flu in 2014? We were also reminded, as we called another family member to tell them: Today is four weeks to the day that Dad passed away. 

They say that life goes on. But you know what? So does death. Death doesn't take a break when you're trying to put your life back together. While you're trying to find a new normal, it doesn't stop. And sometimes it doesn't even give you a second to breathe. Or to grieve.

They say that there are five stages of loss and grief:

• Denial and isolation
• Anger
• Bargaining
• Depression
• Acceptance

I'm sure that this is true for many people. And I would imagine that, at some point, we will hit them. But I also know that there is nothing normal about the way we have managed the last years or our lives. So who is to say that our grieving and coping will be in any way normal, as well?

I don't feel angry. I feel sad. I find nothing to bargain about. There's the (every now and again) question about if we did all we could - but we can very quickly answer yes. I don't feel depressed. I feel like with what we have gone through so far? We're coping at what I would call very natural and healthy levels. I don't deny what happened. I was there. I saw it and felt it and experienced it up close and personal. 

That leaves us with acceptance and isolation. I believe I accept what happened. I know that there's nothing more we could have done. I don't know if I want to say that I accept it because I still feel sad. I still feel like there's a lot of empty in my heart and my life. But I accept it happened and that this was what was probably the way that it should have happened, given all the circumstances. 

The isolation part is the worst, I think. I would like to be left alone. But it's just not possible. Because there's life. And there's death. They both keep moving. And you can't just ignore them. If you could, we'd probably be a society full of people with blinders on. Who don't care about what happened, at least in perception. I know I have unreturned phone calls. I know I haven't texted some people back. I know that I haven't found it in myself to really focus on repairing the relationships that were broken along the way of the last few years. I just don't feel like I have it in me, yet. 

Friends have asked me to meet them, or to go out. And some days? I can do it. But other days the prospect of dealing with the outside world, on a day I don't have to? It's suffocating. 

I say none of this for pity. Because I don't need any. I have a good life, great family, caring friends, people who love and support me - I know they get it. I say it so that if anyone reading this has a friend like me - they can stop and take a moment to realize that. Maybe they really do want to go out with you. Perhaps they'd love to have a drink, or go for coffee. It's likely they would really enjoy going out to dinner with you. But sometimes? It's just too much. 

The exhaustion that comes with putting on your public face and going outside every day is hard enough. Sometimes you just need a break. And we live in a society that makes you feel pressured to be normal. They make you wonder if, after four weeks, you should be coping better. To anyone dealing with a situation like that? I can tell you, from four weeks out - it isn't enough time. And you know what, that's okay! We all move at different paces. But don't hate the people who want you to be "normal" by now. I think it's all they know. A lot of people haven't dealt with a loss that takes over their being. And it's uncomfortable. Put yourself in their position: how do you respond to that? You know words aren't enough. And you can't imagine what they're going through. Their offer to take you out for dinner and drinks - it isn't because they don't care about your grief. It isn't because you aren't allowed to still be sad. It's because they want to let you know that they're there. And that's a good feeling.

Coping isn't just something that the person who lost someone goes through. It's something that has an effect on everyone around them. And they're just trying to get through it with you, too. 

Life is short. We've learned that twice in the last 4 weeks. Embrace all the moments. The sadness, the grief - it only means you had something to love enough to grieve for. And that? That's an amazing feeling. Even if it means I haven't called you back, or gone out with you yet, or responded to your text message. (I'll get to them all. Someday soon. Promise.) 

And since it's Throwback Thursday? Let's enjoy this amazing picture of Dad trying a kumquat for the first time on December 4, 2011. I appreciate it more because that's how I feel about this whole situation. A bit like it's a sour situation, for sure.

 

Here Comes a Fighter

Until the referee rings the bell

Until both your eyes start to swell

Until the crowd goes home

What we gonna do ya'll? 

Give 'em hell, turn their heads

Gonna live-life-til-we're-dead. 

