Solidarity.

A comedian has been live-tweeting her father's last days in hospice. He's dying of lung cancer. And she's hilarious. See the correlation? ...you were supposed to put together my Dad had lung cancer and also had a hilarious child. If you didn't? I don't even want to talk to you. 

Laurie Kilmartin's Twitter is outstanding, in my opinion. My friend sent me a link to it this morning. And I haven't stopped laughing, and grieving with her since. Here are a few of my favorite moments, so far: 

• Dad is not incoherent, we discovered while gossiping about his side of the family in front of him.
• More unfortunate phrasing. Mom to Dad, re: the reclining hospice bed, "Should we put you down?"
• just tried to weasel out of changing Dad's sweatshirt by arguing its more damp than wet.
• Sister and I tortured our poor Dad with multiple photo sessions because we did not like how we looked in the pictures.
• Good luck getting an answer to the question, "Did I give you too much morphine?"

I read some of her tweets to Mom this morning and we couldn't stop laughing. I especially burst out into giggles when I got to this one: 

This was a very real thing for my family. We spent hours watching Dad breathe, for two years. And there were nights I stayed awake longer than I should have, just to make sure he there was a rise and a fall. There were nights I jumped out off the couch, next to him, and got up to put my  hand on his chest, to ensure he was still breathing. Someone would text me late at night and say, "Hey, we're headed to the bar want to go grab a drink?" And I would respond with "No, my dance card is all filled up with watching Dad breathe tonight, sorry!" 

For the record, I wouldn't trade any of that time I watched Dad breathe for the world. 

My biggest issue with this live-tweeting isn't Laurie, she's spectacular. But the people who have commented on articles about the tweets with things like: "How disgusting. That poor, poor man, having a daughter like that!" make my blood boil. Plus, she's clearly a great daughter. She even bought her dad a Valentine's Day gift: 

I sort of loved this one even more after I scrolled through my own Twitter and found that for last year I wrote about how I didn't buy Dad a tie for Father's Day because he only wears them to weddings and funerals and I wasn't ready to take one for the team for either of those. 

I am a bit flabbergasted to see people's reactions about how she's taking away his dignity or the ever judgmental: "I hope this is a reaction to grief. Or else it's just appalling." 

I hope, Mr. Commentor, that your comment is a reaction to not knowing what it is like to be in her shoes, or else it is just appalling! Laurie has taken the time to spend her father's last moments with her. She tweeted about how she starts out every day with the goal of not seeing her dad's genitals when helping him to the restroom. Unless you know what that's like? You have no reason to comment on how anyone deals with the situation. Until you know what it's like to transfer an immobile person from a chair to a bed? I don't want to hear how you feel about how she reacts to it. Especially because we used to throw the sheets over Dad (to help us lift him easier) while I made cracks about how he was like Madame Butterfly as I covered and uncovered his face. (Ps, he hated when I would throw the sheets off his face and exclaim he had become a beautiful butterfly. But he took it all in stride.) Unless you know what it is like to watch someone, especially someone who gave you life, take a breath and pray that it isn't their last? You should probably keep your comments to yourself. I will take the high road and not point out that your poor father has a terrible child for making such comments.

I like to imagine that some of these people commenting on what a terrible daughter she is are the type that weren't or won't be running to the hospice bed of a loved one when they're passing away. They'll breeze into the funeral with a hankie and a somber attitude and wonder where all the jokes and laughter came from. And probably remark about how they aren't appropriate. They'll take sideglances at loved ones who dare laugh or make a joke about the situation. But, I venture to guess, they haven't been there. They haven't seen that a joke and a laugh are sometimes the best way to help the patient and their loved ones. 

I know that, as Dad went through all he did, if we would have sat around somberly staring at him - it would have been worse for him. Not everyone takes themselves that seriously, I suppose. Dad was one of them, I guess. When he had his first seizure - which indicated he had a brain tumor, my sister and Mom called me and I went rushing to their house. I arrived as they were getting ready to take Dad out on a stretcher. I was terrified. I wanted to throw up. My  hands were sweaty. My sister was pinned in a corner of the living room by all the medical equipment and paramedics, and she was frantic. I was trying to shove past all of them to get to her, because I knew Dad was going to be fine. You know why? Because as I walked by him, he mumbled through his oxygen mask: Keep that one away from me, she'll stand on my oxygen line. And then he smiled at me. And I knew he was okay. Because, even in the face of danger or crisis, we're all human. And we know that we're staring down the barrel of the gun of mortality. And, you know, it is completely acceptable to laugh. Or cry. I won't shame you for showing your emotions with water from your eyes. Don't shame me for laughing and making those around me laugh. We're all going to die someday. Pretending it isn't happening, crying, begging - these won't make them stop. But laughing can make those moments pass by with ease. They can soothe those around us. And, damnit, laughing feels good. So give in. Laugh with her. 

And if you can't laugh with her? Don't expect me to invite you to the next family reunion. Because seriously, she must be related to me, right? 

Solidarity, Laurie. Keep laughing. And keep loving. You're doing it right.  

Piece: Conspirator

Last week I had a long talk about how people fit into our lives. Some people are big puzzle pieces, some people are smaller pieces, some of them are edges that contain everything nicely, some are the pieces that look and seem like the other twelve "cloud" pieces (seriously I hate doing puzzles with sky backgrounds) - but they are all important. And they all lock into their own place. It made me think heavily about the puzzle that is my own life. And how those pieces fit together. 

I also realized that some people fit into many parts of my puzzle. My dad was a father, a friend, a comforter, a coach, a mentor, a role model, and sometimes - he was my co-conspirator. This may be one that I miss the most. Someone who would get into trouble with me. And one that could shield me from the trouble I should be in. But - he's the dad! Of course you can get away with it. 

For as long as I could remember, Dad was right there with me. Causing trouble, reeking havoc, egging me on to do something ridiculous. He was also the one who helped me sneak a Chucky doll into my younger sister's bed (Sorry, Emily!) late at night. 

My dad was an excellent parent. And he definitely pushed both my sister and I in the right direction. But that doesn't mean he didn't have fun along the way. One of my favorite stories lasted for years - until he passed away, in fact. 

My sister was maybe 14 years old. I walked into my parents house and my sister's back was to me. She was talking to my father in the serious tone that all teenagers can evoke when necessary. 

Sister: I'm going to work hard at learning to be funny this summer, that's my goal. 
Dad: What?
Sister: I need you to tell me when I'm funny, so I know I am being funny. So I can work on it. 
Dad: You need me to teach you to be funny? I don't think that you teach someone that.
Sister: Yes. I need you to validate me, so that I know I was funny.
Dad: Soooo, like you want me to yell out CHECK whenever you're funny? 
Sister: That will suffice.

She then walked away, leaving my Dad with his jaw open. And probably wondering if she was really "ours" or not. This story has been told so many times, to so many people, that you can't yell out "Check!" without someone knowing what it means and laughing. It also means that there were so many times where a failed sister-joke resulted in my dad yelling out: we are deducting points. Or when it was only partly funny: That was a check-minus!

But mainly, we just used it against her. 

Sister: I said something really funny today. 
Me: How? Did you tell one of my jokes? 
Dad: Oooh. CHECK for Denise!

Sister: Mom and Dad stopped after me because they realized they got it right finally.
Me: Or because they thought that the final draft would be better than the first draft - since you did have me as an example. But they were terrified when they realized it could get exponentially worse. So they decided to just call it a day.
Dad: CHECK!

Poor Emily. We love her, really. And she is very funny. Almost as funny as me. When I'm sleeping, maybe. (Check.)

Mom was not exempt from Dad's shenanigans, either. I won't go into details on how - when they owned their pet store - dad took a tarantula's molting and placed it on the cash register to scare her. Just know it was hilarious, I am certain. 

I was just thinking how much I missed this part of my puzzle - that Dad troublemaking part - the other night. Mom and I went to play Bingo and I giggled at how a lady was walking around saying "Hotballs!" all night. She was innocently trying to sell a quick lotto-like ticket. But still, I'm not always mature. You know who my father was, right? 