When Dad was going through some of the worst parts of his journey, this song would play on the radio. I can remember driving to a nursing home he was getting rehab at and hearing it in the car. I couldn't help but think of what a fighter Dad was and be proud of having such a great parent.

Three days after Dad died, I was driving by myself and froze when the song came across the radio as I was switching channels. I almost had to pull the car over as the tears started flowing. Every day, as we went through this two and half year limbo of: getting better, going to die, getting worse, better, walking, not walking, maybe it's cancer again, no cancer, we have no idea what's going on: my mom would say to my Dad: "You're the strongest man I know." 

It's still true. Even now. That man endured chemo, radiation, brain surgery, removal of his adrenal glands, removal of part of his lung, learning to walk again ... and until the very end? He lived more of a life trapped in a hospital bed in our living room than most people do completely able-bodied. He never gave up, and we never gave up on him. We told him at the beginning of this eight year long battle with cancer that we would fight behind him the entire time. And when he was ready to stop fighting, we would respect his wishes. And he never did. He didn't give up on us. And we were right there, the entire time. 

As the song finished, those days after Dad died, I suddenly started to laugh. As a kid, my Dad would say "Hey Dennis, go put on your overalls. I need a son." And we'd build something, or we'd change the oil in the cars. He never treated me like I couldn't do anything because I was a girl. He taught me how to spiral a football, swing a bat, build a deck, change a tire, drive a manual transmission car. Anything and everything that people would say: That's a boy thing - Dad was determined to teach me to do it. This didn't stop at learning how to "fight"....I don't know what he thought happened in private school. But apparently, just in case, I should know. 

I was in fourth grade, I believe, when he taught me how to block a punch. 

Dad: Put your hands in front of your face.
Me: Like this? 
Dad: Uh, no. Less...pansy like.
Me: Uhh...?
Dad: Just block my punch.
Me: I can do that. 

He failed to tell me that you had to hold your arms firm - don't let them give when you're blocking a punch. This just resulted in me giving myself my first black eye, as his hand hit my arm and my fist went right up and into my left eye. 

Dad: You hit yourself!
Me: No, I did not!
Dad: That's my story. 

I can truly say that the last few years of life have been dodging punches, side-stepping blows, and dancing around. I'd imagine that the medical, insurance, and inner demon battles that we fought as a family could constitute as the stinging like a bee part, too. Thanks for teaching me to block a punch, Dad. It's really come in handy lately. Life is full of blows. But you've taught all of us to never give up, and to live life til we're dead. (I'd also like to thank you for marrying another fighter. Mom may have told you that you were the strongest man she knows, but she's got a wicked set of fighting skills, too. Good choice!) 

Give me scars, give me pain

Then they'll say to me, say to me, say to me

There goes the fighter, there goes the fighter

Here comes the fighter

That's what they'll say to me, say to me, say to me, 

This one's a fighter.

Take Your Dad To Work Day

Dad always said (for as long as I could remember, long before he was even sick) that he never wanted to be put in the ground. We ended up having him cremated. While at the funeral home to make his arrangements, we were left alone in the "planning" room for far too long. We noticed that there were shareable urns in the corner that you could purchase. Just teeny tiny little urns.

I made a terrible joke (I'm sure you are surprised, right?) about how I was going to take Dad to work with me and set him on the desk. If anyone gave me a hard time, I would just point to the urn and tell people "Don't talk to me like that in front of my dad!" My sister rolled her eyes, my mom gave me the "I can't believe you're mine" look and we moved on. 

It has now been three weeks since Dad passed away. My mom and sister picked up his ashes at the end of the week last week and called me immediately:

Mom: Do you want us to drop Daddy off at the office for you?
Me: What? No. 
Mom: Why not?
Me: You told me that was weird and I couldn't.
Mom: You can do whatever you want. 
Me: I can't carry Dad to and from work. ....can I?
Mom: You can do whatever you want, Denisey. 
Me: Don't tempt me. 