My mom started talking about Dad. 

Mom: Dad would have loved volunteering at Bingo, in his old age. 
Me: Probably. Because they have tasty food here. 
Mom: And he would have come home and said "I got to say balls all night, at church bingo!"

At this point we both laughed. And then this happened. 

Mom: Oh, I have 53. Now all I need is 66.
Me: Huh?
Mom: Wait. They already called 66. Crap. I had a bingo I didn't call.
Me: Well, that's not funny at all. *shifty eyes* *stifles laugh* *coughs*
Mom: I was talking about your Dad giggling about saying balls and I missed a bingo. Seriously?

I like to think Dad had a hand in that. And all I can think to say is: Check!
 

 For Throwback Thursday sake, Dad says - it wasn't me - it was the other guy.

 

Who is he kidding. He's laughing at you.

 

Ending On a Laugh.

Dear Devin,

I haven't figured out how to say goodbye to a friend properly. But I imagine an open Internet letter was a decent start, right? Probably not. But I'm out of options, at this point. There's no Facebook sticker to send that signifies that, for me. Even if last week you did pull out a good Duck Dynasty sticker or two that scared me. 

I spent time going through a lot of old messages between the two of us. Mainly because I like to make myself sad. But also because you always made me laugh. And you certainly always made me smile. I saved a few of them to remind you of just how hilarious I am. Okay, so you weren't totally dull. But still. I was the funny one.

A few of us from work stopped by your service yesterday. We introduced ourselves to your mother and sister, who really are just as lovely and wonderful as you had always said. I did admit to making fun of you for laying on the floor in my office so often. So when I came across this one, I laughed a little bit. 

I often thought, after you left work here to start your battle, if it was best that you (and we) had no idea what was going on when your back was hurting so bad. I probably wouldn't have been able to pick on you without remorse. So I'm glad we had that time. Even if you did often fall asleep while I was talking and I would get up to see you on the other end of my office, asleep on the floor. Don't worry, they can't dock your pay now. You're okay. 

When we got to your church for your service yesterday, the love and respect people had for you was overflowing. Really, dude. I was moved. The people and the flowers! So many of both. Even if there were no cactus, I approved.

I wanted to let you know I ran across the ones where you said you would be here on a Monday and to bring you food. It was right after you found out that you were cancer free. And you had started the conversation with "Did you see my good news, lady?" and somehow weaseled in a "bring me cupcakes" by the end of it. 

I made it a point to tell your family how great you had been. And how even in your darkest moments you were a source of kindness and compassion to me. Sometimes people are a part of your lives forever and never make an impact. You were a part of mine for just a few years and still left an impression. I told them how often you would ask about Dad and how it surprised me that you had such kindness and caring even with your own journey happening. Don't worry, I didn't really lie. We were in church. I was telling the truth. Even if you often mocked and debated my every decision and belief in life - you were still a source of laughter and light and, like I told them - you took the time out when Dad passed to offer your assistance again. And I was honored. 

At some point you owed me a lunch. I don't remember why or how. But I still am waiting, for the record. I love that you weren't afraid to joke about things or yourself. That's how we got through everything with Dad, so I found it to be a breath of fresh air. And very familiar. All at once. 

 Your laughter and spirit will be greatly missed, Devin. I always felt like you "got" it. The cancer. The hospitals. The strain it puts on a family. Your faith. And the way that a joke can make it all better. There are few people who get that. But you were that. And that was important to me. That someone understood it all. I also hope you're getting that vacation that you said you needed. (I'm still sleeping under my desk at work, don't worry. Nothing has changed here. You're not missing much.) 

 

  
It had been a few days (maybe weeks?) since you had responded to our last message. Although I would check in every now and again on your page to see what anyone had posted...oh, and I checked to make sure you received the cactus jokes I would send to your Facebook messenger. Even when you didn't respond, it would make me feel better that you had seen them. I know that, from our own experience, sometimes there just aren't words. But what can't be said with words can be said with funny cactus pictures, yes? Let me just refresh your memory about the last one I sent. 

So, it had been a bit since you had responded. I don't know why, though. If someone would have sent me that I would have invited them over for tea. So when, last Tuesday, I saw you had sent a message, I was glad. I also, knew. I felt all sentimental for a moment, realizing that that could possibly be one of our last exchanges. I never stopped hoping or praying or pulling for you. Because the world needs more of people like you. Who fight. Who laugh. Who still care, even when their own lives are rough. But something, deep in my bones, told me. Only I could read that into a conversation that started with Duck Dynasty stickers. 

I wanted to ask how you felt. How you were. How things were. But I also didn't care. Well. Wait. I cared. But I didn't want to ask you what a hundred other people had asked. I didn't want you to have to comfort me about your situation or do anything other than  say or do whatever you wanted. Because there were a million times when you would ask about Dad and I would change the subject and you never pressed the issue. So I let you send me cats on motorcycles and I sent back a cat with a unicorn horn after you sent big huge (way freaky) smilies. I couldn't, however, resist busting your chops one last time about lunch. 

I find it fitting that the last things you said to me were basically to shut up and then a laugh. I sent a quick message on Thursday when I saw your Mom said you were heading home about how if you were a good patient maybe they would let you hit the lights and sirens on the ambulance ride home. But I somehow didn't really expect anything in return. 

When I got the text message on Sunday about your passing, I felt a sense of loss I wasn't anticipating. Not because I didn't care. Trust me, I did. Not because I wasn't expecting it . I was. But because I don't think I had realized the impact that you had made in my life, until that moment. The silly banter. The stupid jokes. The quick "Hey, how're you?" Or you asking "How's your pops?" I didn't realize that it was that important to me until I realized it wasn't going to be there any longer. 

I'm out of words. Yeah, I know. I'm surprised, too. So just thank you. Like I told your family yesterday: even with all you had on your plate, you still took time out to ask how my family and Dad were doing. You took time to pray. And you took time out to care. I also told them that they did an outstanding job bringing someone like you into the world. And it's true. I mean the fact about how all the credit goes to them, that is. Okay, I'm kidding. You were rad, too. Whatever. 

Oh, and I told them about how once you married a skeleton in my office. Secret is out, my friend.  And I figure...since it's Throwback Thursday anyway. Why not? 

Alright, I'll stop finally. But I'm ending it on a laugh, too. Just like you.

Love (even though you owe me lunch),
Denise

How I know I'm Not Adopted.

For as long as I can remember, I haven't been good at sitting still - or just doing one thing at a time. I'm the girl who is always playing a game on her phone, reading a book while watching television, or typing while you're talking at work. Sorry. I know it's terrible. But it is part of who I am. 

As a kid, my fabulous Kindergarten teacher Mrs. Szostek and her family would pick me up and take me to church for all the years of grade school. During the service we were required to take down notes. It was perfect for me. Pay attention to the sermon and write down notes. I never stopped this habit. I do it while I'm on the phone at work, when people are talking, etc. It's probably distracting to those around me. But you also can't say "But I never said that," to me. Because I probably wrote it down. 

Which leads me to this picture:

I didn't draw it. My dad did. But it was done at church. If I remember correctly, the pastor was discussing not thinking the world revolved around you. Which means (of course) that I proceeded to draw myself, then the gravitational pull of the Earth around me. Yeah, yeah - probably not the best thing to be drawing in church. However, I won't forget the message to that sermon anytime soon, right? 

Dad peeked over my shoulder, shook his head and said I was adopted (note the arrow at the top). I leaned back far enough that the arrow was no longer pointing at me, but instead my sister. 

To drive his point home he then sketched me. Or, I suppose what I look like to him. I forget this picture existed, but was scanning my old Facebook pictures looking for something and ran across it this morning. 

The world doesn't revolve around me still. Or it probably would have stopped turning the day my father passed away. That's how it felt (and still does, at times) to me. But I think the fact that I have moved along my days, that I write blogs here, that I have put on my (somewhat) brave face every day for the last 7 weeks proves I am not adopted. I'm every bit a part of my parents as is scientifically possible. 