We left it at that and Mom put all three urns on the mantle at their house. Earlier this morning, as I was leaving their house Mom yelled out: 

Mom: Don't you want to take Dad to work?
Me: What if he spills out in my bag. There will be Dad ashes everywhere!
Mom: I think it's sealed pretty well *yanks on urn lid* Yeah. You're fine.
Me: I'm such a creep.
Mom: He's sick of being stuck in the house. Take him out.
Me: Fine. Let's go Dad. I can't be lugging him back and forth though. That's weird, right?
Mom: You can just leave him there.
Me: Well, he isn't afraid of the dark. I suppose you're right.

I shoved him into the front pocket of my lunch bag and off we went. It's maybe sick, it's maybe twisted. But either way, it was officially: Take Your Dad to Work Day. My co-workers are good sports. None of them have run screaming from my office....yet. And my friends I have told were pretty supportive. I sent some of them a picture...

 

...with the following caption: *whispers* There he is. And no, he's not the unicorn. 

I took a late lunch and met up with my sister and my Mom. Mom went to the restroom to wash her hands immediately and I leaned over the table and whispered to my sister, "I took Dad to work today, look." I also told her about how Mom said he was tired of being cooped up in the house. 

When Mom came back to the table, I showed her Dad's glamor shot. Then I told her about how I told the story about her making me take my Dad out on a field trip. She's certain that people are going to think she's "whacked out" ....but I just think it proves that we have been, if nothing else, a strong and resilient family. And maybe a little creepy.

She did, however, roll her eyes and give me and my sister "I can't believe your father left me with the two of you" face as we made captions to the picture that included: 

Dad, stuck between a rock and a horny place.

Dad, stuck between a rock and a pink place.
 

For now, I will bid you adieu and remind you: not everyone grieves the same way. I miss my father more than I thought was humanly possible. I had no idea that at times I would feel like my heart was broken in two and I couldn't catch my breath. I thought I was prepared enough that, three weeks after he had passed away, I wouldn't find myself still thinking of leaving work and going home. Because I think of how much I want to just be home, so often. So keep that in mind, as people around you grieve. First, we all still need to laugh. But we need to do it on our own terms. Even if that means bringing your Dad to work in a lunch bag.  

 

Snow Much Fun

All of this snow has really weighed heavy on me. Get it? Heavy snow?! No? Rough crowd

My dad was always the one who took care of the snow removal. The last few years we have been pretty lucky to escape giant snowstorms and when it did snow, our fabulous neighbor would take care of it for us, as we were inside tending to Dad.

Last weekend’s heavy hit saw hours of snow removal: snow blowing, shoveling, kicking it, building snowmen in it. And then repeat. Over and over again. It only served to make me miss Dad more. My own driveway at my house is pretty easy to keep clean, but theirs is fairly massive. He always just threw on the Carhartt and headed out, snow blowing for hours without ever complaining.

After about three hours of snow blowing I realized why he didn’t complain – his giant mustache probably froze his mouth shut. That stuff gets stuck to your hair like you wouldn’t believe. Every wisp of hair that came out from under my hat was like a giant icicle when I finally made my way in.

My mom has been feeling the void of Dad, too. We were talking about it over a cup of tea on Sunday evening, after we climbed Mt. Everest. Okay, it wasn’t that serious, but it felt that triumphant when there wasn’t any snow to be seen on the driveway (finally).

As we had finished wrapping up our driveway, we noticed another neighbor outside trying to shovel his. My sister and I grabbed shovels and mom pushed the snow blower over to his house. We ignored his pleas of “No, don’t. It’s okay. I got it.” We started to remove all the snow we could. It felt good. I would like to take this time to point out, yet again, how inspiring my parents always are. They always encouraged us to do things for others – but did so by leading  the way.

We had almost finished when I decided to go check on our back deck, which hadn’t been done all afternoon. My mom headed to the neighbor’s house, the one who had been taking care of our driveway for years now and started to snow blow. 