My Dad fought cancer for more than 8 years. And every day, he got up, he put on his (totally) brave face, and he went to work. He came home and picked up around the house. He made my mom dinner. He harassed his children for sport. His world continued to turn. And he knew the world didn't revolve around him - except for my mother's that is. My mom was the same way as he was. She continued to go to work every day. She smiled. She laughed. She hid how tired she was from taking on the emotional and physical toll of taking care of Dad. She made him dinner. She made sure she was still available to us. She still volunteered her time when possible, to help others. She raised money for the American Cancer Society. She saw past just the dark skies above her. The world didn't stop turning then. And it isn't going to stop turning now. 

And that, my friends, is how I know I'm not adopted. Because my parents' DNA is what keeps me going. What makes me see opportunities to help others. What proves to me that the world keeps going, even when we are facing the hardest times of our lives. Even when we want to curl up or give up. We don't. Jim never did. So why would we? It's sort of set a precedent. 

Also, his drawing skills pretty much seal the deal. I'm not much better.

Exhibit A, pictured above.

So here's hoping. Hoping that your world keeps spinning, that you realize it doesn't revolve around you, and that they got Dad a better set of glasses in Heaven - because I SO don't look like that. 

How Lucky Am I?

My friend,

I wish I had the right words to comfort you, today. I wish I could say that the passing of your father was actually lucky - that it was something that would bring you joy and solace. I wish there were any words, period, to tell you how to feel and how to cope. There are none. I know that, with your father just passing away today that this is all fresh and new. But I know that, already, you know that sometimes words feel and seem empty. 

I can only tell you that I am sorry, that my heart aches for you, that I feel your pain. Literally. Hearing of the passing of your father felt like a scab was pulled off the wound that's been healing for the last 7 weeks, since we buried my own father. 

I will tell you that seeing you there, in the line leading up to my father's casket was both heart-warming and sad. I was sad we had gathered for that reason. But I felt a sense of warmth and peace that someone who had been a happy spot to my father's days, at times, was there to send their warm wishes. But I knew, even then, that you were sad about your own situation - that you were worried for your own family and the person you seem to love as much as I did my own dad. I wished, at that moment, when I hugged you standing in the front of that funeral parlor, that I could take all of your terrible feelings and keep them for you. Because I know how hard they are. I know what it's like to be terrified of and presented with the mortality of the people who gave you life. And I know how much it sucks.

I know how easy it can be to feel angry - at the situation, at the world, at the fact that other people are laughing and carrying about their day as if nothing has ever changed for them. I know how easy it would be to let yourself be overcome with a dark cloud - one that blocks out every ray of sunshine that the day can hold. 

I say all of this not to bring you down, further. But because I want you to know that it's all normal. That it's all something that is there. And there aren't words to explain your sadness or my sorrow, for you. But also because I want you to take a moment, when you have time, and think about the quote I posted above: How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard. 

I know you cared for your father very much the same way I did for mine. So I know that we were both lucky. We both had a chance to feel the amazing relationship that can come from a father and a daughter. And I had a lot of time to talk with my father about what that meant, while he was going through his journey to the end. And so I can only imagine that your father felt the same sense of happiness, joy, pride, and amazement at what a wonderful person you were - and at how much you loved and cherished him until the very end. 

I also know that we were lucky. To have the memories that we do. I was scrolling through my Facebook the other day and ran across a few gems that may remind you very much of him: 

They don't seem like much right now - little moments that you have stored in your mind's eye. I know. But in time? They will lead you to think you were lucky to have something so great that saying goodbye is so hard. And it will be hard. I can't take that away (believe me, I have looked on Etsy and Ebay - they're both sold out of the program that would enable me to do so - I'm currently on a waiting list for one), but I can tell you that I'm there. And so are all your other friends and family.

I hope that you can find some of the luck in the situation. I hope that you have the time and peace of mind to listen to all of the stories that people will tell you in the next few days. But mainly I hope that you feel a sense of peace that you were an amazing person to your father. That you spent time telling him how much you loved him and knowing that that's the best gift that you can ever give another human being. Especially one that made you such a lucky daughter. 

Love,
Denise