He came out, my mom said, and asked her what she was doing. She told him he had always done so much for us lately that she wanted to return the favor. When she stopped, they discussed how she had been missing Dad. Before Dad’s cancer and even until the last two years, Dad would always go over and snow blow their driveway for them. After he was unable to do the snow himself, the neighbor bought a huge snow blower. And he’s been helping us out ever since. Mom thanked him again. And then this happened:

Mom: I really miss Jimmy.

Neighbor: Know what I miss?

Mom: No?

Neighbor: I miss how he’d come over and snow blow for me and when I’d come outside to tell him he didn’t have to do that, he would just wave at me. And then he’d said: There’s your blowjob for the day, neighbor. Remember when he’d call it a blowjob?

Mom: Oh God. No. No I do not. But that sounds like him.

Again, we aren’t always politically correct. But we are funny. And I love that, even though my mom’s embarrassed I shared this story, we keep getting little glimpses of Dad. Today is 2 weeks since his funeral. And we find out more about who he was by those who he has helped or touched in the years.

Hats off to you, Dad. Blowjobs aren’t easy. (Don’t tell Mom I said that. She’s already mortified I told the story, period.)

You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch

Today has been a week since we buried my father. Well we didn’t bury him. We burned him alive. Well, not alive. You know what I mean, right? If not? You’re in the wrong spot, my friend.

I am not a casual hugger. I’m not much for having my personal space or personal life invaded. Couple this with the fact that my father, who was my first best friend ever, no longer being with us and it is a recipe for disaster.

I am sarcastic. I am (what I like to call) witty. I’m not one for sugar-coating. And I don’t have much of a filter. This means that on more than one occasion in the last week or two, I believe I may have uttered things that humans aren’t supposed to say at funerals or even in public.

Let’s start a list, shall we.

• “Well, it’s official. He’s the Grinch that stole Christmas.”
• Them: I’m so sorry. Me: Me too
• "We lost my Dad. Well, we didn’t lose him, I know where he is. Well I hope he’s there. That would be really creepy if he was not at the funeral home.”

My family and my closest friends “get” me. They know that it’s just how I am. They also know it isn’t some weird therapy required coping mechanism.  I, and my tongue, are quick and sharp. And I don’t know if I cared at all, in the last two weeks, about offending others. So they take it with a grain of salt. Or they laugh their asses off. 

As my mother, sister, and I drove home from the hospital, having just said our goodbyes to Dad, the car was blanketed by silence - one filled every so often with an "Oh my God."  I turned the car onto our street and chuckled, muttering about how Dad was the officially the Grinch that stole Christmas, being that he passed away just a few days before the holiday. We all laughed a bit - my mother included. I have always been a Dr. Seuss fan. Dad would have loved the joke. There was no harm nor foul. But when I repeated it in the company of others a few days later? They were so uncomfortable it almost hurt to be around them.

When co-worker one said “I’m sorry” and I said, without missing a beat, “me too,” he looked at me and co-worker two stunned for a moment. Co-worker two, jumping to my defense, said “It’s a coping mechanism.” ….I don’t know if I agree with that. I don’t think it’s to cope. I just think it’s who I am. And who I am is what will get me through most anything. Crap, does that mean it’s a coping mechanism? Dangit. And it's true. For the last few weeks people have been saying "I'm so sorry." And I just think: Yeah, me too. Because: I am.

I stopped by the gas station the Monday after my father died, looking for what newspaper my dad’s obituary would be in that day (we ran it in one paper one day and the other the next) and the guy behind the counter eyeballed me as I shuffled through his paper. I was like “Uh, I’m just looking for the obituaries, sorry.” He went to say something so I quickly spit out “We lost my Dad.” And then I laughed. Because we didn’t LOSE him. I knew where he was. He was pained as he rang up the remaining 8 newspapers they had, for me. “Sorry for your loss.” You’ll be happy to know that I remained human and did not say “I just said we didn’t lose him, I know where he is.” I already felt sorry enough for him that I had said it the first time.

I had a lot of time with Dad before he passed. For two and a half years I spent every extra moment with him. We had slumber parties in the living room, he in his hospital bed and I on the couch or the very comfortable day bed my mom bought and put in the corner of their family room. There were days that my mom and sister both worked and it was just Dad and I at home. So we had time to talk. Dad wasn’t afraid to die. He wasn’t scared of what would come after he passed for him. He worried about us. He wanted to make sure we were okay. And he wanted to ensure that we weren’t going to sink into a big depression. So we talked about death sometimes. We laughed about how many times he cheated it. We giggled about how when Death got his assignment for the day and saw “Jim Carpenter” listed on his “To Do” list he would groan and plod off like a child about to be scolded, knowing that he would not be able to complete the task at hand, yet again. So when Dad passed away? I didn’t see a reason to be sad for Dad. I felt terrible for myself. I felt cheated to not be able to ask him about his day when I got home from work, I mourned the loss of having someone to help me build bookshelves when I bought my first house, I wondered if I ever married what it would feel like to not have a father to walk me down the aisle, I shed some tears knowing he was never going to be a grandfather and how sad it was that a child would be cheated having such a wonderful one. Mainly though, I was suddenly left with a silence that was palpable.

Near the end of Dad’s journey, he had a trach installed when he wasn’t clearing his airway well enough one time while intubated. And while he didn’t have to have oxygen, there was a humidity machine that ran and crikey was it loud. Returning home from the hospital without him that night, the silence was tangible and painful. You could hear everything. I hated that machine, I cursed the noises it made. I complained how loud it was while it ran as we slept. We moved it around the room, we padded under it, we wrapped towels around the sides – anything we could do to muffle it. And that was the thing I felt like I missed most that night we left him in the emergency room’s cold and quiet room. There was no noise. Just our own breathing, our sniffles, our sighs, our “what the hell just happened?” questions we were saying out loud to anyone or anything that was listening.

And then we made jokes. About how many times Dad had been in an intensive care, barely hanging on. The doctors would be baffled, unsure how to treat him next, uncertain what to tell us. But it usually involved calling the pastor and getting what family you could up there. We did this so many times I can’t even count on two hands. So having him come home, better, and ready to tackle the next part of his journey, we did normal things: my mom took a shower, I made a sandwich, my sister was buried in her phone. Death and tragedy – they weren’t even a thought in our head. It wasn’t something we were concerned about. While my mom was in the shower, Dad asleep peacefully in the bed next to mine, my sister and I discussed making a really great present for him and my mother for Christmas the following week. We were looking towards the future, without any hesitation. This means we still think it’s a bit "funny" that in that span of 10 minutes of my mom showering and me eating a bologna sandwich, and my sister cruising through Pinterest at warp speed – our entire world changed.

There were no doctors, there wasn’t a quick call to the pastor, there wasn’t even time for someone to make you fearful that this was the end of a chapter in the book of life. It just happened. He was there, and then he wasn’t. We called 911, we did CPR, we said his name over and over again. And then within an hour’s time? We had watched paramedics work on him in our family room, we had raced an ambulance to the hospital, we waited on pins and needles for a doctor, we received the news that there had been nothing they could do to restart his heart, and we sat in a cold and oddly lit emergency room and said our goodbyes. No fanfare. No fear. No big decisions to be made. I would imagine that’s exactly Dad’s doing. He had just watched his youngest child graduate from college less than a week earlier. He had made his peace years ago. He knew he was home and with the ones he loved. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain I know that it’s the best way to go. But it doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t ache. That I don’t relive the moments I made a bologna sandwich and sat there, next to him, eating it – completely unaware that my entire life would change in a matter of moments.

So, now we pick ourselves up, we brush ourselves off. And we probably never eat a bologna sandwich again. Sell your shares of Oscar Meyer now, people. I’m taking them down.